GALEX X READER TWT PRN LINKS!!
suddenly i'm on a g(alex) kick idk what came over me
intensity
pound it, bro
2 in 1
taking care of george
caged in
alex was hungry
casual
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seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
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seen from China
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GALEX X READER TWT PRN LINKS!!
suddenly i'm on a g(alex) kick idk what came over me
intensity
pound it, bro
2 in 1
taking care of george
caged in
alex was hungry
casual
[Posh British Guy Talks You Through It (M4F JOI)]
Mr. Saturday's Library
↳ A/N It's so hard to write a solo 'video' with so much dirty talk and still manage to balance it with actions without getting too repetitive lol
↳ Pairings: Solo Adult Film Star!George Russell
↳ Duration: 9 minutes
↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, basically an 'adult video' in text format, male masturbation, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, instructions to a female viewer, use of a toy, slight dumbification/degradation, name calling ('slut' etc.), countdown, smidge of aftercare.
INT. PENTHOUSE LIVING ROOM - NIGHT
He’s wearing only his Tommy Hilfiger boxer briefs, centered in the frame. The lighting is dim and moody but focused enough to illuminate what’s important; the shape of his cock beneath the light grey fabric that conceals him. His large hand slips into frame, caressing over the front of his underwear, right over the bulge with a firm palm.
“Hi, darling,” George says from just out of the shot, his voice low and warm like candlelight, words married with a soft British accent that touches your ears like velvet, “Are you naked for me?”
There’s no small-talk here. There is a single goal at hand and it is obvious.
“I want you to take your clothes off,” he requests, “I want you completely naked for me. I want to see your gorgeous body.”
George pauses as if to give time for his request to be fulfilled. As he waits, his hand keeps rubbing himself over his briefs, making the swell of his cock only more obvious as the seconds go by. He removes his hand for a beat to show off just how intensely the fabric is tented, teasing the clothed head with gentle fingertips. Beneath the confines of his briefs, it twitches.
His hand then slides across his abs, over his pecs that are just on the outskirts of the frame, and then back down. As he does so, he speaks languidly, “Start rubbing your body for me…your arms…your thighs…your stomach…your tits.”
The movement of his own hand mirrors his request, caressing over his broad shoulders and defined pecs and across his firm abs, avoiding his obvious erection in exchange for the taunting of his own touch. The anticipation. He lets the moment drag out a little longer, letting his body be the focus.
“Pinch your nipples for me, baby,” he says simply, in a voice that’s almost a purr, “Does that feel good? Bet you wish it was my mouth, don’t you? Would love to suck on your tits right now, get my hands all over you.”
Then, his hand curves around the thick shape of his cock through his briefs, giving himself a firm squeeze that forces a tight groan from his throat. A small wet spot is now showing through the light grey fabric, right above the tip of his cock, showing just how much he’s into this. Unashamedly, he rubs himself some more and the wet spot gets a little bigger.
“Keep massaging your perfect body, darling,” he coos, “Imagine me touching you, caressing you, kissing every inch of you until you’re begging for it.”
A breath.
“I’d love to hear you beg for it. Wanna beg for me, baby? Say ‘please touch me, sir’.”
George moans lowly as if he could truly hear the words being echoed back at him. Or, perhaps, it's just from the squeeze of his hand around his clothed cock and his vivid imagination.
“Good girl. Spread your legs a little wider. Rub your inner thighs for me, get yourself nice and warm, but don’t touch your pussy yet. Not until I say.”
Then, suddenly, he’s shifting. Not a lot, but enough to link his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and begin to push them down, pulling the fabric over his sizable erection and lifting his hips to rid himself of his underwear completely. Now entirely naked himself, he relaxes back once more, tucking one hand behind his head out of frame while his other teases his fingertips across his pelvis.
Completely untouched, his cock twitches against his pelvis, red and swollen and so incredibly hard. From the angle facing directly at his crotch and up his body, his balls are in frame too, hanging heavy between thick thighs. He cups them in his hand, rolling them gently, fondling himself through shallow breaths and hums.
“Bet you’re aching for it now, aren’t you?” he taunts, “Writhing under your own hands, wishing they were mine. Wishing I was there to touch you myself…wishing for my cock.”
His fingertips trail up from his balls to follow the length of his dick and when he reaches the head, it twitches again. His abs flex and he lets out a small groan. With a careful hand, he wraps his long fingers around his cock and lifts it off his pelvis, holding it steady in the centre of the frame.
George exhales, “Look how hard I am for you…at the thought of you touching yourself for me…getting yourself all worked up.”
He gives himself a gentle stroke, pulling his fist upwards until he’s squeezing the head of his cock, a shiny dribble of precum slipping out from the slit.
“You better not be touching your pussy yet. Hope you’re being a good girl and listening to what I tell you.”
With his cock held firmly in one hand, his other drops down to rub his inner thighs warmly, caressing the thick muscle of his hairy legs and tauntingly close to his perineum. His touches slide up to his pelvis, rubbing through his trimmed pubic hair and over his defined v-line, mirroring the actions he is instructing.
“If you have a toy with you—a vibrator or even just your fingers—gently caress your pussy for me. Very, very gently,” he breathes, “Up and down over your lips…feeling how soaked you are…how worked up and swollen you are.”
At the same time, he begins to stroke his cock with his patient fist in that slow, gentle pace he demanded. Up and down, inch by inch. His hips twitch up into his fist but it’s clear he’s trying to restrain himself.
His voice is a little rougher when he speaks again, “Is your clit throbbing? Do you flinch if you touch it? Try it. Give it a little touch.”
A pause.
“How’s that? You wanna rub it some more? Go on then, rub your clit for me, love. Nice and slow.” The pad of his thumb caresses the underhead of his cock, making it throb in his fist, and his voice is tight as he praises into the dim lighting, “There you go. That’s a good girl.”
Yet again, he matches his desired pace with his fingertips around the head of his cock, teasing himself with the faintest of caresses. His breath catches, his dick twitches under his ghostly touch. It’s tantalizing.
“Slow…slow,” he reminds, “You better not be speeding up, no matter how much you want it.”
He wraps his fist entirely around his cock once more and begins stroking himself in long, slow pulls up and down, giving the camera full front row view to the sight of it. His other hand is pressed flat around the base, holding himself steady between thumb and forefinger, adding just a tinge of pressure against his pelvis.
In only a few seconds, he speaks again, “Do you want to touch yourself properly? Rub your clit properly? Maybe use that vibrator or get your fingers inside yourself? Well then use your words and ask nicely.”
There’s a pause that is just long enough for him to let out a small moan and a breathy chuckle.
Then, he’s drawling, “I can’t understand you, dumb little girl, you’re mumbling. Speak up, darling.”
His hand around himself stops entirely, holding still in a tight fist, even when his hips try to nudge up again.
“There’s my good girl and her pretty words. Go on then, love. Turn on your vibrator…rub yourself faster…whatever you need.”
And then he’s doing it too, stroking himself at a proper pace for the first time in an eager fist. Every down-stroke has his foreskin pulling back from the swollen, leaking, pink head, over and over. George’s moans are sated and soft in the background, slender fingers taking up the frame in practiced fulfilling strokes of his nearly eight-inch cock. His balls are bobbing between his thighs with every firm tug, heavy and desperate.
“Jesus, I bet you’re moaning like mad right now. Does it feel good, baby?” he pants, “Looking at my cock and getting yourself off to the thought of it?”
Suddenly, George stops his strokes and his hands disappear out of frame, letting his cock flop uselessly against his pelvis.
“I’d love to get inside you right now…would you let me?” he purrs.
His hand returns and, this time, he’s holding a clear silicone fleshlight, already prepped with lube glistening around the opening that is moulded to resemble a vulva. For a second, he takes his time teasing the head of his cock with it, letting it catch against the silicone lips, hissing at the sensations that he’s not giving into yet.
“Will you let me fill you up, darling girl?” he coos, “Stretch you out on my cock? Yeah?”
Finally, he grips his cock with his left hand and aligns the opening of the toy with his swollen head and then—painstainkly slowly—starts to ease it down.
“Just letting you sink down on my cock, swallowing it with your tight, wet, warm pussy so fuckin’ slow…fuck.”
With the view so close, it’s almost easy to hear the lewd, wet squelch of the lube as he sheathes his cock inside the toy bit by bit. His abs flex, thighs twitch, desperately holding himself back. From outside the frame, he moans low and warm and handsome.
It’s not even half way down his cock when he lets out a light, breathy chuckle, “It’s so fuckin’ hard to go slow…shit…”
Once it’s all the way down, his entire cock disappears inside the toy and barely visible through the clear, ribbed silicone, he lets out a trembling breath. Then, he’s lifting the fleshlight back up until only the tip is left inside of it before sinking it back down again. George starts to find a steady pace, letting the rhythmic slick squelch of the lube-soaked toy take up the airtime as his large hand holds it firmly in his fist.
He groans lowly, “Wanna just pound up into you so bad.”
His hand speeds up a little more and his thighs twitch, hips trying to lift up instinctively, chasing more of that slick friction.
“I’d love to be deep inside you right now,” George moans, “Are you thinking about it, baby? Thinking about me fucking you while you touch yourself?”
It doesn’t take long for his self-control to give way to his own desperation and soon his hips are lifting off the edge of the couch to thrust up into the toy in his fist, matching the pace of his hand to make those lewd sounds even louder. He moans prettily from behind it, chest heaving.
“Christ, I wanna fuck you. Feeling my balls hitting against your arse with every thrust…taking me so deep,” his voice is strained, tight with exertion and intense focus, accent thick with arousal, “You can take it, can’t you? You can take every inch of me in your tight little pussy.”
A groan, a stutter of his pace with the toy.
“Yeah…bet you can. Such a little fucking slut for it, aren’t you?” George groans, “Say it. Say you’re my slut.”
He lets out a pretty moan and his hand forces the toy faster.
“God, you’re so pathetic, whining over the thought of my cock,” he pants, “Wish I could hear how fucking wet you are for me, just from my voice.”
He’s fucking up into the toy with reckless abandon, desperation outweighing anything else.
And he taunts through clenched teeth, “I’m not even there and you’re already losing your fucking mind over me. I don’t even have to lift a finger to corrupt you; you’re already doing it yourself.”
It’s a mess of sounds; his breathless pants, handsome groans, and the slick, wet sound of his cock thrusting up into the fleshlight. His knuckles are nearly white with how tightly he’s gripping the body of the toy, ramming it down onto himself with every thrust of his hips.
“Are you getting close, baby?” he coos, words like velvet, “Are you rubbing yourself faster? Fingering yourself faster…harder? Imagining me fucking you just the way you like? Keep going. Don’t fucking stop, you hear me?”
George’s other hand returns into the frame to reach down to grab onto his balls, squeezing them in his palm to pull a groan from his chest as he keeps fucking into the toy. His abs are tensing, muscles taut, and his thighs are trembling. If nothing else, the sounds that pour from his mouth is enough to show just how fucking close he is.
“I’m gonna cum,” he grunts, “Where do you want it? Inside you?”
A breath.
“Beg me for it then. Beg me to come inside you like a proper whore.”
A pause between nothing but the unwavering pistoning of his hand.
“Again.”
Another breath.
And then he groans again and his voice is thick, “Say please. Use your fuckin’ manners, naughty girl.”
He’s a moaning, panting mess, his hand using that toy on his cock in hungry, rapid strokes.
“That’s it. That’s fuckin’ it. Come with me. On five, and not a second before. Ready?”
He heaves in a breath, married with what sounds like an honest-to-God whimper.
And then he’s counting down slowly, all without letting up the desperate pace of his hand: “5…4…3…2…ready? Ready to come with me? 1…now.”
For a second, he goes completely silent and the strokes of his hand stutter, but his hips buck up into the toy to make up for it, driven by the pleasure that courses through his veins. George lets out all of that build up with a handsome moan, shuddering on the couch as his hand tries to hold the fleshlight right down on his cock no matter how sensitive he is. The clear silicone is turning milky at the top.
“Christ,” he choked out, pitchy and shaky, and his other hand flies to grab onto the toy too as if needing more control to hold it down on himself entirely, “take it all—”
After a second, he heaves for breath and sinks into the cushions of the couch, and slowly starts to lift up the toy. No sooner does his cock slip out of the end and flop wetly against his pelvis does a thick, creamy drop of cum slip from inside of it and fall onto his abs. He’s panting, letting his hand holding the used fleshlight rest onto the couch beside him in the dim lighting just at the side of the frame.
“Breathe…just breathe,” he instructs calmly between deep inhales, “Lay here with me for a second.”
It’s quiet after the chaos of what had just occurred, nothing but the sound of his heavy breaths taking up the audio.
“I’m right with you…right here beside you,” he mumbles after a moment, words heavy and warm, “You did such a good job, darling. My perfect, perfect girl.”
He lays there until his cock is softening and his breathing evens out, taking up a few moments to just be present in the come down. Then, gently, he gives one final instruction:
“Go clean yourself up, darling. I’ll be right here.”
FADE OUT. —BLACK SCREEN W/ TEXT— “Starring MrSaturday Written & Produced by @chilling-seavey Requested by Anonymous This production was created for mature audiences. All participants were over the age of 18 and consented to their involvement in the production. Boundaries, consent, and ethical considerations were communicated and respected throughout filming.” —FADE TO BLACK— THE END
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I'm actually really proud of myself ☀️
I had a day off yesterday, so I decided to sit down and finally finish this story. I already had a draft, and before I knew it, it was 4 a.m. But I managed to finish it! 🙌
So... expect it later this evening 🔥
I am OBSESSED with Confessional right now and I am not normal about it. Like I need to be put down because all I can imagine is George getting her on the altar again and going down on the FMC like she’s his communion meal, especially on her period in a “the blood of Christ shed for you” kinda way. I don’t think this is what my years of Bible study were meant to make me think of but here we are. I will be eagerly awaiting the next part like a feral raccoon gnawing at the bars of a trap.
The Blood of Christ (gr63)
Confessional Masterlist
↳ A/N My jaw absolutely dropped when I saw this ask. Literally sat down and wrote this in one sitting!!
↳ Summary: George doesn't seem to care about your monthlies. He gets what he wants anyway.
↳ Pairings: Dark!Pastor's Son!George Russell x Innocent!Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)
↳ Word Count: 2.5k
↳ Warnings: Sacreligious themes, improper use of an altar table, coercion and manipulation, oral sex (f receiving), period sex/oral, cum play.
When the final preteen scurried out of the front doors of the church with their parents, George locked them behind them. You had offered to help him run the youth group that week; a modest after-school program for school-age kids every Thursday. It had always been George’s domain; the whole community knew how great he was with the kids, how he was able to help them connect with God in ways many of the older parishioners couldn’t.
It was touching, really, to see him in his element as you stayed quiet in the background and restocked the juice boxes and cookies on the buffet table. George sat amongst the circle of chairs like he was their equal, colour-coded sticky tabs poking out of his bible on his lap, speaking to the group without as much as a single stutter. It truly sounded like the Word of God was being spoken directly from Heaven and right past his lips.
He had always been so good with the church kids. It was one of the big reasons why he captured your heart all those months ago, luring you into that silly little crush you held for him like something sacred. Even now—a few short weeks since starting your salacious little agreement—watching him with the kids made your heart feel fuzzy.
As you helped him to stack the chairs back up, you said softly, “That went well.”
He smiled at you, still housing that sweethearted persona that he carried flawlessly for the congregation, “It did. It was nice to see Ernie speaking up more; he’s always been more of an observer. I’ve been working on getting him out of his shell.”
“He had some pretty profound thoughts.”
“He does. He just has to be given the courage and the space to share them.”
“Well, I think you did just that wonderfully.”
George placed the last chair on the stack and then set his hand on his hips as he turned to you with that calm air of confidence about him, “Means a lot coming from you.”
The church fellowship hall was incredibly quiet in the late Thursday evening. Being the lead pastor’s son, George was entrusted with the keys and would know how to lock up once everything was tidy. There wasn’t a soul around. The thought both terrified and thrilled you all at once.
He drifted past you easily and grabbed the last few unopened juice boxes from the buffet table to return them to the fridge in the kitchenette. There wasn’t much else you saw that needed to be done so you lingered awkwardly in the middle of the room, watching him through the pass-through dividing the hall from the kitchenette. George closed the fridge and gave the counters a final wipe down before flicking off the lights and returning to you.
It felt almost magnetic how he reached to take your hands in his, those piercing blue eyes staring into yours as he said, “I have to polish the silverware for tomorrow night’s mass. Care to help?”
More time with him 1-1? You certainly wouldn’t say no.
George closed up the hall and you followed him up the stairs into the main church. Most of the lights were already shut off; all except the spot lights shining down on the raised chancel and its formal altar beneath the sculpture of Christ on the cross. Truly like a beacon.
It always stirred something warm in your chest when you had the permission to ascend onto the chancel, where Pastor Steve conducted his worship and where the light of the Lord shone down. George navigated it like it was no more than another room in his house—well, after his quick kneel and sign of the cross at the bottom step, of course—removing the silverware from the sacristy off to the side.
You took your time to kneel before the altar, until your knee touched the marble step, head bowed as you performed the sign of the cross. Then, you walked up the steps slowly to join him in his chore.
George emerged from the sacristy with an armful of silverware—chalaces and bowls and plates—and arranged them out on the altar table. Two polishing clothes were in his hand and he held one out to you with a smile that was as close to innocent as you could have thought.
Neither of you spoke at first as you got to work, selecting a piece and rubbing it until it shone in the lights of the church. It felt domestic, in a way, like you might have imagined yourself at the sink in your martial home, washing dishes after supper while your kids watched television in the adjacent room. It was easy to fall into the romance of it all. Especially while going through the monotonous motions of polishing a wine glass.
Your fingers clutched the cloth around the stem and rubbed it tightly up and down the length of it, your mind half zoned out in your daydreams. You hadn’t realized just how distant your mind was until you felt George suddenly crowding into your space.
His arms went around you and his hands covered yours on the wine glass almost too smoothly, slender fingers wrapping around yours. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, “Little faster. The silver is stubborn.”
You swallowed as he guided your hand to pump around the stem of the silver chalice faster, gripping it just a little tighter. It wasn’t lost on you what the motions mirrored, thinking back to how he taught you how to touch him in his childhood bedroom a few short weeks ago. With his chest pressed right up against your back, the memory was ever-present.
And then he dusted a slow, barely-there kiss to your neck and you shivered.
George removed his hands from yours to, instead, caress down the shape of your body, over your hips and then back up to your chest, feeling you over your shirt. You kept the chalice and polishing cloth in your hand, now motionless, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you stayed stiff beneath his implication.
It was only when his hands started to slip under your shirt did you set the chalice and cloth down and reach to grab his wrist, stopping him, “I…can’t tonight,”
George took a half step back, letting you turn to face him as he asked simply, “Why not?”
“I, uh…” you shifted awkwardly in place and looked to your feet, hands clasped behind your back. Did you want to admit such intimate details to him so forwardly? Stealing yourself, you said finally, “I have a girl problem…”
George quirked his brow and leaned in, caging you against the altar as he set his hands on the edge of it on either side of your body, “A girl problem?”
Your voice was barely a whisper, “Yeah, like…my monthlies.”
“Your monthlies,” George echoed with an amused chuckle, “You’re on your period? So what?”
“So it’s gross,” you mumbled and looked to the side. You could feel your cheeks blazing. No doubt he could see the blush on your face too.
George didn’t answer you. Instead, he crouched down just enough to grab the backs of your thighs and hoisted you right up onto the altar table. You gasped in surprise as your feet left the ground and your arms flailed across the tablecloth to try and steady yourself just before you were plopped right down on top of it. A rouge wine glass rolled off the edge and clattered loudly onto the floor, echoing through the empty church.
No sooner had you managed to settle were his hands already itching up your skirt as he purred, “I don’t think the physical proof of the blessing of femininity and fertility that God bestowed upon you is gross.”
“George,” you huffed.
He simply hummed in passive acknowledgment against your neck, mouthing against your throat, as his fingers curled into the waistband of your panties and he gave them a tug. But you were never one to deny him. In all honesty—even with your monthlies—you still had that pesky craving for him…the craving that only he could ever satisfy. So you shifted your weight clumsily side to side on the table to let him shimmy your panties down, pad and all.
Despite your blazing cheeks, he hardly paid any mind as he let them drop to the floor at his feet. His mind was already made up. Neither you nor God could stop him.
George wrapped his large hands around your thighs and pulled them upwards and outwards, forcing you to fall back on your forearms against the altar table with a gasp. You could feel the cool air of the church against your damp pussy, the mix of blood and arousal making for a dizzying combination. You were sure you looked a mess down there, a warzone. Was it shameful to say that you hadn’t even showered since the morning before?
Despite your swirling mind, George did not care in the slightest. Instead, he held your legs apart and leaned right down to press an open-mouthed kiss to your pussy. Shockwaves of pleasure tore through you at the first touch of his tongue and you shuddered under his tongue. Everything felt just that much more intense. Perhaps you could thank your cycle.
Although you tried not to think about it too much, the vulgarity of it all, how George was getting his mouth on you while you bled. Your head tilted back to stare up to the vaulted ceiling of the church, mouth agape, gasping and panting as he held your legs splayed wide.
George just moaned against you, being sloppy with it, the sounds sending a shiver up your spine as he made out with your cunt. When you managed to heave your head up to steal a look at him, his eyes met yours—blue dilated black—and when he pulled away for just a second to breathe, his mouth and lips were smeared in glistening red. Christ Almighty.
“Oh my goodness…” you exhaled.
He just grinned proudly and shoved your skirt up higher and pressed a sticky red kiss to your inner thigh before diving back in, smothering himself deeper. You swore your eyes were fucking rolling, toes curling. All while you had a front row seat to stare up at the sculpture of Jesus on the cross hanging on the wall above the altar.
Part of you burned with shame but the red-hot desire seemed to overpower it in that moment. George’s hands tightened around your thighs and tugged you closer to the edge of the altar table, uncaring of the way the white tablecloth beneath you was smeared in rosy red.
“You are…unbelievable…” you panted, managing to drop a hand down to grasp onto his hair.
George just moaned against you, lips and tongue smacking wetly before he pulled away just enough to speak against you, “We are taught that Christ’s blood is sacred. I don't see why yours shouldn’t be held to such a standard in His vision.”
It was a mind-boggling comparison: putting your blood and Christ’s on equal footing. If nothing else, it made your heart soar with the realization that maybe he was as crazy about you as you were for him. He had no shame, no restraint when it came to the levels he would go for you. All you could do was toss your head back and praise God.
George made you come like it was easy, legs trembling where he held them firmly and body shuddering against the rumpled tablecloth. You could feel yourself dripping when he pulled away—blood or cum, you weren’t entirely sure—but it didn’t matter. Because he was standing in front of you with his hair a mess and his mouth stained red, and he was hurrying to unzip his slacks.
Even though he was no longer holding you in place, you didn’t dare move. You weren’t sure what he was planning but you certainly wanted to find out. The trust you held for him was immense.
He stepped closer between your spread legs and smeared his hand over your pussy to gather up enough natural lubrication for him to start to stroke his cock. It was dizzying, watching him get himself off with the mix of your fluids, and all you could do was rest there on your arms and let him.
“Christ,” he swore to the empty church, voice tight, before his rhythm stuttered and he was coming right across your cunt.
Your mouth dropped open at the sight of the milky streaks staining your flushed and red-stained pussy, just adding to the absolute mess of it and leaking down onto the altar table. For a moment, neither of you spoke as George tucked himself back into his slacks. Then, out of habit, you reached down with a want to touch but George grabbed your wrist tightly.
“Ah, ah,” he warned, “leave it.”
“It’s leaking and it tickles,” you protested.
“Yeah, but it’s so pretty, my sweet dove,” George cooed, sliding his hand away from your wrist to, instead, intertwine your fingers as he stared down between your parted legs, “Filthy girl. Just proof of your sin, hm?”
You bit your bottom lip shyly and batted your lashes up at him, “Yes, sir…”
He reached down to the floor and retrieved your panties and held them out to you, dangling from one finger, “Come on now. Get yourself decent.”
You accepted your underwear from him and hopped off the altar on slightly wobbly legs, struggling to step back into them without toppling over. George didn’t help you. He had disappeared back into the sacristy for a moment and returned wiping his face with a damp cloth like it had been nothing more than a delicious feast he had indulged in.
“My parents are going to wonder where I am,” you said simply as he drifted past you, hardly sparing you a glance as you situated your panties back into place despite the uncomfortable wetness between your legs seeping into your pad. You tugged your skirt back down.
“I’ll drive you home,” George replied, bending down to fetch the stray chalice that had fallen and he returned it to the table, “I’ll finish the polishing up myself after.”
You lingered at the altar and shifted in place, staring at his profile in the warm light. He could feel you staring but only offered you a glance once he had rearranged the silverware on the stained tablecloth. He leaned in to press a chaste kiss to your cheek but when you went to turn your face towards his for a proper kiss, he was already moving away.
“Come, angel,” he called simply as he descended the steps into the darkened nave, “Let’s get you home.”
You glanced up one final time at the body of Christ hung above you and then followed after George like he could protect you from all you had done.
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The Way You Ruin Me | L.N1
Summary: Lando never meant to fall in love with you this completely, but once you became his, the thought of losing you became the one thing he could never survive.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Intense Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Emotional Dependency, Angst, Mature Romantic Themes.
Three weeks later, you learned that loving Lando Norris came with a strange kind of loneliness.
Not because he made you lonely.
Quite the opposite.
He filled every empty space.
Your phone was constantly lighting up.
Lando: Have you eaten?
Lando: Miss you.
Lando: Call me when you're free.
Lando: Okay, don't call me. I know you're busy.
Five minutes later,
Lando: Actually call me.
You'd laugh every time.
But lately, there had been fewer laughs.
Because Lando was in another country.
And you were home.
The distance was only supposed to last two weeks.
It had already been nineteen days.
And something about those nineteen days had changed him.
He called more.
Texted more.
Asked where you were more often.
Not aggressively.
Not cruelly.
Just desperately.
As if knowing where you were could somehow make the distance disappear.
Tonight, though, there was no message.
No call.
Nothing.
You stared at your phone.
12:43 a.m.
You frowned.
That wasn't like him.
You called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Your stomach tightened.
You were about to put your phone down when it finally rang.
Lando.
You answered immediately.
“Hey.”
Silence.
“Lando?”
You heard him breathe.
Then,
“I'm sorry.”
Your heart dropped.
“Why?”
“I've been awful.”
You sat up.
“What happened?”
“I saw something.”
Your brows furrowed.
“What?”
“A picture.”
You waited.
“Of you.”
Your stomach sank.
“What picture?”
“Someone posted you at dinner.”
You remembered.
You'd gone out with friends earlier that evening.
There had been a group photo.
You hadn't thought anything of it.
“And?”
“There was a guy beside you.”
You closed your eyes.
“Lando.”
“I know.”
His voice cracked.
“I know it's stupid.”
“It is.”
“I know.”
“But you can't punish me for having friends.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Silence.
Read the whole 8.2k fic only on my Patreon!
A/N: Requests are open.
Track Limits - LN1
chapter two
pairing: lando norris x friend!reader
summary: Four strict rules were written to protect your heart and keep your friendship intact. Neither of you realized that signing a contract with Lando Norris was only the beginning of breaking every single one.
warning: 18+, angst, pining, heavy sexual tension, extreme overthinking, swearing, FWB contract setup, praise, eventual smut.
word count: 2.7k
authors note: hey guys! here is chapter two where the tension finally snaps and they establish the rules for their FWB arrangement before heading into the bedroom! hope you enjoy <3
let me know what you think in the comments!
masterlist
chapter 1
The glow of your phone illuminated the dark ceiling of your bedroom for what felt like the hundredth time.
Lando: Come over? Flat’s quiet.
You stared at the four short words, your chest tightening around a familiar, nervous knot.
Three days had passed since the club. Three agonizing days since he had pinned you against that mirrored pillar in the VIP section, his hands bruising your waist, his hips grinding into yours while his mouth hovered millimeters from your skin. You had spent the last seventy-two hours convincing yourself that it was just a fluke—a drunk, chaotic mistake fueled by club bass and a few too many gin and tonics.
He was Lando Norris. He lived in a world of high-speed glamour, surrounded by models, influencers, and an endless queue of stunning women everywhere he went. He had thousands of opportunities to hook up with whoever he wanted. He didn't need you for that.
He just wants to hang out, you told yourself firmly, sitting up and kicking off your blankets. He's bored. He wants a chill, normal evening with his best friend to reset before the summer break ends. Don't go over there making it weird.
Arming yourself with that fragile, protective wall of denial, you threw on a casual outfit, grabbed your keys, and made the short trip to his flat.
When you unlocked his front door, you expected to find him lying on the couch in a baggy hoodie, controller in hand, throwing a casual "Hey, love" over his shoulder. You expected cool, easy, platonic normalcy.
You didn't expect the heavy, suffocating stillness that greeted you the moment you stepped into his bedroom.
Lando was leaning back against the edge of his bed, looking so utterly, devastatingly hot that your breath caught clean in your throat, instantly shattering every single lie you had told yourself on the drive over.
He was wearing a dark, short-sleeved camp-collar shirt, completely unbuttoned at his collarbone to expose a broad swath of warm skin and the subtle cord necklace resting flat against his throat. His messy, dark brown curls tumbles down over his forehead, still slightly damp and full of texture. He had his hands folded loosely together in front of him, a stack of colorful woven bracelets wrapped around his wrist, trailing down to those long, broad fingers you knew far too well.
He looked up as you walked in. A faint, lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a subtle dimple indenting his cheek, but his pale blue-green eyes were heavy-lidded, dark, and utterly locked onto you with a quiet, unshielded focus.
The air in the room instantly turned into lead.
Every single one of your senses flared to maximum alert. You became painfully, hyper-aware of every detail of his physical presence:
The soft, golden ambient light of the room traced the sharp angle of his jawline, catching the light dusting of scruff along his chin. His lips were slightly parted, full and warm, looking ridiculously kissable under the dim lamps.
Those dark, unruly curls were completely unstyled, tumbling over his brow in a way that practically begged for your fingers to be buried in them.
The dark shirt hugged the broad sweep of his shoulders, the fabric clinging to his biceps before draping open over his chest. Even sitting relaxed, you could see the lean, corded muscle of his forearms, dark veins tracing down toward his wrists.
God, he is so bloody handsome, your brain spiraled frantically, your pulse thudding wildly in your ears. Why is he looking at me like that? Why does he look like a sin sitting there?
"Hey," Lando murmured. His voice wasn't his usual loud, energetic banter; it was a low, quiet, gravelly hum that vibrated straight down your spine and settled low in your stomach.
"Hey," you managed to whisper, standing frozen near the foot of his bed, holding your bag like a shield.
He didn't move to grab a controller. He didn't offer you a drink. He just sat there, his pale eyes slowly scanning your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and the nervous way your fingers were gripping your bag. The faint smirk on his lips deepened just a fraction, possessive and patient, as if he knew the exact chaotic storm raging inside your head.
The tension from three nights ago hadn't disappeared at all. It had been sitting in his apartment, quietly coiling tight, waiting for you to walk through the door.
You were standing three feet away from a man who could have anyone in the world, yet the way he was staring at you made it feel like you were the only person existing in his entire universe—and it terrified you to your absolute core.
The silence stretched between you, so thick and heavy you could practically hear the steady, frantic thudding of your own heart against your ribs.
Lando didn't break eye contact. He unclasped his hands slowly, his bracelets clinking softly in the quiet room, and patted the mattress beside him. "Sit down. You look like you're about to run out the door."
"I'm fine standing," you said, your voice tighter than you intended.
A quiet, frustrated sigh slipped past his lips. In one fluid motion, Lando pushed himself off the edge of the bed. He didn't rush, but the sheer physical presence of him moving toward you made your breath hitch. He closed the three feet between you in two long strides, stopping so close you could smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel mixed with the warm heat radiating off his skin.
He reached out, his long, broad fingers wrapping gently around the strap of your bag. He didn't yank it; he just held it, his knuckles brushing against yours, sending a sharp spark of static straight up your arm.
"Drop the bag," Lando murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, low register that went straight to your knees. "You're holding it like armor."
"Lando—"
"Drop it," he repeated softly, his pale blue eyes burning into yours with a fierce, unshielded intensity.
Your fingers loosened, and the leather strap slipped away. Lando caught the bag effortlessly and tossed it onto the armchair behind him without ever breaking eye contact.
Now there was nothing between you.
The air in the room felt electric, dangerously charged. You could see the subtle rise and fall of his chest under his unbuttoned dark shirt, the slight pulse beating at the base of his throat near his cord necklace. You swallowed hard, your mind racing, trying frantically to find an exit ramp before you completely lost your mind.
"We need to talk about three nights ago," you blurted out, the words tumbling past your lips before your brain could filter them.
Lando’s jaw tightened, a subtle muscle twitching beneath his scruff. "What about it?"
"We can't keep doing this," you whispered, looking up into his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. "The way you held me at the club... the way you're looking at me right now. It's messed up, Lando. We're friends. You're my best friend."
Lando let out a low, breathless laugh that sounded entirely devoid of humor. He stepped even closer, his broad frame towering over you until the tips of his shoes were almost touching yours. He raised his hands, resting them flat on the wall right behind your head, trapping you in his space without actually touching you.
"You think I don't fucking know that?" he rasped, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing frustration that caught you completely off guard. "You think I've slept a single hour in the last three days? I've been losing my mind in this flat, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how your waist felt in my hands."
Your heart did a violent, terrifying leap in your chest. He hasn't slept either?
"Lando, if we cross this line..." You shook your head, fighting the overwhelming urge to lean forward and press your forehead against his chest. "If we kiss... if we make this personal... it ruins everything. We lose the friendship. We can't go back after that."
Lando stared down at you, his breathing heavy and ragged, his pale eyes searching your face with a fierce, calculating focus. The hyper-analytical driver in him was working at full speed, weighing the risks, measuring the sheer, unyielding hunger between you against the terror of losing you completely.
"Then we don't kiss," Lando said abruptly.
You blinked, taken aback. "What?"
"No kissing," Lando rasped, the words tumbling out fast, urgent, and heavy. He lowered one hand from the wall, his thumb lightly grazing the sharp line of your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle despite the storm in his eyes. "We don't do romance. We don't do dates, we don't do sweet talking, and we never, ever kiss. You keep your lips to yourself, and I keep mine to myself."
Your throat went completely dry. "Are you serious?"
"Dead fucking serious," Lando growled, his dark blue eyes darkening into pure, unadulterated intent. "I want you. I've wanted you for months, and I know for a fact you want me too. We're both going insane trying to pretend we don't. So we fix it. Purely physical. Friends with benefits—nothing more, nothing less."
Friends with benefits.
The words echoed in the quiet room, sounding like both a lifeline and a dangerous, trapdoor arrangement. Your mind spiraled—he was offering you everything you had physically craved for months, wrapped in a neat, clinical package that promised to protect your friendship. He didn't want a relationship. He just wanted to get this electric, agonizing tension out of his system.
It’s just physical for him, your brain reminded you, a faint, bitter ache touching your chest even as your pulse hammered in anticipation. He’s just being pragmatic. But at least this way, I don't have to walk away.
"No kissing," you repeated quietly, looking up into his face, searching for any sign of hesitation. "Strictly FWB. The second it gets weird, we stop."
Lando’s jaw set, a sudden, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he realized he’d won. The heavy, agonized tension in his shoulders instantly melted into a dark, confident authority.
Lando pulled you toward the kitchen island, his grip on your wrist firm, warm, and entirely unyielding. He pulled out one of the high marble stools, placing his hands on your waist to guide you onto it before grabbing the pad and a black pen, sliding them right between your hands.
He didn't back away. Lando leaned his broad frame over the marble right beside you, resting his weight on his forearms. The dark camp-collar shirt draped open, exposing the warm skin of his collarbone and the cord necklace resting flat against his throat. He was so close that every time he exhaled, the heat of his breath brushed against the bare skin of your neck.
"If we're writing a contract," Lando rasped, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly hum as his pale blue eyes tracked the movement of your fingers around the pen, "let's write it properly. What's next?"
Your hands trembled slightly as you clicked the pen. You stared at the crisp white paper, desperately trying to ignore the way his broad shoulder pressed against yours, the scent of his shower gel intoxicating and completely overwhelming.
The Terms of Engagement
Rule 1: No Kissing
"No mouth-to-mouth," you wrote in neat, deliberate print. "Strictly no romantic kissing."
Lando let out a quiet, breathless huff, his gaze flicking from the paper up to your lips. "Still think that one's harsh, love," he murmured, a lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth, deepening the tiny dimple in his cheek. "But I signed off on it. What else?"
Rule 2: The Instant Termination Clause
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to sound clinical despite the frantic thudding of your heart.
"If either of us wants out, it ends. Immediately. No questions asked, no guilt trips, and no weird lingering drama."
Lando’s teasing smirk softened, replacing itself with a quiet, surprisingly serious focus. He watched your hand trace the words on the pad.
"Agreed," Lando said softly, his long, broad fingers reaching out to lightly trail over the back of your hand. "If you want to stop next week, tomorrow, or in five minutes, we stop. No hard feelings. We stay friends."
Friends, your brain repeated bitterly. Right. Because that's all this is to him.
Rule 3: The Exclusivity / Serious Dating Rule
"If either of us starts seeing someone else seriously," you continued, writing the words down with sharp pressure, "or if real feelings for someone else come into play, this whole thing dies on the spot."
Lando stayed completely still beside you. His pale eyes scanned the line carefully.
"Fair," he rasped, his voice thick and rough. He shifted closer, his chest almost brushing your shoulder as he looked down at you. "So if I find out you're going on dates with some bloke, I pull the plug. And vice versa."
"Vice versa," you echoed, swallowing down the sudden, painful lump in your throat. You knew he had a long history of casual flings—the shadowy paddock rumors, the Miami and Ibiza stories. The thought of him walking away the second a stunning model caught his eye made your chest ache, but writing it down was the only armor you had left.
Rule 4: Absolute Comfort & Safety
"And the most important one," you said, turning your head to lock eyes with him. "If anyone gets uncomfortable—at any point, during anything—everything stops instantly. Zero hesitation."
Lando didn't even hesitate. His expression hardened into something fierce, protective, and intensely focused.
"That's not even a rule, love, that's a given," Lando growled softly, reaching out to gently cup the side of your jaw, his broad thumb caressing your cheekbone with a warmth that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "If you give me a look, a word, or a shift in body language that says you're not 100% into it, I'm out. You know I'd never push you."
He looked at you with such genuine, unshielded care that it felt like a physical blow.
Signing the Contract
You stared down at the four rules neatly written on the pad. It looked so organized. So logical. A perfect shield designed to keep your heart from breaking while giving you access to the one man you had been starving for across eight excruciating months.
================================================== ARRANGEMENT TERMS ================================================== 1. Strictly No Kissing. 2. Immediate Termination upon request (No drama). 3. Immediate Termination if either dates seriously. 4. Total Veto Power: Instant stop if uncomfortable. ==================================================
"Satisfied?" Lando asked gently into the quiet room.
He took the pen from your fingers, his calloused skin brushing yours, and scrawled his messy, distinctive signature at the bottom of the page without a second thought. He set the pen down with a quiet click and slid the paper to the side.
"There," Lando whispered, his voice dropping an octave into a dark, heavy register that made your knees turn to water. "Signed and sealed."
His large hands came down on your hips, his broad fingers digging gently into your waist as he guided you off the stool and straight into his space. You looked up, catching the raw, heavy-lidded hunger burning in his pale blue eyes—a look so intense it made you forget how to breathe.
He’s so bloody handsome, your mind spiraled desperately, taking in the corded muscle of his arms, his messy curls, and the steady, heavy rise and fall of his chest. He’s an expert at this. He knows exactly how to make me melt... but I signed the rules. I'm protected.
"You good?" Lando murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, re-assuring circle against your hipbone as he searched your face one last time.
"I'm good," you whispered.
Lando's jaw clenched, a dark, possessive smirk finally returning to his lips. "Good girl. Now come to my room."
...
Under the Lights | C.L16
Summary: Charles Leclerc never expected a quiet stranger to become the one person who could make the whole world disappear.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Mature Romance, Intense Kissing, Suggestive Intimacy, Emotional Tension, Possessiveness, Mild Sensuality. All characters are adults.
Charles: Where are you?
You: Watching you.
Charles: That's distracting.
You: Good.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Charles: You are trouble.
You smiled at your phone.
Then the lights went out.
And Charles disappeared down the straight.
You watched him drive.
Focused.
Fearless.
Beautiful.
But there was something different now.
Every time he passed your position, you felt the tiniest smile tug at your lips.
Because you knew the man beneath the helmet.
The one who burned toast.
The one who stole your coffee.
The one who whispered stay when nobody else could hear.
That evening, you waited outside the paddock.
Charles finally appeared nearly an hour later.
He looked exhausted.
His hair was messy.
His team shirt was slightly wrinkled.
But the moment he saw you, his entire expression changed.
He walked straight toward you.
No hesitation.
No pretending.
He wrapped his arms around you.
You laughed as he buried his face against your shoulder.
"Long day?"
"The longest."
"You survived."
"Because I knew you were waiting."
Your fingers ran through his hair.
"You're clingy."
"Only with you."
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
Then his eyes flickered toward your lips.
"Can I?"
You smiled.
"You don't have to ask every time."
"I want to."
His voice dropped.
"Because I want you to know you can always say no."
Your expression softened.
"I know."
Then you kissed him.
Right there.
Under the paddock lights.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't for the cameras.
It was simply two people who had spent an entire day missing each other.
When you pulled away, Charles smiled.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere quiet."
"Charles-"
"Trust me."
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A/N: Requests are open.
how much do we need to pay for some landoscar x reader twt links
landoscar x reader twt prn links!!!
one cock inside isn't enough
one on the right is sooo lando
teamwork!
oscar choking you while you bounce on lando's cock
2in1
lando's princess treatment
squeaky clean:)
this looks fun
all attention on you