Jul 31
summer boy ☀️
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summer boy ☀️
charles discovering instagram single captions 😭
He's a diva. He's a 28 year old man. He's a babygirl. He wears the shortest shorts known to man. He has a really weird relationship with his dad AND his boss. He's really good at having eyes. He proposed to his girlfriend with a (speculated) million dollar ring. He's beloved by the country of China. He's a bug. He's being nerf'd by his team. He put a shitbox williams on provisional pole in Spa in the rain. He can't stop serving face. He outperformed a 7 time world champion for 2 of the 3 seasons they were teammates. He's suffered more than Jesus Christ. He's not asking for anything more. He just wants the same car.
I didn't say a name, but he popped into your head, didn't he?
ALEX ALBON GRAND SLAM @ ZANDVOORT INCOMING!!!!!!!!
No Experience Necessary | LN1 | P.2
🏁 Part 2 | THE SYLABUS
lando norris x fem!reader
summary: Apparently, letting your best friend teach you one thing was all the encouragement Lando needed.
Six days after your first “lesson,” an innocent morning in his kitchen turns into Lando discovering that your lack of experience goes far beyond what you'd originally admitted. And when you make the mistake of asking what exactly his jokingly promised advanced course involves, Lando is more than happy to start putting together a syllabus.
First up? Making out. Getting comfortable being touched. Learning what you actually like.
All completely educational, obviously.
The fact that Lando seems increasingly interested in his student has absolutely nothing to do with it.
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
genre: best friends to lovers, friends with benefits, inexperienced!reader, fluff, smut, eventual angst, idiots in love
warnings: 18+ / minors dni, sexual content, discussions of sex & masturbation, inexperienced/virgin reader, making out, touching, praise, teasing, swearing, lando being entirely too interested in his best friend's vibrator, two idiots insisting this is somehow still a lesson. additional warnings may apply to later parts.
status: ongoing
series: part 1 · part 3
author's note: Hehe part 2! Part 3 is already written as well so should be out real soon.
────୨ৎ────
“So what actually is the advanced course?”
His eyebrows lift.
You immediately point at him.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Make that face where you think you've won something.”
────୨ৎ────
You learned two things in the week after Lando’s so-called ‘lesson’. Looking back, you seemingly did all the work while he sat back and enjoyed it.
Agreeing to let your best friend teach you anything remotely sexual was a terrible idea when said best friend already had an ego problem.
Once you admitted to one embarrassing gap in your experience, Lando became determined to find out exactly how far that gap extended.
For a while, it seemed like you both had put what happened behind you. Boxing it up with a neat little box and storing it in a closet - both of you moving on as normal after you left his place that day. It all came back up, however, six days later in his kitchen of all places.
You are sitting on the counter eating strawberries out of the container while Lando attempts to make coffee. Attempting being the key word here, he’s spent the last few minutes complaining that the machine is broken… despite you repeatedly pointing out that he literally hasn’t put any water in it.
“It has water.”
“The tank is empty.”
“It’s not.”
You lean sideways and look at the very obviously empty tank. It’s impossible to not roll your eyes, “You’re right, it’s overflowing…”
“Thank you.”
“...with air.”
Lando looks over his shoulder at you, almost like you’ve actually wounded him. “Do you want coffee or not?”
“I wanted coffee ten minutes ago. At this point I mostly want to see how long it takes you to figure this out.”
You hear him mutter something under his breath, surely something rude that you don’t actually want to hear before he finally pulls the reservoir free to fill it.
You smiled around a strawberry.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.” The words were familiar, enough that you both notice and his eyes meet yours. Your stomach does the stupid little flip it started doing around him ever since last weekend.
Lando noticed that too.
Of course he did.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re going to.”
“I’m literally filling the coffee machine. Innocent.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“About what?”
You pointed the half-eaten strawberry at him. “The lesson.”
His smile widens, “I actually wasn’t.”
“Liar.” You groan and drop your head back against the cupboard. “This is exactly why I said it was a bad idea.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“Interesting. See in my memory, you were a very enthusiastic participant. And I checked in multiple times”
The strawberry hit him squarely in the chest - when you threw it at him. Lando stared down at the little red mark it left on his white T-shirt. You stared too, “Oh, oops.”
“You’re dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You're smiling.”
“I’m nervous.”
“You should be.”
You jump off the counter as he comes toward you, laughing as you dart around the island. He went the opposite direction and you immediately doubled back. “Lando, no.”
“You assaulted me with fruit!”
“It was one strawberry!”
“You ruined my shirt.” He pouts.
“It’s white cotton. It’ll wash.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
You make it three steps before he catches you around the waist, squaling as your feet briefly leave the floor. Grabbing his forearms while he hauled you backward against him.
“Apologize.”
“No.”
“Apologize.”
“Never.”
His fingers find your sides.
“Lando, don’t you fucking dare.”
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I hate you.” That’s all it takes for him to tickle you. You last maybe four seconds before collapsing against him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “Okay! Okay, I’m sorry!”
“Properly.”
“I’m sorry I threw a strawberry at your extremely expensive, incredibly ugly T-shirt.”
He stops,“That’s almost worse.”
You are still laughing when you turn in his arms and look him in the eyes.
And just like that neither of you are laughing.
It keeps happening now. These strange little moments where you forgot how close you are until suddenly you are very aware of it.
His hands are still on your waist and yours are resting against his chest. His eyes drop to your mouth. You swallow.
“This is weird,” you whisper.
“A bit.”
“We didn’t used to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” You try to nod your head in a way to point your chin between each other.
“Throw fruit at each other?”
“Look at each other like this.”
His expression changes at that sentence. For once, there was no joke ready. “Do you want me to stop?”
The answer came far too quickly, “No.”
Lando's fingers tighten slightly at your waist, “Good.”
He kisses you.
There is something different about kissing him now that you know what more feels like. The first time had been almost clinical in your head despite his best efforts - you’d been thinking about where your hands went and whether you were doing it right. Worried about things like if your nose was in the way and whether people actually knew instinctively when to breathe.
This time you just kiss him, you let yourself go. His hand slides up your back as you lean into him, and when he pulls away a moment later, you follow without thinking. It makes him smile against your mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're smiling.”
“Am I not allowed?”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you're proud of yourself.”
“I am a little. For the progress.”
You pull back. “The progress?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
He laughed as you shoved him. “I’m joking.”
“You promised you weren’t going to make this weird.”
“I haven't done anything weird.”
“You just graded my kissing.”
“I didn't grade it.”
“You called it progress!”
“That’s feedback.”
“I don’t want feedback.”
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like a certificate instead?”
You stared at him.
He cracked first. “Sorry.”
“You're not.”
“Not really.”
You reach for another strawberry and Lando immediately catches your wrist. “Absolutely not.”
“I was going to eat it.”
“You've lost strawberry privileges.” He frowns at the container.
You wait, pouting your lips at him and trying to give him your best ‘sad puss-in-boots’ eyes..
“Okay, you can have them.”
“Thank you.”
When Lando releases your wrists, neither of you move away. Or make a movement to do much of anything. For a minute at least. Until you pick up another strawberry and take a bite.
Lando watches you with hooded eyes.
“You're doing the thing again.” You point out.
“What thing?”
“The look.”
“What look?”
“That one.”
He leans his hip against the counter beside you. “Maybe I was thinking about the advanced course.”
You nearly choke. His hand landing between your shoulder blades while you cough.
“Jesus Christ.”
“You can't just say things like that while I'm eating.”
“You asked.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You were going to eventually.”
“I was hoping you'd forgotten.”
“I have an excellent memory.”
“You forgot to put water in a coffee machine a few minutes ago.”
“That wasn't important.”
You laugh despite yourself, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. But as they say, curiosity kills the cat. Which was, historically, how every bad decision involving Lando begins. “So what actually is the advanced course?”
His eyebrows lift.You immediately pointed at him.
“Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Make that face where you think you've won something.”
“I haven't won anything.”
“You look delighted.”
“I’m just surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because you asked.”
“You're the one who brought it up.”
He studies you for a moment before his expression softens.
“What haven't you done? You’ve now sucked a cock, but what else.”
You looked at him, almost taken aback by his words. He just looks back at you as if he didn’t just say something completely vulgar.
“All of it.”
Lando’s brows now move into a different position, a frown of confusion. “All of what?”
You gestured vaguely.
“That.”
“That's not an answer.”
“Sex stuff.”
His eyebrows rose. “Sex stuff?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I genuinely don't.”
You can feel yourself turning pink. It creeps up your neck, your cheeks and your ears. This is somehow worse than the first conversation.
Lando notices.“Hey, I'm not taking the piss.” You just nod, “So tell me.”
You stared down at the strawberry in your hand. “Basically nothing.”
He is quiet now and you hate the silence immediately.
“You can laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“I don't know.”
“I’m not going to.”
You looked at him cautiously.His face has lost every trace of teasing.
“You've never had sex?” You shake your head, confirming.
“Okay.”
“And before you, I'd barely even…” You stop.
“Barely even what?”
You gave him a look. His eyes widen at that, everything clicking. You can see when the gears stop turning. When they settle into place. “Wait so like, really nothing? Kissing?”
“I've kissed people.”
“But?”
“Not much.”
Lando stares at you.
“This is exactly why I didn't tell you.”
“No, no, I'm not judging you. I just…” He runs a hand through his curls. “Last weekend makes significantly more sense now.”
“Fantastic.”
“I don't mean it like that.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“No.”
“Lando.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
You cover your face with both hands, groaning. He laughs softly at your dramatism and pulls your hands away. “Don't do that, bug.”
The use of his silly nickname almost makes things worse. Almost. “This is humiliating.”
“Why?”
“Because you apparently knew exactly how inexperienced I was while I was sitting there thinking I was being subtle.”
“I didn't know. I thought you were nervous.”
“I was.”
“Which was cute.” Lando leans closer against the counter, his shoulder bumping yours.
“So you've never really done anything with anyone?”
“Yes, I’ve now said that like a million times. Why are you so interested?”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Also true.”
You hesitate. “No. Not really.”
He nods slowly. You waited for another joke, but it never comes.
“That doesn't bother you?” you ask.
“Why would it?”
“I don't know. Most people our age have done more.”
“So?”
“So it's weird.”
“It’s not weird.”
“It feels weird.”
Lando shrugs. “You haven't wanted to. Or you haven't met someone you wanted to do it with. Or you just haven't. Doesn't really matter.”
You look at him. “That was surprisingly mature.”
“Thanks.”
“Ruined slightly by how proud you look.”
“I don't get called mature often.”
“There's a reason.”
He nudges your knee with his. You nudge him back. For a moment, everything feels normal again. Then you made the mistake of remembering the original conversation. “So… the advanced course.”
He laughs under his breath. “You really aren't letting that go. There isn't a syllabus if that’s what you’re wondering. If I’m being honest I thought it was a once time thing…”
“There's absolutely a syllabus in your head.”
“Well now there might be. You want to hear it?”
You narrowed your eyes. “I'm going to regret saying yes.”
“Almost definitely.”
“Fine. Yes.”
Lando turns toward you properly. “Well, first of all, your kissing technique…”
“I'm leaving.”
He catches your hand as you push away from the counter. Not tight, both of you know that you’re not actually walking away from the conversation. You’re too deep now. But Lando is kind enough to play along. “I'm joking. Come back. You asked for the syllabus.”
“And you immediately insulted me.”
“I said nothing insulting.”
“You implied I need remedial kissing lessons.”
“Remedial is your word.”
“Goodbye, Lando.” This time you were actually going to leave. You make it approximately two feet before he catches your hand, again, tugging you back. You stumbled into him with an annoyed little noise, one hand automatically landing against his chest to steady yourself.
“I was joking, you’re actually good at kissing.”
You blink. The words come out so matter-of-factly that it took you a second to process them.
“What?”
“You're good at kissing.”
“I heard you.”
“Then why did you say what?”
“Because five seconds ago you were implying I needed lessons on kissing.”
“I was winding you up.” He smiles, but there is less teasing behind it now. “You don't need lessons in kissing.”
You eye him suspiciously. “You're just saying that because I threatened to leave.”
“No, I'm saying it because it's true.” His hands settle loosely at your waist. “Why do you think I kissed you again today?”
His words do something irritatingly effective to your stomach. And you try your best not to let it show. “Because you have poor impulse control?”
“That too.”
“Because I'm conveniently standing in your kitchen?”
“No.”
“Because you enjoy making my life unnecessarily complicated?”
“Definitely.” He pauses. “But mostly because I wanted to kiss you again.”
Oh.
You look down at his shirt. His thumbs move absentmindedly against your sides.
“Also,” he says eventually, “there's more to kissing than just kissing. Think about it. Last weekend you were concentrating so hard on what you were supposed to be doing that you barely let yourself actually enjoy anything.”
“I enjoyed it.”
“I know you did.”
The confidence with which he says it made your cheeks burn.
“Don't be smug.”
“I wasn't being smug.”
“You absolutely were.”
“Fine. A little.” He smiles. “But that's what I mean. There's a difference between knowing how to kiss someone and actually making out with them. Not thinking about it. Letting someone touch you. Figuring out how you like being touched.”
“That escalated. We've gone from kissing to touching.”
“That's generally how making out works.”
“I know how making out works.”
“Do you?”
You stare at him. He immediately starts laughing, clearly seeing the slip in your facade.
“Fuck you.”
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Only because you get so offended. And that gets me going.”
“Because you're annoying.”
He pulls your body a fraction closer when you try to step away again. “I'm not saying you don't know what making out is. I'm saying you've never really done it, have you?”
Your silence answers for you, causing Lando's smile to disappear. Then he elaborates, “Like properly?”
You look toward the ceiling. “Define properly.”
“That's usually not a good sign.”
“I've made out with someone.”
“When?”
“Why does that matter?”
“It doesn't. I'm curious.”
You sigh. “A couple of times. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Can you stop repeating everything I say?”
“Sorry.”
“It just never went anywhere,” you admit. “There was kissing. Maybe some touching. Nothing particularly exciting, lasting or memorable.”
Lando nods. “That’s fine.”
“I know it's fine. I don't need you to reassure me every five seconds.”
“Okay.”
There is a beat. All you want is to get this conversation back on track and stop going in circles. “So that's the next lesson?” you ask. “Making out?”
“Could be.”
“Could be? You've clearly thought about this.”
He looks at you for a second too long. Your eyebrows lift.
“Oh my God. You have.”
“I've thought about it a normal amount.”
“What is a normal amount?”
“Less than you're implying.”
“How much am I implying?”
“Too much.”
You laugh, and he gave you a small shove with his hip.
“Fine,” he says. “If you really want to call it a lesson, then yeah. Making out. Getting comfortable with someone touching you when you're still completely dressed. You touch them. Seeing what actually feels good instead of worrying about what you're supposed to be doing.”
You swallow. “And then?”
Lando's eyes met yours. “Then maybe eventually less dressed.”
Your face immediately heats at his words. He notices. “Not today.”
“I didn't say today.” He smiles and leans back against the counter. “There's no rush.”
You nod, trying to appear much more casual about this conversation than you felt.
“And after that?”
“After what?”
“Less dressed.”
He stares at you, and you stare right back. Then his mouth twitchs.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Lando.”
“I'm just enjoying how committed you've become to understanding the syllabus. That you are basically throwing yourself at little old me, your friend.”
“You started this!”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So there are quite a few directions the advanced course could take.”
“Such as?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Do you ever… on your own?”
You frown, not sure what he’s getting at. Lando waits patiently, hoping that he doesn’t have to spell it out further.
But it does eventually click. You understand.
Your eyes widen.“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God.”
“It's a normal question.”
“No, it's not!”
“In this conversation it is.”
“I hate this conversation.”
“You're the one who keeps asking what's next.”
“I didn't realize there was going to be an interview.”
“I'm not interviewing you.”
“It feels like an interview.”
“Fine. Forget I asked.” He says it easily, and you knew he genuinely would. Which, naturally, made you answer.
“Not really.”
Lando paused.
“Not really?”
“I don't really… you know.” His eyebrows lift slightly at your words. Lando’s mind is running wild. Not only is he discovering that his best friend is a virgin, wants him to guide her through getting experience, but she doesn’t even pleasure herself. “But I have a vibrator.”
The silence that follows that admission is spectacular. You look back at him while Lando is staring at you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“Lando.”
“I'm not laughing.”
“Then what?”
He rubs a hand over his mouth, groaning. Little do you know that there are only the most vulgar images running through his mind. He imagines you in ways that are not at all respectful. “I'm trying very hard to be mature.”
“That has literally never happened before.”
“Yeah, well, I'm finding it difficult.”
“Why?”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Because that's interesting.”
“Why is it interesting?”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. You watch what appeared to be an actual internal argument happen behind his eyes.
All he wants to do is ask what colour it is. Does it have a name? But he can’t ask any of that right now. All he can do is shake his head and try and get a grip.“Nope.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you don't get to do that. You asked me an incredibly embarrassing question, I answered it, and now you're being weird.”
“I'm not being weird.”
“You are.”
“I'm trying not to be selfish.”
That makes you frown. “What does that mean?”
Lando stares at the ceiling for a moment, biting his lip. “It means I have several follow-up questions. And approximately none of them are relevant to teaching you anything.”
“So you're being noble?”
“Heroic, actually.”
“You're ridiculous.”
“I'm showing tremendous restraint.”
“You don't even know anything about it.”
“I know you own one.”
“And apparently that's enough information to ruin your ability to form sentences.”
“Apparently.”
You laugh again, and some of the embarrassment disappears. Lando nudges your foot with his own. “For what it's worth, that actually makes this easier.”
“How?”
“Because you have at least some idea what you like.”
“I wouldn't go that far.”
“Why?”
You hesitate. “I mostly just turn it on and hope for the best.”
Lando closed his eyes.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're doing the restraint thing again?”
“Very much.” His voice is pained, he’s hard as rock and if you were anyone else, he’d be bending you over the kitchen counter and taking you right there.
You bit back a smile, seeing that you are having an effect on him. “So,” you say, “making out.”
Lando nods. “Making out.”
“With clothes on.”
“Probably a sensible starting point.”
“And then maybe without.”
“Eventually.”
You study him. “And that's all lesson two is?”
“That's all lesson two needs to be.”
There is something about the way he said it that makes the nervous flutter in your stomach settle. He isn’t treating this like a checklist of things he can get you to do with him. If anything, he seems determined to keep pulling things backward whenever you try to race ahead.
“Could we start lesson two now?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Now?”
“Unless your schedule is full.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.”
His hands find your waist again, but he doesn’t immediately pull you closer.“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don't have to…”
“Lando.”
“What?”
“If you ask me whether I'm sure every thirty seconds, this is going to be the least sexy advanced course in human history.”
He laughs.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
His hands stay at your waist for a moment longer than necessary. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just… there. A question you've already answered.
Then he moves.
Lando's fingers slide from your hips to your hand, interlocking with yours as he walks backward out of the kitchen. You follow because your body's apparently decided that's what bodies do now. Through the doorway. Past the couch where you'd sat a hundred times before, watching movies, arguing about takeout, stealing the remote from each other. The same couch that now looks different somehow.
"So the living room," you say, because talking feels safer than silence. "Very romantic."
"I was thinking practical."
"Practical?"
"More space." He stops near the center of the room, turning to face you. "And if you decide you want to bolt, there's clear access to the front door."
"That's surprisingly considerate."
"I have my moments."
"They're rare."
"Precious gems."
You laugh, and some of the tension in your shoulders loosens. This is still Lando. Still the same idiot who once tried to microwave a fork because he 'wasn't paying attention.' The same Lando who spent twenty minutes explaining the aerodynamic differences between F1 cars at Monaco and Singapore, then immediately lost his keys in his own fridge. The one who made you watch him attempt a handstand for so long that you actually timed it - three full minutes before he gave up and blamed the floor. The person who, just last week, sent you a voice note that was thirty seconds of silence followed by "forgot what I was gonna say." This is still the same ridiculous, chaotic, deeply unserious man who is somehow also the most patient person you've ever met. And right now, he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the room worth seeing.
But he's also the person looking at you like he's trying to memorize something.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're doing the face again."
"I don't have a face."
"You have several. That one's the 'I'm thinking something and not saying it' face."
Lando tilts his head slightly. "I was thinking you look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You're doing the thing with your hands."
You glance down. Your fingers are twisting together in front of you, a habit you've had since childhood. You force them apart.
"I'm not nervous," you repeat. "I'm just…"
"Just?"
"Processing."
"That's a very clinical word for it."
"I'm a very clinical person."
"No, you're not." He steps closer. "You're the least clinical person I know. You cry at dog commercials and you name your plants. Don't get me started on that time you apologized to a chair you ran into."
"The chair came out of nowhere."
"The chair was stationary."
"You don't know that."
Lando's mouth twitches. "My point is, you don't have to be clinical about this. It's just me."
That's exactly the problem, you want to say. It's you.
But you don't say that. Instead, you take a breath and let your hands fall to your sides. "So how does lesson two start?"
He considers you for a moment. Then he says, "Come here."
Two words. Simple. The sort of thing he's said dozens of times before. Come here, look at this video. Come here, taste this sauce. Come here, help me find my keys.
It's different now.
You step forward until you're close enough to reach him. Lando doesn't immediately pull you in. Instead, one hand lifts to your face, his palm warm against your jaw. His thumb traces a line along your cheekbone. Light. Almost absent.
"You shaved," he murmurs.
"What?"
"Your legs." His other hand finds your hip, thumb hooking just under the hem of your shorts. "Smooth."
"How do you even notice that?"
"I'm observant."
"You're weird."
"I'm thorough." His thumb moves again, a small arc across your skin. "There's a difference."
"Is that what this is? Thoroughness?"
"Partially."
"And the rest?"
"Personal interest."
The words settle somewhere low in your stomach. Lando sees it happen, he watches your expression shift. He smiles, but it's softer than his usual grin. Less performance. "Ready?"
"For what?"
"Making out lesson. Which you requested. Approximately four minutes ago."
"I didn't request it."
"You said, and I quote, 'Could we start lesson two now?' I wish we could play that back."
"That was a question. Not a request."
"Semantics."
"Grammar."
His fingers tighten slightly at your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. "Are you going to argue with me, or are you going to let me kiss you?"
A beat. Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.
"Both," you manage. "Eventually."
"Eventually?"
"Kiss me first. Argue later."
Lando laughs, low and warm, and then his mouth is on yours.
This kiss is different from the one in the kitchen. That one had been interrupted by jokes and strawberries and your heart hammering too fast to notice anything else. This one is slower. Intentional. His lips move against yours like he's got nowhere else to be.
His fingers stay at your jaw, holding you in place, but his other hand leaves your hip. You feel it travel - up your side, across your ribcage, settling between your shoulder blades. Pulling you closer.
You make a sound against his mouth. Not a moan. Something smaller. An exhale with shape.
Lando pulls back just enough to speak. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
"You tensed up."
"I'm not tensed up."
"You're standing like someone's about to take your photo for a driver's license."
You laugh despite yourself, forehead dropping against his shoulder. "I hate you."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
His hand rubs slow circles on your back. "Relax," he says. "Seriously. You're thinking too hard."
"I'm not thinking."
"You're lying."
"What am I supposedly thinking about?"
Lando leans back so he can look at you. "Where your hands should be. Whether you're breathing right. If you're supposed to tilt your head more or less. Something along those lines."
Your silence gives you away.
He doesn't mock you for it. "Hands, then. Let's start with hands." He takes both of yours and places them on his shoulders. "There. Now you don't have to think about where they go."
"That seems like cheating."
"It's simplifying."
"My hands have a designated parking spot."
"Exactly. Less brain space used on logistics. More on whether this actually feels good."
Then he kisses you again.
This time is easier. Your hands stay on his shoulders, and after a few seconds, you stop noticing them. You notice other things instead like the slight scratch of stubble on his jaw, the way he angles his head to fit better against your mouth, how his hand has moved from your back to your hip again. Thumb tracing circles on your hipbone through the fabric of your shorts.
"Better," he murmurs.
"I wasn't aware we were being graded."
"You asked for feedback."
"I specifically said I didn't want feedback."
"Right. Certificate, then."
You bite back a smile and kiss him instead of answering. It's easier this time - less thinking, more doing - and when his tongue traces your lower lip, you open your mouth without hesitating.
Something shifts.
The kiss deepens. His hand slides up your spine, fingers pressing into the muscles just below your neck. Your own hands move without permission, one sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, the other gripping the collar of his t-shirt.
Lando makes a sound. Low. Approving. It vibrates against your mouth and travels down your throat, your chest, settling somewhere below your ribs.
You pull back. Breathing harder now. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"That was…"
"Educational?"
"Shut up."
He's smiling, but his eyes are darker than before. His lips slightly parted. You can see the rise and fall of his chest.
"Good," he says.
"What?"
"You're not thinking about your hands anymore."
You glance down. Your fingers are still curled in his collar, knuckles pressed against his chest. You hadn't noticed.
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Should I move them?"
Lando looks at you for a long moment. I a low voice he answers, "Where would you put them instead?"
The question hangs in the air.
His shirt. That's the obvious answer. Under his shirt. Your fingers are already there, right at the collar and it would be easy. Just slide them down. Feel whatever's underneath the expensive, strawberry-stained cotton.
But your brain catches up with your body about half a second before you move.
"I don't know," you admit.
"Honest."
"Painfully."
Lando's hands find your waist again. He doesn't pull you closer this time, just holds. "You can touch me," he says. "That's sort of the point of this lesson."
"I was touching you."
"You were touching my shirt."
"Same thing."
"Not remotely."
You look at him. At the slight curve of his mouth. At the challenge in his eyes that's not really a challenge but more like an invitation.
Your fingers uncurl from his collar. They slide down. Over his sternum. The fabric is soft, worn from washing, and you can feel the heat of him through it. Your can feel his abs through it.
"When you say 'touch you'…"
"I mean wherever you want."
"That's very broad."
"I'm a generous teacher."
"You're a menace."
"Also true."
Your hands hesitate at the hem of his shirt. His stomach tenses under your fingers, a tiny flinch, barely perceptible.
"Ticklish," you realize.
"Shut up."
"Are you seriously ticklish?"
Lando catches your wrists. "This lesson is about you. Not my abdominal vulnerabilities."
"Abdominal vulnerabilities."
"I'm not giving you ammunition."
"Oh, you already have." You're grinning now. "This is extremely useful information."
He tugs your hands away from his stomach, but he's smiling too. "You're supposed to be learning."
"I am learning. I'm learning that you talk a big game about touching but can't handle ten seconds of someone touching your stomach."
"That's not..."
"You flinched."
"I didn't flinch."
"You absolutely flinched."
Lando narrows his eyes. Then he releases your wrists and reaches for the hem of your shirt.
"Whoa." Your hands fly up to stop him. "What are you doing?"
"Equity."
"Equity?"
"If you're going to mock me for being ticklish, I think it's only fair I find out whether you are too."
"That's not how this works."
"That's exactly how this works."
"This is not the lesson."
"I'm adding a module."
"Lando..."
His fingers skim your sides. Bare skin. You jerk back with a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a yelp.
"Interesting," he says.
"Don't."
"Very interesting."
"I will throw another strawberry at you."
"You're out of strawberries."
"Then I'll find something else."
His hands settle back on your waist, but this time they're under your shirt. Bare palms. Warm. Still. "Relax," he says again. "I'm not going to tickle you."
"You just did."
"That was research."
"Results?"
"You're worse than I am."
"Fantastic."
"But that's good." His thumbs trace small arcs on your skin. Back and forth. Back and forth. "Gets you out of your head."
"I wasn't in my head."
"You were thinking about my abdominal vulnerabilities."
"Because they were funny."
"Now you're thinking about my hands." He says it so matter-of-factly. Confident without being arrogant. "And whether they're going to move higher or lower or somewhere else entirely. And whether you want them to."
Your breath catches.
"See?" Lando tilts his head slightly. "Not thinking about where your hands go now, are you?"
"Bastard," you whisper.
He grins. "Maybe a bit."
His hands don't move. They stay at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs still tracing those lazy circles. Waiting.
"Your turn," he says.
"For what?"
"Touch me. Properly this time. Not through the shirt."
"What happened to pacing?"
"This is pacing. We're fully dressed. Mostly." He glances down at where his hands have disappeared under your shirt. "Somewhat."
"My shirt's still technically on."
"Barely."
"It's a crop top."
"It's very short."
"You bought me this top."
"I have excellent taste."
You laugh, and then - before you can think about it too hard, your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath.
His skin is hot. Warmer than you expected. Smooth except for the trail of hair below his navel that disappears into his waistband.
Lando goes completely still.
"Ticklish?" you ask.
"Not there."
"Where?"
"I'm not telling you."
"Coward."
"Strategic."
Your fingers splay across his stomach. You can feel the muscles there—not rigid, but defined. The slow rise and fall of his breathing.
"This is weird," you whisper.
"Weird?"
"Not bad weird. Just… weird. I've known you for years and I've never…"
"Touched my abs?"
"I was going to say stomach."
"Same thing."
"It really isn't."
Lando's hands tighten slightly on your waist. "Is it a good weird or a bad weird?"
You consider the question. The warmth under your palms. The way his breathing has changed. It's shallower now, faster. The pulse you can see at his throat.
"Good weird," you finally say. "I think."
"You think?"
"I'm still deciding."
"Take your time."
His fingers slide higher. Up your ribcage. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. You don't. Your hands press harder against his stomach, an involuntary response and Lando exhales sharply through his nose.
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize."
"Did that hurt?"
"No." His voice is rougher now. "That didn't hurt."
"Oh."
He's looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes. His hands have stopped moving. They're resting just below your ribs, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the underside of your...
"Lando."
"Yeah?"
"Your hands are..."
"I know where my hands are."
"Are you going to...?"
"Only if you want me to."
Your heart is pounding. Loud enough that you're half-convinced he can hear it. "I don't know what I want."
"That's okay."
"Is it?"
"We stop, then." He says it casually, like it's that simple. "Until you know."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
His hands start to slide back down. Retreating.
"No."
Lando pauses.
"Don't stop." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "I don't want to stop. I just… I don't know what I'm doing."
"That's literally why we're here."
"I know."
"So tell me what you're feeling. Right now. In this exact moment."
Your hands are still under his shirt. His hands are still hovering just below your ribs. The air between you feels charged, heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm.
"Nervous," you say. "And warm. And like I want you to keep going but also like I might combust if you do."
Lando's mouth curves. "That's a lot of feelings."
"You asked."
"I did." His hands move again. Up. Higher. "Tell me if this is too much."
Your breath catches in your throat.
His thumbs trace the underside of your ribcage, the barest pressure. Then they drift inward, toward the center of your chest, and you feel your breath catch again. But he doesn't go under your bra. His thumbs ghost over the lower curve of it, featherlight, barely there, and then they slide back down to your waist.
It's maddening. Deliberately so.
You pull him back into a kiss before you can think about it. Harder this time. Less careful. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it at his sides, and Lando responds in kind. His mouth opens against yours, tongue sliding along your lower lip, and you forget about his hands, about yours, about anything except the heat of him.
Your back hits something solid. The wall, maybe. The couch. You don't know. You don't care.
His hips press against yours, and you make a sound you didn't know you could make. Lando swallows it, his hand sliding up into your hair, tilting your head back—
RING. RING.
You both freeze.
RING. RING.
Lando groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "No."
"Your phone."
"I know."
RING. RING.
"You should get that."
"I should throw it out a window."
But he pulls back anyway, reaching into his pocket with a muttered curse. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts.
"It's my mum."
The spell breaks. The trance snaps, clean and sharp, and you're suddenly very aware of your rumpled shirt and his flushed face and the distance between you that feels both too far and not far enough.
Lando sighs. "Can I call her back?"
"Lando, just answer it. She'll worry."
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he swipes to answer, pressing the phone to his ear.
"Hi, Mum. Yeah, I'm here. No, everything's fine..." His eyes find yours, dark and amused and something softer underneath. "Yeah. I'll call you tomorrow. Love you too."
He hangs up. The room feels too quiet.
"So," you say.
"So."
"That was..."
"Bad timing."
"Yeah."
He watches you for another moment. Then you smile. “Teacher?”
“Don't call me that.”
“You loved it last week.”
“Yeah, well, I've changed my mind.”
“Why?”
His hand slid slowly from your waist to the small of your back, drawing you against him. “Because I'm starting to think this lesson thing might be a little distracting.”
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. It is not intended to represent Lando Norris, his real relationships, personality or private life. Please remember that real-person fiction is exactly that—fiction.
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compilation of oscar moments from the second grill the grid episode because he was extra cute this time
if i missed one you can tell me but i won’t do anything about it
oscar when he sees carlos biking around monaco this summer
I lied. this is my new favourite pic of them.
it's giving domestic and husbands. change my mind.
