pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n, established rel.)
warnings: sweet and cliche, p in v, slight dumbification, sleepy soft sex, soft dom lando
wc: 2.7k
summary: lando comes home to his sleepy girlfriend after an exhausting triple-header
ale's note: RACE WEEEEK !!! i tried to write something soft and sweet but you know me i always have to add smut...
also, for everyone asking stalker!osc is coming soooon 🙂↕️
lando has his forehead against the cold taxi window, watching monaco slide past outside in a haze of orange light, thinking about nothing in particular except that he's nearly home.
three weeks. austin, then mexico city, then são paulo, back to back to back, a stretch of paddocks and airport lounges that wrung him dry. it’s been weeks since he’s had you in his arms. he’s had the curve of your spine and the smell of your hair on his mind for the entire length of the triple-header. he’d thought about calling last night, but hadn’t, worried you’d hear how sad he was and start crying too. he’d told the team he was flying back in the morning, but the idea of one more night on a starched hotel pillow, the silence of not-you, made him punch in a last-minute booking and wedge himself into a seat on the earliest possible plane.
it's not complicated. he just missed you.
theres a neurochemical whiplash to the change—from track adrenaline to the slurred, irritable exhaustion of a long haul, from the humidity and heat of brasil to the crispness of the monegasque night. he imagines you, tucking yourself into bed, sleepy. the way you’ll probably cry when you see him because you get emotional when you’re exhausted. the thing about loving someone who tires easily is that you start to get addicted to the way they sag into you. the trust in it, the vulnerbaility. lando is thinking about this as the taxi pulls up in front of the apartment building. he drags his duffel out, thanks the driver in mushy french,then keys himself into the lobby. the lift takes forever. he stands in it with his bag and the pervading stench of airplane and his bajillion unread messages from jon, watcing the floor numbers go up.
he opens the door with a metallic snick, careful and quiet in case you’re asleep. the first thing that hits him is the warmth, so different from the chill outside, and saturated with the scent of your perfume. you must have cooked something earlier, he thinks, something rich and garlicky. he kicks off his shoes, toeing them neatly by the door. he can hear sound from the tv in the living room, light from the screen flickering out into the dimly lit room. he leaves his bag by the door. he'll deal with it later.
and there you are, in the living room, curled on the couch. your cheek is smushed into the leather and your lips are parted, a tiny gloss of drool pooling at the edge of your mouth.
the blanket is half off, exposing your bare thigh. your hair is a wreck, mussed and waterfalling over your face. his throat tightens. he’s not sure what it is—maybe the picture you make, all sweet and oblivious, or maybe the memory of how empty the hotel beds felt these last weeks—but it does something to him.
there’s something in him—a failure of emotional maturity, probably, or maybe just a hole in his own childhood—that has always wanted to keep something soft alive, to have something that needs him. he thinks of you as a baby bird, or sometimes a puppy, all twitchy and sweet and trusting. it’s not meant to be an insult. you’re smarter than him, probably. but you’re still so easily tired by the world, so obviously in need of shelter. he sometimes has this weird need to build a house around you and stand outside all night, knife in hand, just in case.
he kneels by the sofa, reaching out to brush stray locks off your cheek. you don’t stir. he wonders if he can get away with watching you like this forever, but theres this greedy, selfish urge clawing at him. he missed you. he needs you to wake up. he drags his knuckles along your jaw, the softest nudge. you make a small noise, nose twitching, and your eyelids flutter. he strokes your face again, more deliberate. “hey, sleepyhead.”
your eyes flutter open, unfocused and bright. you blink slow, like your brain is still rebooting. it’s disgustingly cute.
“‘lando?” your voice is raspy, a little confused.
“hi, sweetheart,” he whispers back, smiling, “didn’t mean to wake you.” lie.
you stare at him, foggy, and your mouth curls into a half-smile, sleepy and dopey. “you’re not supposed to be home,” you say, like you’re accusing him of something horrible.
“missed you,” he says, and he doesn’t try to hide the way his voice breaks.
you try to sit up, but your limbs are noodles, and you just flop over sideways. he pulls you into his arms instead. you come down easy, melting against him like you want to crawl under his skin. you burrow your head into his armpit, so pliant and so warm that he feels like he could hold you forever.
“i missed you more,” you mumble into his skin. at least that’s what he thinks you say, your words are barely intelligible and slurred with sleep.
he lifts your chin with a finger and looks at you properly. your eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide, and your lips are parted, soft and lush. you look like you’ve just been fucked into oblivion, not like you’ve been napping. he grins, a little wolfish, and you catch it, your eyebrows lifting, “whuh?”.
“you’re just…” he shakes his head, can’t find the right word. “sweet.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s slow, like your brain is wading through syrup. he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and tucks your head back against his shoulder. the clock on the wall ticks to 12.
“you should get to bed,” he whispers, but you only whine, a wordless sound that means you want to stay right here, in his lap.
“i’ll carry you,” he offers, only half-joking, because all he wants is you in his arms, but your answering noise is so eager, he can’t help but smile.
“‘kay,” you say, and he hooks an arm under your knees and another around your back and stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you just cling, face buried in his neck, hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt. he can feel your smile againt his skin.
he deposits you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you. your hand shoots out for him when he moves away.
“stay,” you whisper.
“i have to shower, sweetheart. i’m disgusting.”
“don’t care,” you slur. “wanna smell you.”
something in his chest squeezes. “5 minutes, yeah?”
you make a vague sound, somewhere between a yes and a snore.
he showers fast, rinsing the smell of recycled air off him. when he comes back, you’re still in exactly the same position, sweet, defencdeless, and completely his. he crawls into bed next to you, pulling your back against hsi chest. you make a pleased sound.
“i love you,” he breathes into your hair, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.
he wants to tell you more, everything. how lonely it is in those hotel rooms, how the world feels sharper and meaner when you’re not with him, how the thing he wants most isn’t the win or the champagne or the cameras but this: you, drooling on him, arms around him, so tired you can barely keep your eyes open but still greedy for his touch. how he could have all of the podiums and the trophies in the world, and how it’d still mean nothing without you.
but he knows you’re about to fall asleep again—he can feel your breath evening out, your muscles going slack—so instead he swallows the emotion down.
he kisses the crown of your head, then your temple, then your lips. you smile in your sleep, making a little blissed-out noise, and lando thinks: if this is what the rest of my life is, i’ll never need anything else.
꩜
lando wakes to sunlight spilling through the blinds. your arm is splayed over his chest, your hand has curled loose around his bicep. there’s a damp spot on his chest where you must have drooled, which makes him smile.
he’s always felt a little sick with how much he loves you. it gnaws at his insides, the affection. sometimes he thinks about you as a child—photos of you with fat cheeks and scraped knees, the stories you tell about getting locked out of the house by your older brother. he gets obsessed with the idea of having known you then. he wants to peel back the years and wrap his arms around every version of you, keep you safe and soft and protected, make sure nothing ever bruises you except the things he can kiss better.
he moves a fraction, and you grunt in protest, wiggling closer back into him. there’s something almost perverse about how easily you fold into him, no friction at all, only this puddling collapse. its like your bones have liquefied in the night. an hour ticks by and evebtually, you shift, eyelids fluttering.
“lando,” you mumble, and then, “lando, don’t let me go.”
he squeezes you and you nestle in. you’ve always been the coldest human alive, and in winter you use him like a hot water bottle. he lets you, likes it even, how you shove your iceblock feet between his legs.
eventually, you begin to stir. it starts with a hand at his waist, searching for him under the sheets. he rolls you to face him, and you blink up at him, dazed in the blue morning light. your hair’s a disaster, and your face is creased from the pillow. he wants to bite you, a little, just to see what you’d do.
you reach for him again, pulling his arm across your chest so his hand lands on your tits. you sigh, content, and it’s so obvious what you want that he has to laugh.
“missed me that much, huh?” he teases, but you don’t rise to the bait. you just push your tits into his palm and shiver, like you’re cold, like you can’t get enough of him. he obliges, thumb brushing over your nipple until it’s hard and you’re making those tiny whimpering sounds he loves.
“lando,” you whisper, drawn out and needy. he’s been waiting weeks to hear you like this.
he kisses you, slow and deep, licks into your mouth until you go slack. you melt, your body going boneless under his touch. he takes his time, kissing you like you’re oxygen. your tongue is lazy, letting him do what he wants, and he does—tilting your head, biting your lip, sucking your tongue until you moan into his mouth.
you whine when he pulls away, hands chasing him in effort to keep him close. he loves that—loves how you go floaty and dumb for him, how your only thought is how to get him closer.
he kisses your jaw, your throat, then slides down to lift your top, taking your nipple in his mouth. you arch, pulling him closer.
“greedy,” he laughs, low in his chest, and you only nod, lost to the sensation. he traces down your ribs, his hand spanning your waist, thumbs hooking into the band of your shorts. you buck up, hips chasing his touch, and he’s so hard it almost hurts, his cock pressed against your thigh.
“you want me?” he murmurs, and he’s a little mean about it because you always say yes, but this time you’re so gone you can’t even speak. you just nod, eyes wide and unfocused, mouth open, panting. he slides his hand down, cups your pussy over the fabric, and you whimper. he can feel the heat leaking through cotton.
“so wet, baby,” he coos, smug, and rubs slow circles through your shorts until you’re grinding desperate against his hand. he wants to see you, wants to fuck you until you can’t walk, but more than anything he wants you to just let go, let him do everything for you.
he slides his palms under the fabric and squeezes your ass. you grind down, making his cock twitch.
“jesus, you’re needy,” he murmurs, almost reverent.
you only make a broken, whimpery sound. he flips you, easy as tossing a pillow, and you let yourself be manhandled. he wants to laugh again, at how much you love being small, how much you love being handled, but it would ruin the spell. your eyes flutter shut, maybe with exhaustion, maybe with pleasure.
“you awake?” lando asks softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose.
“’m awake,” you slur, your expression caught between bliss and confusion. “missed you so much.”
“did you now?” he traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, nipping at your earlobe.
“mm. missed you. missed your cock,” you mumble, almost too quiet to hear.
he freezes, then pulls back to look at you. you’re blushing, but smiling, all the same.
“greedy,” he tuts, but the word is thick with lust.
“please?” you manage, and the word is so pathetic, so honest, he has no choice but to oblige you.
he peels your shorts down, and you try to help, barely, lifting your hips just enough for him to slide them off. your cunt is glistening, wet and puffy. he touches you gently, running his fingers over your clit, and you choke out a moan, clutching at his arm.
he shushes you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i’ve got you, sweetheart. just relax.”
“inside?” you look up at him, eyes wide and trusting. “lando, inside, please?”
and fuck, that voice. what else can he do but give you what you are so sweetly begging him for?
he peels off his boxers and lines himself up, presing the head of his cock against you and pushing in slow, savouring every inch of it. you gasp, back arching, hands grabbing for his arms, his shoulders, anything to anchor yourself.
“okay?” he asks, even though you’re already nodding, already grinding back onto him.
“feel so good,” your voice is slow, like you can’t concentrate on all the sensations at once.
he pulls out, thrusts back in, slow and shallow, and watches you come apart under him. you keep making these soft, kittenish sounds, keep scratching shallow lines down his back. he wants to fuck you harder, wants to pin you down and make you scream, but he knows that’s not what you need.
“pretty girl,” he praises, “you’re so fucking pretty. my good girl.”
“please,” you breathe. you’re almost crying, you don’t even know what you’re begging for.
he leans down, mouth at your ear, “you can cum, sweetheart. want you to.”
you do, eyes screwed shut and panting, cunt fluttering around his cock. then you melt, arms falling away. you blink up at him, dazed and grateful, a tiny smile pulling at your lips.
“’s good,” you mumble, then yawn, already half-asleep again.
he’s hasn’t finished, but he doesn’t care. he stays inside, just holding you, more for you than to chase his own pleasure. he thinks about just thrusting back inside you so he can cum—it’d be so quick, so easy—but looking at you, sated and sleepy, he knows he can't ruin that.
you whimper when he tries to pull out, arms and legs locking around him, trapping him inside.
“okay,” he laughs, breathless, so full of love he could burst, “okay, baby. i’ll stay.”
you sigh, content, and in minutes you’re asleep again, still clutching him. he stays inside you, uncomfortably hard, the heat of your cunt making his head swim, but he’s never been so happy.
he’s stuck there, buried in you, and it feels like the only place in the world he’s supposed to be. the room is warm and light, and lando thinks he might die here, in this bed, in this moment, and be happy forever.
heyy darling, I heard this song 👉🏼👉🏼worst behavior - kwn, kehlani 👈🏼👈🏼 and my mind just went “secret, toxic relationship with lando with NAAASTTYYY sex” !!! The lyrics alone could be a whole os (not giving you ideas.. or maybe I am👀)
Vertigo ✶ LN⁴
✶ summary ──── They call it ‘friends with benefits’ because ‘slowly ruining each other in ways neither of us is willing to acknowledge’ is too long of a title.
✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris x FWB!reader (she/her)
✶ rating ──── explicit
✶ warnings ──── 18+, sexual content, graphic scenes, mutual pining, social media & fake texts, emotional slow burn but they go hard at it because ignorance is bliss, internal conflicts, jealousy, smut, swearing and dirty talk, teasing, semi-public setting (car), fingering, squirting, intense physical sensations, overstimulation, rough manhandling, unprotected sex, hair pulling, sensory overload/vertigo (got it?), detailed descriptions of cum and wetness, dickriding, marking, domestic moments, idiots in love.
✶ word count ──── 7.1k
✶ date ──── Aug. 2, 2026
✶ a/n ──── Hiii, my lovelies 🫶🏻 I’m severely absent lately (not without good reason, I promise), so to cure my guilt, I’m briefly showing leg with this os that pretty much consumed my brain. Anyway, we’ll read each other very soon, because this will have a Part 2, which is currently work in progress. Until then, stay safe and enjoy the filth 💋💋
readerusername
📍 Vertigo Club, Monte Carlo
Liked by calrissi4n, maxfewtrell and others
readerusername I’m always on my #worstbehavior 💦
Comments...
user1 well, keep it going 🤤🤤
readersbff actually offensive how pretty you are
⤷ readerusername 🫶🏻
user2 obsessed 😍
readersfriend1 interesting how I couldn’t find you after this...
⤷ readerusername can’t talk here, email me
readersfriend2 save some for the rest of us???
⤷ readerusername i’m selfish :(
theguyinthepic 🔥🔥🔥
⤷ calrissi4n 🧯🧯🧯
“ＹＯＵ ＳＨＯＵＬＤ ＢＥ more careful. You’re so easy to find.”
His breath comes hot against the skin of her bare shoulders as he speaks, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She sensed him in seconds and now, Lando’s hands squeeze firmly into her waist, inviting her into his personal space from behind. He loves to make his presence felt this way, and she knows that the reason for it is because Lando likes to be a hundred percent sure her attention won’t get derailed by anything else.
He’s here, he came, he understood.
A knowing smile curves at her lips. She leans back to rest her head on his chest like she belongs there, and the fact that Lando indulges her antics is enough for her to keep claiming him so intimately.
Slightly tilting her head, her cheek gently brushes his jaw as she speaks. “I wasn’t hiding.”
Lando’s jaw flexes. “Havin’ fun then, I reckon?”
“I am, now that you’re here.”
Her words are light but set heavy between his lungs, leaving him breathless for a beat. Lando knows she’s thriving in this environment, playing games while having everyone buzzing around her. Including him. Especially him, perhaps; it’s exactly why she manages so well to get a reaction out of him anytime she feels like it.
“Yeah?” Lando challenges. “So that’s why you posted that shit? To watch me run to you like a headless chicken?”
The girl hums. “Mmmaybe…”
“And who were those wankers hanging around you?” continues Lando without filter, his grip tightening a fraction.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” she laughs, turning in his arms as fluid as the music, her hands sliding up his chest to toy with the collar of his shirt.
Inhaling sharply, his gaze falls down on her. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“See, this is why you have so many fan girls, Norris,” she teases, “You’re so hot when you’re confident, even when you’re wrong.”
Her eyes meet his, sparkling with the promise of something more and, just as it always goes when it comes to her, Lando knows that more usually ends with him biting his tongue, desperately trying to keep all the frustrations in his fists. What irritates him most isn’t that he keeps on wanting her, but can’t, for the life of him, understand why. Why is she an exception to the rule? Why, despite knowing the outcome by heart, does he always finds himself circling back, helplessly drawn to the one person he can never quite ignore, no matter how hard he tries?
“Just answer the fucking question. Do you know them?”
She laughs again, louder this time, then shrugs. “No, not really… friends of friends,” she explains, her thumbs tracing lazy patterns on his neck, drawing him into the pull-push rhythm she is acutely aware that drives him mad.
There’s no label to what they do. Sometimes it’s afternoons tangled in expensive sheets, with palms resting over familiar skin. Other times it’s quick mornings before catching flights. Most of the times, it’s nights like this, when neither of them is in a hurry to reach the other because they both know that there will be a finish line at the end, regardless of how fast or slow they move.
He can’t get himself to behave when she’s like this, all elegant temptation wrapped in vulgar promise. Although she’s playing, she does it so good that he can find in himself to excuse it. It’s like she’s casting silent spells with her eyes and cursing him with her smile. It’s damn hard not to fall for it.
“Did you come alone?” it’s her turn to question him, pressing her body into his with the same normalcy as always.
He shakes his head. “Max is upstairs with the guys to see if he can snag a table,” on the next inhale, the smell of her perfume cuts through the club’s haze, making his pulse race, yet anchoring him at the same time.
It’s rarely the same one, he’s noticed, as if she has different personas for every day of the week. Tonight, she wants to draw as much attention to herself as possible, the scent sweet and seductive, and it could make anyone follow it to the ends of the earth if it came to that.
Lando has just decided he will.
“Did you kiss anyone?” he shoots back, no preamble, the words slightly dipped in that jar of jealousy he has absolutely no right to own.
The girl blinks up at him, pretending to think about it, only to mess with him further. The bass vibrates through the floor as various bodies move around them in a blur of heat and sweat and some very questionable smell, but they barely notice any of it. His entire focus narrows down to her mouth and that glossy pout she keeps pressing together because, oh, how she enjoys torturing him.
Instead of answering, she rises onto her tiptoes to brush her nose against his in a silent ‘no’. At that, the tension in his shoulders loosens instantly, almost impossible not to perceive.
“Respect yourself, Norris,” she chuckles.
He puffs out a breath, annoyed that she sounds so pleased with the outcome of her mischief. “No such thing when you do it on purpose.”
“Only ‘cause you’re so predictable.”
Suddenly, she leans back to put some distance between them and his body reacts on instinct, following without thinking.
Her eyes flick downward at the movement, just as amused. “See?”
“Ah, don’t start,” his jaw tenses, taking his hands off her in order to put back the distance she went for.
The smile on her face fades a little, understanding that, ultimately, she will always have the last word, and that can be both a blessing and a curse. It was their agreement, after all.
There are rules, of course, though neither of them is willing to call them out loud. Rules would imply a structure and structure implies permanence, a luxury they don’t have.
For instance:
They don’t kiss hello. Their first kiss of the night only happens once they’ve decided they’re staying together.
No leftovers; if one of them has kissed someone else that night, they’re off-limits for the next 24h.
If he disappears after a race weekend and leaves her messages unopened for days, she lets him.
No marking territory. That includes: hickeys, bruises, lipstick on collars, or leaving anything behind at the other’s place.
If she decides she doesn’t want him in her bed after inviting him over, he leaves without complaint; she also never watches him leave.
No pet names outside the bedroom. Calling each other by their last name is always their go-to in public.
If he calls at 3 in the morning and she declines it, Lando has to wait for her to contact him; no more calls, double texting, or guilt-tripping, even if it drives him half insane wondering where she is and who she’s with.
No dates, no gifts, no couple-y activities.
Last but not least: don’t make it weird.
In other words, there is no ownership in whatever it is that they’re doing. They can leave whenever they want, come back without explanation, pause and rewind, and slip into each other’s lives as if no time has passed at all. In theory, it’s mature. A carefully negotiated freedom. Respect disguised as detachment, even.
However, the story changes in practice. It becomes the kind of contract that only works when both of them are willing to suffer and push through the uncertainty of it. And because sex is so good… they are, that’s the problem. But beneath all the space they give each other, the fragility of it all is painfully noticeable: the hyper awareness that either of them could end it at any moment, and the other would have to smile, nod and pretend it didn’t feel like losing a limb.
This is exactly why she keeps playing her games. The teasing and the calculated distance serve their purpose. Digging through the rational side of her brain, significantly smaller when Lando is near, she understands that if she keeps him chasing, then she never has to ask him to stay. Lando’s only allowing it because he’s also playing his own version of the same game, giving her enough to keep the door open — things like his attention, jealousy, the soft parts — but never enough to make her believe she can ever rely on it.
Luxury. They don’t have that.
They’ve built the entire partnership around illusions, convincing themselves that choice matters more than commitment. Over time, even though they won’t mention it, they learned that people who leave themselves an exit, rarely unpack their bags completely.
“Come on, wanna dance?” she ignores his frustration, extending her arm to pull him back into her space.
Lando shakes his head, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You know what I want,” it’s all he says, the deeper meaning of it getting right through her.
“What about Max?”
“Max also knows what I want.”
The girl laughs, playfully slapping his shoulder. “I can’t believe you told him about us, you’re so fucking annoying.”
“Well, technically, I didn’t tell him shit,” Lando defends himself, “He saw me texting you, and I just didn’t deny it when he asked if we’re fucking.”
She softens from the inside out at the way he lets out the unfiltered stream of thoughts. With her, Lando never bothers to censor or hide himself behind protective walls because, somewhere along the way, he’s decided she’s safe.
Then, after a beat: “In that case, did you kiss anyone today?”
“I only got home a couple of hours ago,” he replies, glancing at the watch on his wrist for a few moments.
“Yes or no, Norris,” she pushes him, mostly because she needs to hear it.
He grins. “No.”
In fact, Lando hasn’t kissed anyone since the last time he kissed her, three weeks ago. Which is a lot of time, considering he’s very good at it. Not that he struggled to find willing company, there had been plenty, but between race weekends and another continent putting thousands of miles between them, the urge to shove his tongue down a stranger’s throat and/or temporarily wet his dick simply vanished.
She doesn’t need to know that, though.
“Alright,” she bites her lower lip briefly. “Yours or mine?”
One corner of Lando’s mouth tips upward as he reaches for her wrist, answering her question without words. She adopts his facial expression, smiling at the fact that, yes, is that easy for them to communicate. Instinctively, they both know it, anyway. Her apartment is much closer and they are buzzing with anticipation at the thought of touching each other as soon as possible. So, in reality, there is only one viable option.
He leads her toward the exit through the crush of bodies, between flashes of deep purple light. Once they step outside, the night air cools their senses a little. Lando releases her wrist, just in case, but she stays close, following him around the corner of the building to where his car awaits, hidden in the dark.
Lando barely has time to unlock it, let alone reach for the handle. She moves fast, her palms finding his chest, then the thickness of his neck, curling her hands around it. His back meets the cold metal behind with a subdued thud, more startled than hurt, and before the surprise can register, she rises onto her toes to kiss him, the collision of three weeks spent convincing herself she didn’t miss this dissolving in the way the noise in her head simply falls silent.
His hands instantly settle at her waist to pull her closer, then slide lower, fingers spreading across the curve of her ass to squeeze. As a response, she whimpers against his lips, desperately searching for one of them so she could guide it between her legs. For a heartbeat, Lando simply lets her have it, breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that they’re both incredibly, absolutely, with-no-chance-of-recovery, monumentally screwed.
Satisfied, she melts into him with another quiet sound she immediately tries to swallow; it’s embarrassing how much she’s craving that exact touch.
Lando smirks into the kiss, feeling the heat of her through the thin fabric of her panties. “’s that bad you can’t even wait, hm?”
As she prepares to reply, his fingers graze her clit, making her hum instead. Her hips jerk forward while he rubs slowly over the material, savoring the way her breath stutters. She can’t help but cling to him as if the world would end if he stopped touching her right now. To assure her it won’t, Lando deepens the kiss, tongue sliding over hers, wet and skillful, one more time before he pulls back to speak.
“Get in the car and lose those panties.”
The leather seat sighs beneath her as she drops into it, fingers already hooking beneath the band of her panties. She lowers them down her thighs with impatience boiling in her veins, kicking them free until they land somewhere on the floor mat.
Lando slides behind the wheel, one hand already turning the key as the other reaches across the console. The engine roars to life beneath them, its vibrations rumbling through the floorboards and straight to her core. His wide palm finds the bare skin of her inner thigh right away, slightly shaking, a teasing little smile playing on his lips at the same time he turns to lock his eyes on her, the intensity behind them poking a hole right through her stomach.
Two fingers slip along her folds without hesitation, parting her with intentional pressure. She’s so prematurely soaked, dripping before he’s even found her entrance. As soon as he does, the sound that escapes her throat gets lost between a whimper and a plea.
“How the fuck are you so wet?” asks Lando as he pulls out of the parking spot one-handed. His fingers gather the slick that’s coating her, then smears it all over her pussy only to prove his point. “You didn’t get any before I got back?”
The girl spreads her legs wider, one hand gripping the door handle, while the other finds his forearm, nails digging into the muscle there. Her hips roll up to meet his movements, chasing the friction with a silent whine.
The car accelerates smoothly onto the main road. Lando’s driving is flawless even as his middle finger sinks into her heat, curling against that spot that makes her vision blur. The wet sound of it fills the interior of the car, creating a kind of noise that makes his cock twitch in his jeans. Because of course, he’s already straining, the denim pulling tight across his lap as blood rushes south. The outline of him is insistent, therefore impossible to miss, but the hand on the steering wheel never wavers. Years of training have taught him to split his focus, to keep the car steady even when every instinct tells him otherwise. Right now, the same instinct screams to pull over and bury himself inside her, because he’s pretty sure he’ll ruin his pants by the time they get to hers.
Just as quickly, Lando decides that he’ll make it because he has to, so he adds a second finger, working them in and out with precision, keeping his thumb lightly pressed on her clit.
“Too busy. Got work. No time,” she replies belatedly, her voice breaking the short sentences in tiny fragments.
So… that means neither of them had slept with anyone else, kissed anyone else, or tried to make a move on anyone else for three whole weeks. Interesting, Lando thinks to himself.
He glances at her briefly. “Aha,” his fingers start pumping in and out slowly, the heel of his palm grinding against her clit with each tamed thrust. “And now I have to deal with you, yeah?”
“Please,” the girl cries out, her hand squeezing the door handle on her side.
Lando is not the one to deny her anything, especially when she’s asking for it so nicely. Every time he pushes in, he slightly spreads his fingers to stretch her open, then scissors them on the way out so she feels every knuckle drag along her channel.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Lando guarantees. “You love fucking my fingers while I drive, don’t you? I can feel how fucking tight you’re getting.”
She tries to protest, but only manages a broken moan.
Lando smirks, his eyes trained on the road as he angles his wrist and starts finger-fucking her harder with short yet sharp thrusts that punch right against her front wall. The intensity of it blurs her vision, sparks shooting up her spine then traveling straight to her extremities. It is a dizzying sensation that numbs her entire being. A feeling she was able to experience only through Lando, and even though she doesn’t yet know how to describe it — perhaps she never will, and that’s okay — one thing is certain: she will never forget its power.
“Shit, you’re making such a mess,” he scolds her in a gravelly voice, glancing at his right for a split second. Nevertheless, Lando doesn’t slow down, just keeps working his fingers in deep, curling and twisting until every nerve ending lights up.
With her lips parted, her head falls back against the headrest, breath coming out in ragged pants. The seat beneath her is slick with her arousal, the leather shiny where she’s leaked all over it. She can feel every callus on his fingers as they slide in and out of her clenching heat; she can feel her heart in her throat. The pressure builds so fast it steals the wind out of her and, before she knows, her walls flutter, her clit throbs at the constant contact with the bridge of his palm, then it hits her without warning.
Her pussy clamps down hard around him, pulsing as she comes. She squirms into her seat, sobbing, begging, praying that the blissful feeling would never fade. For that to happen, his fingers must remain buried inside her at all times. Now, later, forever. But as the waves start to ebb, the thought of Lando pulling out makes fresh tears prick at her eyes. With a trembling hand, she reaches down to wrap it around his wrist, silently asking for more, desperate to stay full.
Her own fingers dig into the edge of the seat, knuckles whitening as she holds herself open for him. “Please, don’t,” she breathes out, “Don’t take them out.”
Lando’s eyes snap sideways the second her voice cracks the plea. His heart slams against his ribs at the sight of her all wrecked and shaking and, as the car glides to a stop at the red light, he uses the hand on the steering wheel to recline her chair. The seat whirs back with a mechanical hum, tilting her body into a deeper angle that spreads her thighs wider.
Once the brake is set, he twists easily in his seat, angling his body so he can reach her properly. The other hand joins, wrist rotating until his palm faces upward. His fingers slide out to reposition, then push back with purpose. The new technique lets the pads of his fingers drag over that spongy spot inside her, pairing the thrusts with a broad sweep of his thumb across her swollen clit. She lets out a cry, but Lando is more interested in watching the amount of wetness that keeps leaking out of her.
“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, feeling her pussy tightening with each wink. “No wonder those fuckers were all over you.”
She wants to deny deny deny, but it’s just her moans that fill the car, echoing off the windows.
Lando watches her face, then glances down at where his hand disappears inside her. “Think you can take another?”
He’s not waiting for her to reply and, maybe a bit too optimistic, Lando adds a third finger, experimentally pressing at her entrance. He’s just testing the waters first, and when he’s sure she can take it, it slides in alongside the others, making her choke on another whine that comes from deep within.
Lando groans under his breath, feeling how tight she is around three digits, how her pussy asks for more and ripples with every slow thrust. It makes him wonder how on earth did he manage to make her trust him enough to let the carefully constructed wall slip from her features, leaving only pure feeling behind. The privilege of witnessing it baffles him. His thoughts scatter, multiplying faster than he can keep hold of them. Looking at her like this makes boundaries feel strangely artificial, because no arrangement is supposed to leave a person thinking this much about the other.
“That’s it, you’re so fucking hot,” he praises, voice thick with arousal. “Getting ready for my cock, yeah?”
The light turns green.
Green light from her, too.
He drags in a breath, forcing himself to look away before meeting her eyes, only to catch her already looking at him with the same certainty. Fuck, fuck. Her body twitches and right when she gets dangerously close to the limit, Lando slows, easing the pressure but keeping his fingers inside to feel her relaxing. He loves on her with gentle strokes through her folds, spreading the mess she’s made, only the slight flex of his jaw betraying how affected he really is. Because he already knows she’ll occupy every corner of his mind until dawn.
“Lando…” her breath catches on his name, then fractures into a shaky exhale. Lando. It tastes unfamiliar just because she never lets herself say it like this, with so much tenderness that it stops sounding like a name and starts sounding like a confession.
He can’t handle this right now, so he goes back to what he does best: making her feel good. The same pressure comes back tenfold and, luckily this time, she has a few moments to brace herself. Her thighs shake, her hips lift more into him, and then clear fluid gushes around his fingers, splashing over his hand and soaking everything around. It runs down her ass, pooling on the leather as she squirts hard, the orgasm tearing through her very soul with brutal intensity.
“Shit, babe. You’re ruining my fucking leather,” he says, matter-of-factly, no accusatory tone in his voice. “Such a filthy little thing, holy fuck.”
Lando keeps working her through it, fingers pumping and curling even as she whimpers from overstimulation. The sight of her coming apart like this — seeing how every pulse of her cunt pushes more slick out — makes his cock throb painfully. So bad that Lando is close to reach down, unzip himself, and wrap his fist around his length to stroke in time with the wet sounds of his fingers buried inside her. Unfortunately, the car behind is already impatiently honking, prompting him to mutter a string of curses under his breath as the car starts moving again.
A few minutes later, they finally crash through her apartment door with her body pinned closely at his chest, their mouths locked in a messy tangle of tongues and teeth and heavy breathing. The slam against the frame rattles the hinges, but what makes her startle are his hands, suddenly touching everywhere at once, gripping her waist, sliding under her tank top, yanking her impossibly closer until there’s no physical space left between them. It gives her a sense of urgency, reminding her, over and over again, just how much she’s missed it.
It? Him?
It doesn’t matter right now, really. Everything happens so fast that it’s hard to keep up with the way he spins her around the second they reach the kitchen island. She feels the roughness of his palms on her hips while he bends her forward over the marble. The skirt rides up on its own, exposing the bare curve of her ass. It’s a pretty view that makes Lando groan at the sight of her glistening folds, already used so thoroughly by his fingers and swollen from the car ride over.
“Remember the safe word, yeah?” Lando rasps, voice hoarse with need.
The girl sighs in protest. “Yes, just fuck me already.”
Noted.
One hand shoves the fabric of her skirt higher, bunching it around her waist while the other yanks his pants open. His cock springs free, the head shiny and leaking at the tip. Intentionally or not, she did a number on him with the show she put on in the car and now, Lando is way past the teasing phase. His knee wedges between her thighs, forcing them wider with a rough shove, then he lines up with no hesitation. The thick head pushes past her entrance in one hard thrust, burying to the hilt in a single stroke that makes her cry out, fingers gripping the edge of the countertop.
“Fuck, yes!” she exclaims, feeling as if she can finally breathe again.
Her reaction doesn’t take Lando by surprise, but it catches him smiling from ear to ear. He starts pounding into her, hips snapping forward with enough force to push her forward against the island, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the apartment. Her pussy clenches around him on instinct, slick coating his shaft every time he pulls back, only to slam in again. Deeper. Harder. Gone.
The sounds are obscene and it only turns them on more.
“Just like that, fucking take it,” Lando breathes in little pants, his hand fisting her hair to yank her head back. “Talk to me, love. What do you need?”
You, she’s about to answer, but the lump in her throat only allows her to say: “More.”
Lando nods, releasing her in order to wrap both hands around her waist, his palms almost covering her entirely. The counter creaks under the force of his thrusts, her moans turning into gasping sounds. He angles his hips a few times until he finds the perfect spot inside her that makes her legs shake.
She sobs out a curse at that, her body arching back into him as she soughs more of his cock.
“Harder, Lan,” she whimpers, “I’m close.”
The sound of her pussy sucking him bounces of the walls, a tune her apartment has heard many times before.
“Yeah, already?”
Her response is a sob of despair that invites Lando to oblige, slamming into her so hard that the entire island shifts slightly beneath them. Her walls flutter around him, the wet heat dragging him in all over again. In a thrust and a half, her orgasm crashes like a violent wave that rips a strangled scream from her throat. Her pussy convulses in tight vibrations whose sole purpose is to keep him glued to her. The release floods around his length, slick coating his balls as he keeps fucking her through it, forcing her to ride the aftershocks.
“Yes, baby, fuck. Come on, drench my cock,” he snarls, tightening his grip on her. “Shit, you feel so good. Fuuuck.”
Her vision whites out first. The kitchen island blurs into nothing, the edges of the room dissolving into a spinning haze. Her stomach drops, the floor tilts beneath her even though she’s bent over solid marble. The sensation is sickening and euphoric all at once, like being spun too fast on a carnival ride while her fucked-out pussy keeps spasming around him. She tries to open her eyes wider, but the dizziness only intensifies, forcing her lids shut as the world spins and rocks and bends.
Her hearing is next, vanishing into a ringing void. She’s still aware of the wet slap of skin, even her own breathing, but it all sounds as if she’s on the bottom of a pool.
Lando’s hips stutter, then slam forward one final time. Thick ropes of cum shoot deep inside of her, filling her already sloppy hole until it leaks around his cock, dripping down on her thighs in sticky trails. He keeps grinding through it, making sure to push until the last drop, while her walls now quiver weakly around him.
It goes like this for a solid minute after Lando collapses on top of her. His chest presses against her back, burning hot, sending her thinking of all the times she felt his crushing weight like this. Her body feels light as a feather pinned beneath him, the only anchor she can count on to keep her at the surface of her own feelings.
Fluids continue to seep out, hot and messy, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to move yet, even though she needs him to. She needs Lando to move immediately. He needs to pull out, tuck himself back into his pants and get the fuck out of her apartment. This is too good and she can’t afford the fall.
She has spent months convincing herself she could separate wanting from needing, pleasure from attachment, intimacy from consequence.
In a split-second, she went from needing-pleasure-intimacy to wanting-attachment-consequence.
The thought strikes with such force that it hollows her out. Then, panic slips beneath the fading bliss. It’s cold and immediate and so against their casual arrangement. They are supposed to leave each other exactly as they found one another: untouched in every way that mattered. But tonight, for some reason, the tectonic plates began to move, and she knows in her soul that she can’t shift them back.
ＳＨＥ ＦＩＮＩＳＨＥＳ ＴＨＥ last bite of her waffle curled into the corner of the couch, one knee tucked beneath her. The morning sun filters through the half-drawn curtains in pale ribbons that warm the apartment. It’s not as nice as Lando’s, but it’s much quieter, even with the television murmuring in the background.
He sits beside her, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his coffee balanced on his knee.
“You’re gonna spill it all over my carpet,” she warns him, but Lando is too busy glancing down when she shifts, his gaze catching on the faint bruise blooming on the bare skin of her thigh where her oversized sleep shirt has ridden up.
His expression changes almost imperceptibly, that teasing light that usually lives behind his eyes softening into a contemplative concern. Without thinking twice, he puts the cup back on the table, (not because she told him to), then turns to reach out. His fingers barely make contact as the tips brush the edge of the love mark, so careful that it has the potential to translate into an apology, if she didn’t know better.
The action is impossibly gentle, as though he’s afraid pressing any harder might send her tumbling in a tearful heap onto the floor.
Looking up at her, his thumb stills. “You’d tell me if I hurt you, wouldn’t you?”
Caught off guard, she opens her mouth to say something, but the words stop in her throat, goosebumps racing across her skin. She’d grown used to people treating tenderness like an afterthought. The fact that he acts so soft now is just as contrasting with the way he went down on her to leave that mark only a few hours ago.
She shifts closer until she’s facing him properly. “You can’t hurt me. Not like this,” she assures him, slowly climbing into his lap as if to prove a point. Her hands find his shoulders, then drift upward to rest loosely around the back of his neck, her fingers absentmindedly combing through the hair at the nape. “It just confuses me a little,” the girl admits.
“What confuses you?”
“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave any traces, Lan,” she reminds him, half in jest, half in earnest.
The corner of his mouth curls a little, excitement slowly replacing the seriousness that had clouded his features moments before.
“Lan?” he repeats the nickname, one eyebrow lifting in wonder.
“Yeah, Lan…” she breathes out, rocking her hips gently. “I assume you didn’t insist to come all the way back just to bring me breakfast, did you?”
Because that would be weird, and they both know it. They can’t be weird about it, it’s in the Rules. So, the breakfast must be just an excuse. They know what inevitably draws him back to her and vice versa. Being with Lando requires so little effort that she’s not even trying. A part of her brain tells her that it should feel complicated, because they were friends first. Instead, it feels disarmingly simple and easy and mundane and normal, and even the text conversation they’d had earlier was the most effortless she’d had with a man in months.
Months!
While keeping his eyes on hers, Lando’s fingers start working the button of his jeans open. He drags the zipper down, avoiding to even blink as he reaches inside to pull his cock free; it always looked better in the morning light, she thinks, heavy, flushed dark at the head, the vein running along the underside visibly pulsing. He wraps a hand around the base, gives it one stroke, then his other palm slides up her bare thigh in a silent signal that dictates her exactly what to do next: she lifts her hips, the couch cushion dipping beneath her knees, impatient to go along with the way he chooses to respond.
Lando angles his cock upward automatically, rubs the blunt head through her folds, first forward, then backward, then notches it at her entrance. The pressure alone makes her breath catch in her throat. He pushes, and the fat crown stretches her open, forcing her walls to yield around the grith, still sensitive from last night’s shenanigans. At last, she manages to inhale to capacity as she sinks down an inch. She feels the ridge catch inside her, but has to rise again to ease the burn before dropping lower. Each careful descent drags another thick inch into her until her thighs finally meet his and she’s seated to the root.
A small whimper escapes her lips, which Lando claims gently, just like that, to encourage her.
As if it’s muscle memory, her pussy twitches around the length, clenching greedily at the way he fills her. The physical connection feels somewhat different this time; they both sense it in the way they hold each other, resting their foreheads against one another.
“You with me, baby?” Lando whispers, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
The girl answers with a slow roll of her hips, griding down so the head nudges deeper. The motion drags her inner walls along his length, slick and tight and warm, and it’s almost too much for Lando, whose fingers tighten on her waist possessively as if he has something to prove too, thumbs hooking at her shirt to reveal her collarbone.
“Can I?” he asks for permission, mostly to establish the fact that the bruise between her thighs was, indeed, an accident, but the one he’s about to suck on her skin is not.
She nods, then Lando’s mouth seals over the spot above. He sucks hard, tongue pressing flat, teeth grazing skin until the bruise blooms red. She keeps moving on top of him, lifting and dropping in a solid rhythm, stretching herself wide around his cock again and again, her arousal coating him whole, claiming, dripping down his shaft to soak the open fly of his jeans.
For the first time since they started doing this, the sounds they’re making are barely audible. It’s like they’re afraid not to break. It’s never like this, never tame and controlled, as if… as if they’re doing the opposite of fucking, which is making love. Which they’re most definitely not.
Lando groans silently into her neck after that, the little buzz traveling straight through her. His hands slide lower, gripping her ass in order to guide her into deeper strokes. All the cells in her body light up when he pushes back in, the head catching at her entrance before pulling just as deep again. Her clit rubs over the base of his cock on every downstroke, causing repeated sighs to abandon her mouth.
A hand slides up the curve of her spine until his palm cups the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair to hold her exactly where he wants her. He hauls her mouth down to his, lips parting wet and messy, tongues sliding together in clumsy pecks that are more shared breath than actual kisses. When she tries to pull back for air he follows, keeping her close, the slick sound of their so-called-kiss filling the tiny bubble they’ve build around themselves.
“Lando, please…” she trails off, unsure what she’s even asking for anymore.
Something, anything, as long as it includes him.
Lando lets out a sigh of understanding. “Myeah, I feel you, baby,” the words vibrate straight into her mouth. His hand drops to her ass again, gripping as he rocks her back down onto his length. “You like riding my cock that much?”
She can only moan his name again, lightheaded from the stretch and the heat and the way he keeps her entire body pinned to him.
“You do,” he replies for her, “Fucking hell, you’re so good at it,” continues Lando, panting. “So good you’re gonna make me come, baby, fuck.”
Her thighs shake with the effort, burning from the pace, but she can’t stop. And Lando’s grip reminds her exactly why she can’t: it feels too damn good and just him helping her slam down faster, harder, the wet slap of her cunt taking everything he has to offer has the power to undo her in a split-second.
“Lan,” she gasps, tugging at his curls as sweat slides down her spine, legs trembling with exhaustion.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he promises and, in one sudden motion, he flips her onto her back.
She inhales sharply at the shift, at how easily he manhandles her, at how much it makes her clench around him because it’s so fucking hot and she’s never been this turned on in her life.
Next, Lando hooks her thigh over his arm, plants one foot on the floor for leverage, then drives back inside her with hard thrusts, determined to get them both as high as humanly possible.
“Oh, fuck,” she clings to him, head tipping back as relief floods through her. For the hundredth time in the last twelve hours, she’s not on planet Earth anymore. He takes her to a whole another dimension, introducing her to new ways of perceiving and using her senses. More intense and clearer than ever.
“Shit, fuck, fuck,” Lando starts mumbling, so close to losing himself. “I’m gonna come, baby. Tell me where you want me,” his jaw tenses, voice cracking as his whole body starts to shake.
Her arms wind around his shoulders, also trembling from the effort, fingers digging into the damp curls at the back of his head. “Right there,” she encourages him, “Keep it all inside.”
He reacts like the words physically hurt him, his thrusts turning short and frantic. He fucks into her a couple more times then he buries himself and stays there, every inch pulsing as he spills exactly where she wants him to. She can instantly feel the warmth, the sensation so intimate it makes her eyes sting. It brings her peace and hope and all the things they’ve pushed away, because they’re friends and they won’t ever let anything come between them. Even if that meant giving up the mind-blowing sex they obviously have together.
The warmth keeps spreading, leaking out around his cock with tiny twitches of his hips. The sounds he makes now are simply delicious: sharp, broken gasps that melt into throaty moans he can’t hold back. His body jerks with each spurt, and she holds on to him through every second of it, thighs quivering around his waist.
Lando doesn’t pull out immediately, but stops to lower himself over her, one knee still braced on the couch, the other foot on the floor, his softening cock nestled inside her, where it should stay for the rest of his days.
She reaches up, cupping his jaw, ready to pull him into another kiss when his phone starts ringing from the jeans tangled around his thighs. Lando’s expression shifts while fishing for the phone. He manages to answer on the fourth ring, his professional tone kicking in record time, making her silently giggle.
He keeps the same serious voice even as he carefully eases his cock out of her, cum spilling out, trickling down her ass and onto the couch. With one hand on her hip, Lando’s thumb strokes soothing circles while talking, promising whoever’s on the other end that he’ll be there — wherever there might mean — by twelve. He’s calm and controlled, but his eyes never leave hers, the intensity behind them telling her everything she needs to know.
At least for now.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” says Lando. “Of course, I’ll see you then. Cheers, mate,” he ends the call, flopping back onto the couch to pull up his pants.
She closes her thighs together, but doesn’t sit up, content to look at him through her eyelashes. “Are you leaving?”
Lando nods reluctantly. “I’ve got to film a YouTube video with this brand,” he explains, flashing her an apologetic smile. His gaze lingers on her face for a moment longer than necessary, reading all the subtle changes he’s not sure she even realize she’s making.
His palm finds her shin first, warm on her skin as he traces upward, the gesture enough to appear both casual and purposeful, depending on which version each of them prefers. Lando’s hand pauses briefly at her knee then, he bends to press a kiss on the same spot.
“Am I seeing you tonight?” asks Lando, ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, straightening his back as he looks around for his keys on the coffee table.
She props herself onto one elbow, watching him with an expression she doesn’t bother hiding this time.
Of course, the grin spreading across her face tells him.
Fighting one of his own, Lando points at her with the keys. “Go clean up.”
Her jaw drops a little. “Go fuck yourself.”
“You do it better,” he says right before rushing out the door, letting it shut behind him.
She can finally hear the TV again, but a cold silence settles back into her apartment and, despite every instinct telling her to run in the opposite direction instead of spinning in place, she can’t remember the last time she’d felt this happy.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Thank you for reading!
None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎
Summary : Lando wears one stupid shirt in a club without thinking about the consequences. But when Y/N, the girl he has been unsuccessfully flirting with for years, finally notices him, maybe the chaos is worth it.
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Genre : suggestive, smau
Face claim : Madelyne Cline
Main Masterlist
@_f1 gossip:
📹 Lando Norris was out last night, taking one of his friends shirt that says: “EAT PUSSY IT’S VEGAN.”
user1: sir??? the shirt says what ???
user2: not him wearing it like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact shirt
user3: whoever filmed this needs an award 😭
user4: he knew. HE KNEW what he was doing.
user5: his pr team is currently drafting a resignation letter
user6: he needs to get on his knees and prove it
user7: don't ask me the color of anything
user8: well we like men who are ready to give heads
yourusername: god he is so unserious
liked by @_lando
user9: NOT THE LIKE????
user10: y/n, babe, you have approximately thirty seconds before he slides into your dms.
user11: wait...THE y/n? as in the girl he has been liking every single photo of since 2023??
user12: girl go get your man
Instagram DMs
lando:
unserious?
yourusername:
you swapped shirts with a stranger in a club because you thought the slogan was funny
lando:
not just funny
it suited me
yourusername:
that is exactly why you’re unserious
lando:
i have talents, you know
yourusername:
being a menace is not a talent
lando:
i’m more talking about being talented at eating stuff
yourusername:
lando.
lando:
what?
it's true, you don't belived me?
yourusername:
you are genuinely terrible at flirting
lando:
was that flirting?
yourusername:
you tell me
lando:
fine.
wanna go eat dinner with me?
yourusername:
no. for the fith time this month, no.
lando:
no to dinner or no to me?
yourusername:
yes.
lando:
that is not an answer
yourusername:
it is the only answer you deserve after that line
lando:
harsh.
yourusername:
accurate.
lando:
so there’s no chance?
yourusername:
there is a chance you learn how to flirt before trying again
lando:
cruel. but fair
yourusername:
goodnight, lando
lando:
goodnight, future dinner date
yourusername:
you're delusional
@_yourusername
Too spicy for you 🌶️
❤️ 186,492 likes
liked by lando and others
user1: OH MY GOD. they’re communicating exclusively through shirt slogans now.
lando: I like spicy food
user3: this is the worst flirting I have ever witnessed and I need it framed in a museum.
user4: he took one look at that shirt and forgot how to act normal.
user5: “I like spicy food” sir this is a public comment section, please behave.
user6: no because they are having an entire conversation through clothing and captions 😭
user7 the way he said that like he has not already been rejected twice this week.
user8: someone confiscate his phone before he says something worse.
Instagram DMs
lando:
wdym you’re too spicy for meeee?
yourusername:
couldn’t handle me. it’s all norris
lando:
whyyy?
yourusername:
because.
lando:
that is not an answer
yourusername:
it’s the only one you’re getting
lando:
please. just one date.
just to show you i’m nice and funny
lando
and then maybe more, eventually, to show you why i wore that shirt the other day…it’s a true passion
yourusername:
what is, lando?
wearing terrible shirts?
lando:
no, you know what i mean
yourusername:
if this is your attempt to imply you’re very talented at whatever that shirt was suggesting, this is actually terrible flirting
lando:
why? you don’t you believe me?
yourusername:
i don’t, actually
lando
just so you know, i’ve had girls coming in seconds just from that
yourusername:
they were just too polite to tell you it was shit, lando
lando:
their legs shaking tell me otherwise darling
yourusername:
most boys genuinely don’t have a clue what they’re doing
lando:
not me, then
yourusername:
you’re way too confident, lando
lando:
confidence is attractive
yourusername:
not when it’s completely unearned
lando:
one date.
i’ll prove it to you
yourusername:
this is still a no
lando:
you’re impossible
yourusername:
keep dreaming, club-shirt thief
@_lando
Refuelling properly before the next one 🍓✈️
@onflightinternational
❤️ 942,817 likes
liked by yourusername and others
user: not the pr-approved fruit post two days after the shirt incident 😭
user2: his team definitely said, “post something wholesome. make people forget the club video.”
user3: this is so aggressively out of character after seeing him take his shirt off for a man wearing that slogan
user4: lando norris promoting healthy eating while the entire internet remembers a very different definition of “vegan.”
user5: someone needs to tell him the fruit isn’t going to distract us. we saw the video, babe
user6: he’s trying way too hard to look innocent here
user7: “refuelling properly” SIR. after that week, you cannot use words like that casually
user8: i suddenly understand why y/n said he was unserious
yourusername: since when do you eat fruit?
lando: told you i’m vegan now 😉
user9: HE DID NOT
user10: they are still having their whole relationship through public comments. someone confiscate both their phones
user11: y/n walked directly into that one and he has been waiting for his chance all day
user12: lando, one normal post. that’s all we asked for
@_yourusername
The light was good so obviously i had to do a photoshoot
❤️ 241,883 likes
liked by lando and others
user1: this is genuinely the most beautiful set of photos i have ever seen
user2: she saw a camera flash and turned it into a magazine cover. iconic behavior
user3: you were meant to be photographed forever, actually
user4: no because she is so effortlessly pretty it makes me angry
user5: the way she can make lying on a TV console look like high fashion???
user6: someone get this woman on the cover of vogue immediately
user7: oh she knew exactly what she was doing with these
lando: I wish I was this TV console btw
user8: LANDO????
user9: somebody take his phone. immediately.
user10: he is not even pretending to be subtle anymore 😭
user11: “btw” as if he did not just throw himself directly into the comment section
user12: lando norris has officially entered his public embarrassment era
user13: THEY ARE FLIRTING IN FRONT OF US AGAIN
Instagram DMs
yourusername:
stop commenting stuff like that under my posts
lando:
what? it’s true.
yourusername:
lando.
lando:
you look good
just though you'll look even better under me
yourusername:
please if we ever do it, I'm on top
lando:
i'd love to see that, does that mean you wanna go out for a drink?
yourusername:
no.
lando:
oh directly going for the sex part, ok, i'm in for that as well
yourusername:
you’re dreaming
lando:
of you?
yes. but you don't wanna know what sort of dream they are
yourusername:
i have the image lando thank you very much
lando:
good, you could think about it next time you touch yourself, goodnight love
yourusername:
goodnight, lando...
@_yourusername Instagram Story
Out with friends tonight ✨
Instagram DMs
lando:
which club are you going to?
yourusername:
why?
lando:
just curious
yourusername:
you are never “just curious.”
lando:
answer the question
yourusername:
twiga
lando:
what a surprise
yourusername:
what?
lando:
i’m there as well
yourusername:
you are lying
lando:
look to your left
yourusername:
that is actually terrifying
lando:
you look happy to see me
yourusername:
i look concerned
lando:
same thing, basically
lando:
maybe you’ll see me later then
yourusername:
i have seen you already. unfortunately
lando:
hope you’re thirsty
yourusername:
why?
lando:
because i’m totally buying you a drink, or if you're thristy for something else, ask me...
yourusername:
are you actually talking about sex?
lando:
only if you want it to be
yourusername:
lando...
lando:
relax. we could have a drink first
i’ll be charming and completely normal
yourusername:
you have never been completely normal a day in your life
lando:
but you’re still coming over?
yourusername:
maybe.
lando:
that’s basically a yes
yourusername:
do not get ahead of yoursel
@_lando private Instagram Story
Your drink is waiting for you 🍸
Instagram DMs
yourusername:
stop flirting.
lando:
i’m not flirting
i’m just saying facts
lando:
wanna go get dessert then?
yourusername:
why would i have dessert, lando?
lando:
you are the dessert, darling
yourusername:
god, again with that?
lando:
i’m one hundred percent sure that if you let me show you how good i am with my mouth, you’d stop calling me insufferable
yourusername:
i just don’t believe you. that’s all
lando:
yeah?
want me to prove it?
yourusername:
you don’t have the guts to get on your knees for me in a club bathroom, lando
lando:
oh, you think?
lando:
just to remind you, i was shirtless in front of half of monaco wearing that ridiculous shirt a few days ago
i’m not scared of this
lando:
are you?
yourusername:
you’re an idiot. what if people see?
lando:
then they see
i don’t care
yourusername:
this is not me being interested, okay?
i’m just tipsy and it’s been a long time
lando:
don’t worry, sweetheart
i’ll change your mind
yourusername:
so sure of yourself, huh?
lando:
oh, yeah
lando:
seeing me between your legs will make you rethink every single mean things you’ve ever told me, baby.
yourusername:
stop saying stuff like this.
lando:
why?
does it turn you on?
yourusername:
we are in public, lando.
lando:
then let’s go somewhere private
lando:
unless you want me to eat you out on the table in the middle of the club's dancefloor
yourusername:
stop.
lando:
make me.
yourusername:
bathroom. now.
lando:
as you wish, ma’am
lando:
i like when you give me orders
yourusername:
just stop talking.
lando:
already on my way
@_f1 gossip:
📸 Lando Norris and Y/N were spotted arriving at the same Monaco club separately, disappearing toward the bathrooms together, and leaving not long after.
user1: FINALLY HE SUCCEEDED 😭
user2: he spent years embarrassing himself in her comments and it actually worked???
user3: they went to the bathroom together and left twenty minutes later. i am choosing not to ask questions
user4: what the hell happened in that bathroom
user5: this man has been asking her out since the dawn of time. let him have this
user6: the way they left so soon after is sending me. like neither of them even tried to pretend
user7: i need everyone to remember that shirt from a few days ago because suddenly it feels less like a joke
user8: lando saw her saying “too spicy for you” and made it his life’s mission to prove her wrong
user9: the quickie in the batheroom must have been good for them to leave this fast
user10: the pr team is going to wake up, see these photos, and immediately regret letting him out
user11: i just know he is unbearably smug today
@_yourusername
He wasn’t wrong, he actually knows what he’s doing.
❤️ 518,204 likes
liked by @_lando and others
user1: Y/N????? you cannot post this after disappearing into a club bathroom with him
user2: did she just publicly give him a five-star review???
user3: sooo it was that good huh? good for you honestly
user4: not the mysterious bathroom trip, the car make-out photos, and now THIS caption. i need a minute
user5: he was acting so confident with that shirt on and apparently he had a reason for it
user6: he 100% eat her out in that toilet cabin
user7: so what happened after she went home with him anyway?? the plot is plotting
user8: the club bathroom was apparently only the beginning because they left together SO fast
lando: could do it again anytime soon, baby 😉
liked by yourusername
user9: LANDO. THERE ARE PEOPLE HERE.
user9: he is never beating the allegations now
user10: at least we know what they did in that club bathroom
user11: he did went on his knees and prove it
user12: the smugness in this comment is actually outrageous
yourusername: you’re insufferable
lando: and yet you still let me prove my point
user13: I AM LOOKING AWAY RESPECTFULLY BUT ALSO NOT AT ALL
Summary: Lando promises he will pull out. But that's easier said than done.
Themes/warnings: Smut, weak pull out game, no pregnancy, mentions of birth control
Word count: 1.3k
They had bailed on the event way before it was done but Lando made his compulsory appearance so the rest was just his choice. Or in his head it was, really the McLaren team would've rather he stuck around to socialise.
"W-Wait. Do you have a condom?" Y/n ask as Lando presses her into the hotel bed.
Y/n is still trying to sort out birth control since before Lando she was pretty much celibate and didn't see a point in taking artificial hormones when they weren't of any use. So they'd been practicing safe sex and Lando hadn't had an issue with it.
"I can pull out." Lando states and y/n pauses, the lack of confidence being visible. "I will pull out."
"Ok, yeah. Yeah, fine." Y/n nods before they pick up where they left off.
Lando's large hands push her dress up her thighs, the sheer black fabric of her dress having taunted and tempted him all night. He's certain she wore it just to torture him in public.
"I've wanted to fuck you in this dress in you put it on." Lando grunts then smirking as his fingers press to her underwear finding the thin, flimsy material soaked through. "Doesn't feel like you need much prep."
Just touching her he can feeling her pussy twitching in anticipation of him.
Lando doesn't even bother pull her thong off, just pushing it to the side as he holds his dick and guides himself to her pussy.
"You sure?" Lando asks knowing he's been wanting to go raw for weeks but he'd never pressure or even asked before now because he was willing to wait.
He's also entirely confident of his pull out game.
It's never failed him before now and it's not his first time using the method. As irresponsible and risky as he knows that is.
Sliding into y/n knowing she's so wet for him, that she's been wanting him for as much of the night as he's wanted her. Y/n moans at the feeling of him filling her pussy, stretching out her walls as he pushes into her.
"F-Fuck, you feel so fucking good." Lando states not even bothering to hide the fact that hitting it raw is absolutely different to wearing a condom. He's in another dimension of pleasure and the comment seems to spur y/n on as she tightens around him and her hips tilt for the perfect angle to meet his thrusts.
They've had sex enough times to know what each other like, but this new stimulation of feeling each other without barrier is working them both to their high a lot faster than they care to admit.
Lando is fighting it purely so he doesn't actually ruin the whole thing, not to mention he has the stamina of a professional athlete, he can keep his orgasm at bay to make the most of this.
Instead he focuses on her, the watch her dress is starting to cling to her as sweat forms under the material. She's spreading her legs more giving him deeper access to her that he takes full advantage of.
For some reason the risk and threat of the pull out method has made y/n hotter and more turned on than ever. She's chosen to withhold the fact that she absolutely loves the feeling of someone cumming in her. Maybe because it's been so long, or maybe because it's just that heat of knowing someone else felt so good that she made them cum. Either way it riles her up.
But for obvious reasons, she's opted not to tell Lando since it's not an option till her appointment. Something that has been more difficult than intended with Lando's schedule and her seeming to always be travelling with him.
"Lando." Y/n moans feeling him grind into her with each thrust, pressure on her her clit making her eyes roll back.
"That's it, baby. God-I didn't realise how much more I could feel you." Lando mutters, voice edging on a whimper at how good she feels.
He can't deny no latex barrier changes the game entirely, feeling every inch of her smooth walls with everything thrust is completely consuming his mind.
"I-I'm close." Y/n chokes out, hips moving to chase her eye.
"I'm with you, baby." Lando moans capturing her in a kiss, his thrusts rolling as he feels her begin to tense, small spasms before she drags him into her, her pussy sucking him to stay inside like she's begging for him to keep going.
He can't help himself, a whimper passes his lips before he loses all control, pushing her legs up with his hands on the backs of her thighs, his dick driving in and out of her like he's possessed with an inhuman speed and depth as he knocks out her cervix mid-orgasm making her cry out in a moan, prolonging her euphoria.
Lando's actions are purely instinctual and when his thrusts get sloppier and needier he can't do anything but collapse on his girlfriend spilling his cum into her and rutting like he's completely intending on making it stick.
Y/n doesn't help moving her hips still in a daze to meet his short thrust still shooting cum into her as she feels the aftershocks of her orgasm jolt through her. The heat of his cum almost enough to trigger a whole new one.
They're both so caught up in the moment, that neither even thinks about it.
It takes a couple minutes of recovery before Lando is up, pulling his boxers and trousers back up, though they're stained with bother their fluids enough that he will just be tossing them. Expensive clothes require dry cleaning and he's not about to ask someone to clean his cum off of them.
"What the fuck did you do?" Y/n whispers as it finally sets in that not only did he cum inside her but from the feeling, he came more than he ever has before.
A condom would've popped or ripped from the sheer volume of cum he just unloaded into her.
Lando smiles a little nervously scratching his neck.
"Oops?"
Y/n can't even find it in herself to be mad, she never should've trusted his word anyway. Lando gets pussy drunk even with condoms on, there was no way he was going to pull out.
"You're paying for plan b."
"That's fine-but just on the chance it doesn't work, you will be the sexiest pregnant woman-"
"Don't even think about it. It will work or I'll resort to more intrusive methods." Y/n laughs while Lando grins and leans over kissing her. "That was great though."
"That was fucking fantastic. I'm booking you in at the doctors tomorrow. I can't go back to condoms after that. It was a spiritual experience, baby. Something has permanently changed in me." Lando declares earning a small nod.
"That's fine because honest I don't think I ever want something between me and your dick again." Y/n states then biting her lip as she kneels up onto the bed nearing the edge as Lando stands watching her. "Since we've already...risked it and the plan b pill will be purchased. We could go again when you're ready."
Lando groans knowing this woman is about to be the death of him.
"Fuck, y/n." Lando rasps hands pushing his trousers down. "I'm gonna stuff you so full, we'll need to double up on those pills."
I’m in a smutty mood 😔 can I request girlfriend reader x lando where they’re on their first vacation and everytime they’re trying to spice things up one of their friends interrupts them and then the reader ends up jacking lando off under the covers or a blanket in a kinda semi public place (not to be perverted🤓) bc she can sense that lando is agitated and the more she whispers in his ear the more he can’t control himself and you can take it in any direction u think then🫠🤗
Interrupted
Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: Lando and his girlfriend can’t stop getting interrupted, so she takes it into in her own hands (literally)
Warning: smut, dirty talk, exhibition-ish..
Moonlight Radio: Loved writing this, i hope u like it!
The villa was everything you'd imagined and more—white stone walls, infinity pool overlooking the Mediterranean, and a master bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with golden afternoon light. You'd barely made it through the door before Lando's hands were on your waist, spinning you around to face him.
"Finally," he breathed against your lips, backing you toward the massive bed. "Been thinking about this since we left London."
You smiled into the kiss, fingers already working at the buttons of his linen shirt. "It's been three hours, Lan."
"Three hours too long." His mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your knees weak. Your shirt hit the floor, followed quickly by his. The feeling of his bare chest against yours sent heat pooling low in your belly.
Lando's hands slid down your sides, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts. "God, you're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, eyes dark with want as he looked at you. "Can't believe I get you all to myself for a whole week."
"Then stop talking and do something about it," you teased, pulling him down onto the bed with you.
He groaned, settling between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against you through too many layers of fabric. His mouth found yours again, hungry and demanding, as his hands roamed your body—cupping your breasts through your bra, sliding down your stomach, fingers dancing along the edge of your shorts.
You arched into his touch, desperate for more. Your own hands explored the planes of his back, the flex of his shoulders, before sliding down to palm him through his shorts. He was already hard, straining against the fabric, and the sound he made when you squeezed gently was absolutely sinful.
"Fuck, baby," Lando gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily. "Need you so bad."
His fingers finally—*finally*—slipped beneath your waistband, and you were just about to beg him to take everything off when—
*Knock knock knock.*
You both froze.
"Lando? Mate, you in there?" Max's voice came through the door. "Need help bringing the rest of the stuff in from the cars!"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Lando muttered against your collarbone, his entire body tense with frustration.
"Just ignore him," you whispered, threading your fingers through his curls and trying to pull him back down.
*Knock knock knock.* "Lando? I know you're in there, I saw you come upstairs!"
Lando dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a groan that was equal parts arousal and annoyance. "I'm going to kill him."
"Later," you said, even as you reluctantly pushed at his shoulders. "Go help before he breaks down the door."
The look Lando gave you was pure agony. "Tonight," he said firmly, stealing one more deep kiss before climbing off you. "Tonight, I'm locking that fucking door and throwing my phone out the window."
You watched him pull his shirt back on, admiring the view even as disappointment settled in your chest. "I'm holding you to that."
---
By the time evening rolled around, you'd both been roped into helping set up the villa, making dinner with everyone, and sitting through what felt like hours of Max and P arguing about the best way to organize the kitchen. The sexual tension between you and Lando was palpable—every brush of his hand against yours, every heated look across the dinner table, every whispered promise of "later" that made your skin flush.
When everyone finally started heading inside after dinner, claiming exhaustion from travel, you caught Lando's eye and tilted your head toward the pool area. He grinned, that mischievous smile that always made your heart race, and nodded.
You waited a few minutes before slipping outside, the warm night air kissing your skin. The pool lights cast everything in a soft blue glow, and steam rose from the hot tub in the corner. You'd just stepped onto the deck when arms wrapped around you from behind.
"Thought they'd never leave," Lando murmured into your ear, his hands already sliding under your cover-up.
You turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck. "We have to be quiet. They're just inside."
"Then you better not scream," he teased, walking you backward toward the hot tub.
The water was perfect—hot enough to relax your muscles but not uncomfortable. Lando pulled you onto his lap as soon as you were both settled, and you could feel exactly how much he'd been thinking about this all evening.
"Fuck, I've been dying to touch you," he groaned, hands sliding up your thighs beneath the water. His mouth found yours, the kiss immediately desperate and needy. You ground down against him, swallowing his moan.
Your bikini top was gone in seconds, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they were hard peaks. You gasped against his mouth, hips rolling against the hard length of him.
"Lando," you breathed, reaching down to palm him through his swim trunks. He was rock hard, and the way he thrust into your hand made you clench with need.
"Need to be inside you," he panted, fingers hooking into your bikini bottoms. "Right fucking now."
His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding you already wet—and not from the water. He groaned when he felt how ready you were, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you see stars.
"So wet for me, baby," he murmured against your neck. "Been thinking about this pussy all day."
You were just reaching for the waistband of his trunks when—
"There you guys are!" Pietra's cheerful voice rang out across the deck. "I made margaritas!"
You and Lando sprang apart so fast you nearly fell off his lap. You scrambled to find your bikini top under the water while Lando strategically positioned himself behind you, clearly trying to hide his very obvious erection.
"Oh, uh, thanks P," you managed, voice slightly strangled as you finally got your top back on.
"No problem! Thought you might want some since you missed cocktail hour." She set two glasses down on the edge of the hot tub, completely oblivious to what she'd interrupted. "You guys okay? You look flushed."
"Just hot," Lando said through gritted teeth. "From the hot tub."
"Right, well, don't stay in too long! See you tomorrow!" She bounced back inside, and you felt Lando's entire body sag with frustration behind you.
"I'm cursed," he muttered. "We're cursed. This vacation is cursed."
You couldn't help but laugh, even as your own body thrummed with unfulfilled need. "Third time's the charm?"
"It fucking better be."
---
Back in the bedroom, door locked and phone on silent, Lando was on you before you'd even fully closed the door. He pressed you against it, mouth hot and demanding on yours, hands everywhere at once.
"No more interruptions," he growled, lifting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically as he carried you to the bed. "I don't care if the villa's on fire, I'm not stopping this time."
He laid you down with surprising gentleness given the hunger in his eyes, then proceeded to strip you with far less patience. Your sundress hit the floor, followed by your underwear, and then you were completely bare beneath him.
"Fucking perfect," he breathed, drinking in the sight of you. His hands skimmed up your inner thighs, spreading you open for him. "Been dreaming about tasting you."
He settled between your legs, and the first stroke of his tongue against you made you cry out. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His tongue circled your clit, then dipped inside you, then back to that bundle of nerves that had you fisting the sheets.
"Lando, fuck, yes," you gasped, hips lifting to meet his mouth. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his tongue worked your clit, and you could feel your orgasm building embarrassingly fast.
"That's it, baby," he murmured against you. "Come on my tongue. Want to feel you."
You were right there, right on the edge, thighs trembling and breath coming in short gasps, when his phone lit up on the nightstand with a buzz.
Then another.
Then three more in rapid succession.
"Ignore it," you panted, so close you could taste it.
But Lando had already lifted his head, frowning at the phone. "It's Carlos. Says it's important."
"Lando—"
*Buzz buzz buzz.*
"Fuck." He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled curls. "He's calling now. He wouldn't unless—"
"Answer it," you sighed, flopping back against the pillows in defeat.
The call was brief—something about needing Lando's advice on a contract issue that apparently couldn't wait until morning. By the time he hung up, the moment was thoroughly ruined, and you could see the frustration radiating off him in waves.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, looking genuinely miserable. "I'm so fucking sorry."
You sat up, cupping his face in your hands. "It's okay. It's not your fault."
"I just wanted this vacation to be perfect. Wanted to finally have time with just you, and instead we can't get five fucking minutes without—" He cut himself off with a frustrated sound.
An idea formed in your mind. A risky, slightly insane idea, but the more you thought about it, the more appealing it became. Lando was wound so tight he was practically vibrating with tension, and you knew exactly how to help him.
"Come on," you said, pulling on your pajamas—a thin tank top and sleep shorts. "Let's go watch a movie with everyone."
He looked at you like you'd grown a second head. "What?"
"Trust me," you said with a smile that promised trouble.
---
The living room was dimly lit, just the glow from the massive TV and a few ambient lights. Max and P were curled up on one couch, Carlos and his girlfriend on another, and a few other friends scattered in armchairs. You led Lando to the large sectional in the back, grabbing the oversized throw blanket from the back of it.
"What are we watching?" you asked innocently as you settled in, spreading the blanket over both of your laps.
"Some action movie Carlos picked," Max called back. "Just started."
Perfect.
You snuggled into Lando's side, his arm automatically coming around your shoulders. To anyone watching, you looked like any other couple getting comfortable for a movie. But under the blanket, your hand was sliding up his thigh.
Lando stiffened slightly, glancing down at you with wide eyes. You kept your expression neutral, focused on the TV, even as your fingers traced higher.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, so quietly you almost didn't hear him.
"Helping you relax," you murmured back, your hand finally reaching the growing bulge in his sweatpants. You palmed him gently, feeling him harden further under your touch. "You're so tense, baby. Let me take care of you."
"Are you insane?" But even as he said it, his hips shifted slightly, pressing into your hand. "They're right there."
"Then you better stay quiet." You slipped your hand beneath his waistband, fingers wrapping around his cock. He was already hard, hot and heavy in your palm, and you felt him shudder as you gave him a slow stroke.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible.
You kept your movements subtle, slow strokes hidden beneath the blanket while explosions played out on the TV screen. Lando's breathing had gone shallow, his arm tightening around your shoulders as he fought to stay still.
"You've been so good today," you whispered directly into his ear, your breath hot against his skin. "So patient. But I could tell how badly you needed this. Could feel how hard you were in the hot tub."
His cock twitched in your hand, and you smiled against his shoulder. You picked up the pace slightly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke the way you knew drove him crazy.
"Been thinking about your cock all day," you continued, keeping your voice low and breathy. "Thinking about how good you feel inside me. How you stretch me. How deep you get."
"Baby, please," he whispered, and you could hear the desperation in his voice. His hips were moving now in tiny, almost imperceptible thrusts into your fist.
"Please what?" you teased, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading the precum you found there. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"
"Don't—fuck—don't stop." His free hand gripped the edge of the blanket, knuckles white.
On screen, a car chase was reaching its climax, the sound effects providing perfect cover for the soft, slick sounds of your hand working his cock. You could feel him getting close—his breathing was ragged, his body tense, and he was leaking steadily now, making each stroke easier.
"You're doing so well," you praised, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Staying so quiet while I stroke your cock. Bet you want to moan for me, don't you? Want to tell me how good it feels?"
"Yes," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Feels so fucking good."
"Want to come for me, baby?" You increased your pace, your grip tightening slightly. "Want to come all over my hand while our friends are sitting right there, completely clueless?"
His head fell back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. You could see the muscle in his jaw ticking as he fought to maintain control.
"Look at me," you commanded softly.
His eyes opened, meeting yours, and the raw need you saw there sent heat flooding through you. You held his gaze as you whispered, "Come for me, Lando. Right now."
That was all it took. His whole body went rigid, cock pulsing in your hand as he came, spilling hot over your fingers. You worked him through it, slow strokes as he bit down on his lip hard enough to leave marks, fighting to stay silent. His eyes never left yours, dark and intense and so full of want it made you clench.
When the last aftershock had passed, he slumped against you, breathing hard. You carefully withdrew your hand, using the blanket to discreetly clean your fingers while he tucked himself back into his sweatpants.
"You're incredible," he murmured into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And absolutely insane."
"You loved it," you whispered back, grinning.
"Fucking loved it," he agreed. Then, quieter, "But you're in so much trouble later."
"Promise?"
His hand slid under the blanket, fingers trailing up your thigh. "Oh, I promise. The second we're alone, I'm going to make you come so many times you forget your own name."
You shivered, already anticipating it. "I'm counting on it."
For now, though, you settled against his chest, his arm warm around you, both of you finally relaxed as the movie played on. And if anyone noticed the flush on Lando's cheeks or the satisfied smile on your face, they were kind enough not to mention it.
Tomorrow, you'd have the whole day. But tonight, this was enough—this secret moment, this delicious risk, this perfect relief after a day of frustration.
And later, when you finally made it back to that locked bedroom, Lando made good on every single promise.
summary: a day out on the mediterranean with your friends should be nothing more than sun, swimming and a little harmless flirting with your boyfriend. unfortunately, lando has other plans, and the tiny cabin below deck suddenly seems a lot more interesting than the party upstairs.
warnings: teasing, dirty talk, praise, degradation, oral sex (f! and m! receiving), deepthroat, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, anal sex, anal fingering, rough sex, multiple orgasms, public/near-public sex, friends nearby, risky sex, choking/hand over mouth
word count: 6.2k
minors dni
──────── ♡ ────────
The Mediterranean in late July is a kind of blue that feels personal, like the sea remembered exactly what color would ruin you and settled there. The yacht rocks gentle beneath you, a cradle rhythm you've been half-drowsing to for the past hour, your skin tacky with dried salt and sunscreen, the edge of your bikini top leaving a faint pink line that you'll trace later in the mirror and smile at.
Somewhere behind you, Max is telling a story about a missed flight and a stolen Vespa, his voice rising and falling with the kind of theatrical energy that only makes sense after three beers. Pietra laughs, that bright, unguarded sound she only makes when she's truly relaxed, the one that always pulls a grin out of everyone within earshot. The cooler lid slams. Ice rattles. Someone cracks open another bottle.
You should be listening. You should be laughing with them, chiming in with your own embellishment to Max's increasingly dubious tale. You should, at the very least, be aware of where your drink has gotten to.
But Lando just pulled himself up the ladder at the back of the boat, and every functioning thought you possess has evacuated.
He comes out of the water in stages: first the crown of his head, dark curls plastered flat and gleaming under the sun like wet silk, then the broad shelf of his shoulders breaking the surface, rivulets sheeting off his skin. The saltwater traces his body with a kind of reverence, down the slope of his back, catching in the valley of his spine, following the topography of muscle and bone with an attention you suddenly, irrationally envy. His hands find the stainless steel rail, forearms flexing as he hauls himself up, and there is something in the way his body works against gravity that turns the air in your lungs to something heavier. Thicker.
The swim shorts sit low on his hips. Navy. Soaking wet. Clinging to him in a way that ought to be illegal in international waters.
He turns, reaching back to offer a hand to whoever's still in the water, it's Keegan, you register dimly, because Keegan is always the last one in, and the movement pulls the fabric taut across his ass, the muscle shifting beneath, and you actually forget to breathe. Your lips part. Your thighs press together beneath the towel you've draped over your lap, a gesture so instinctive you don't notice you've done it until you feel the soft friction of your own skin, the faint ache that accompanies it.
The sun is hot. That's your excuse. The sun is hot and you've been sitting here too long and that's why your pulse has relocated to the base of your throat, beating there like a warning. Like a promise.
Lando says something to Keegan that makes him laugh, that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and then he's walking toward the bow, toward you, his bare feet leaving wet prints on the white deck. Water still beads on his chest, catching in the sparse dark hair there, and his abs tighten with each step. His tan is deepening by the hour, you realize. The line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the vee of his hips disappearing beneath that clinging navy fabric. He looks like something out of a photograph you weren't supposed to see. Something private. Something that makes your stomach drop the way it does when a plane hits turbulence.
He hasn't even looked at you yet, and you're already ruined.
"You're staring," Pietra says, and her voice is so close to your ear that you flinch, a flush crawling up your neck before you can stop it. She's settled into the seat beside you without you noticing — how long has she been there? — and her smile is the knowing, predatory kind. The kind that precedes relentless teasing.
"I'm people-watching," you manage. "It's a very people-watching kind of day."
"You're Lando-watching. There's a difference." She takes a slow sip of her drink, eyes not leaving your face. "Your pupils are dilated. That's a physiological response to—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'll push you overboard."
Pietra grins like you've just given her a gift. She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't need to.
Because Lando has reached the cooler, and he's bending over to fish out a bottle of water, and the shorts — those goddamn shorts — are doing something that makes your teeth catch your lower lip hard enough to sting. You watch a single drop of seawater trace a path from his shoulder blade down, down, disappearing into the waistband, and you follow it with your eyes like it holds the answer to a question you didn't know you were asking. The muscles in his back shift. His shoulder blades move beneath his skin like something winged and restless.
He straightens. Twists the cap off. Drinks with his head tipped back, throat working, and you can see the line of his neck, the way his Adam's apple moves with each swallow, and it shouldn't be this devastating. He's just drinking water. He's just standing there in wet shorts on a boat with all your friends around him, drinking water like a normal person, and your body is reacting like he's whispering filth in your ear from across a crowded room.
Maybe it's the salt. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the way summer stretches time into something elastic and dangerous, where normal rules don't apply and wanting someone this much feels not just permissible but inevitable.
He catches you looking.
His eyes find yours over the rim of the bottle, and his mouth ticks up at the corner, that almost-smile he does when he knows something you haven't said yet. And it's not fair, it's genuinely not fair, because the smile makes his whole face soften and sharpen at the same time, boyish and wolfish in equal measure, and your stomach does the turbulence thing again, the free-fall thing, the oh-god-I'm-in-trouble thing.
Lando lowers the bottle. Holds your gaze for one beat too long — long enough that it's a message, not a glance. Then he turns back to whatever Max is saying, laughing at the right moment, seamless and social, as if he didn't just set every nerve ending in your body on fire without touching you.
Your thighs press together again under the towel. Harder this time.
Pietra is saying something else, but you can't hear her over the roar of your own blood in your ears. The boat rocks. The sun beats down. The afternoon stretches ahead, golden and endless and full of possibilities you're only beginning to imagine.
You watch the water drip from his hair onto his shoulders. You watch the way his hands move when he talks. You watch the small of his back, the dip just above the waistband of his shorts, the place where your mouth would fit perfectly if you could just get him alone.
And you start counting the minutes until you can.
He lets you count. For a while, that's the whole game — Lando settling into the conversation with Max, laughing at the right beats, his back to you like a man with nowhere to be and no one to impress. You tell yourself to look away, to be normal, to join whatever Pietra is saying about the marina and the yacht that's been anchored out there all morning. You don't. Your eyes keep finding the same two or three places on his body and returning like they've got a homing instinct.
Then he turns.
Not toward you. Toward the cooler again, casual as anything, but his head tips just enough that he catches you mid-stare, and this time the almost-smile doesn't fade. It holds. His eyes go dark and pleased in a way that makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench at the same time, and you realize with a hot, mortified clarity that he's been counting too. That he's known exactly where your gaze has been this whole time, and he's been letting it happen.
He says something to Keegan — something that makes Keegan clap him on the shoulder and wander off toward the bow — and then Lando is moving through the group with a bottle in each hand, doling out water and easy jokes like a man with absolutely no agenda. He reaches Pietra, hands her a bottle, and she takes it with a smile that's a little too knowing. Then he's beside you.
"You're burning," he says, low, and at first you think he means the sun. Then his hand lands on your shoulder — a friendly, public, completely innocent touch — and his thumb drags across the strap of your bikini, once, slow, like he's checking for sunscreen. Except the pad of his thumb brushes the edge of your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat, and the touch is nothing. It's nothing. It's a boyfriend being affectionate in front of his friends, and that's exactly why it undoes you.
"I'm fine," you manage.
"You're pink." His voice stays even, pleasant, the voice of a man discussing the weather. But his thumb has found the strap again, and he's tugging it a fraction of an inch, testing the fabric, and his eyes never leave yours. "Should do something about that before you peel."
You don't trust your voice, so you just look at him. And he knows. He sees the heat in your face and the way your breathing has gone shallow, and something shifts behind his eyes — a quiet, wolfish satisfaction that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in the same breath.
"I'll get you some water," he says, loud enough for the group, and his hand drops from your shoulder. But as it falls, his fingers trail down your arm, and at the last possible moment, his thumb catches the inside of your wrist. He squeezes. One second, a message pressed into your pulse point like a thumbprint on soft wax.
Then he's gone, walking back to the cooler, and your wrist is still tingling where he touched it.
Pietra is watching you. You can feel it without looking. You don't turn to her. You stare at the spot on your wrist where his thumb was, and you press your own fingers there, as if you could hold the feeling in place, as if it weren't already spreading up your arm and down your spine and settling somewhere low and insistent between your thighs.
He doesn't look at you again for a long time. He doesn't have to. He's already won, and you both know it.
The boat rocks. The sun beats down. And you stop counting the minutes, because counting is for people who think they have a choice.
The ladder to the lower cabin is narrow, the rungs slick with the salt spray that's been riding the air all afternoon. Lando goes down first, one hand on the rail, and he doesn't look back at you, because his other hand is reaching up behind him, palm open, waiting. You take it without thinking, the way you've taken it a hundred times, and his fingers close around yours and hold on a beat longer than the ladder requires.
Below deck it's dimmer, cooler, the light going amber through the small round portholes. The engine thrums somewhere under your feet, a low vibration that you can feel through the soles of your bare feet. There's a tiny galley to the left, a bench seat with a folded towel on it, and at the end of the short passage, a door with a brass handle that's warm from the sun on the other side of the hull.
Lando stops in front of it. He doesn't open it yet. He turns, and the passage is so narrow that his chest is nearly against yours, his hips close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his skin through the damp of his shorts.
"Thought you'd never come down," he says, low, and there's that almost-smile, the one that's been doing things to your stomach all afternoon.
"Thought you'd never ask."
He reaches past you, his arm brushing your shoulder, the smell of salt and sunscreen and warm skin filling your head, and turns the handle. The door swings open into a space barely bigger than a closet. A toilet, a tiny sink, a mirror that's fogged at the edges from the heat. The ceiling is low enough that Lando has to duck his head to step through, and the sight of it, him folding himself into that cramped little room, all broad shoulders and wet curls, does something sharp and sweet to your chest.
He pulls you in after him. The door clicks shut behind you, and the lock slides home with a sound that's louder than it should be in the quiet.
Then his hands are on your face.
He cups your jaw, tilts your head up, and kisses you like he's been holding it in all day. It's not the quick peck he gave you on the deck before jumping in the water. It's slow and deep and hungry, his mouth moving over yours like he's relearning the shape of it, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees go soft. One hand slides back into your hair, fisting the damp strands, tilting your head further, and he kisses you deeper, harder, until you're pressed back against the door and the only thing holding you up is the warmth of his body against yours.
You make a sound against his mouth and he swallows it, kissing you through it, his other hand finding your hip and pulling you flush against him.
The friction is immediate and electric. His shorts are still damp, clinging to him, and through the thin fabric you can feel him hard and heavy against your stomach, the shape of him unmistakable. You gasp into his mouth and roll your hips without meaning to, seeking more of that pressure, and he groans, low in his throat, his hand tightening on your hip.
"That's it," he murmurs against your lips. "That's it, baby."
He kisses you again, and again, and each one is longer than the last, his mouth never quite leaving yours, his tongue sliding wet and warm, his breath hot on your skin. His hands move, one still in your hair, the other sliding down your back, over the curve of your ass, gripping and pulling you harder against him. You can feel every inch of him through the damp fabric, the ridge of him pressing into you, and the thought of him, right there, so close, makes your thighs clench.
You grind against him, slow and deliberate, and his groan is muffled against your mouth. His hips answer, rolling against yours, finding a rhythm that's torturous and perfect, the friction building a heat low in your belly that spreads through you like the sun through the porthole.
His mouth leaves yours and drags down your jaw, your throat, his lips hot and open against your skin. He kisses the hollow of your collarbone, the spot where your pulse is hammering, and you tip your head back against the door and let him. His teeth graze your skin there, a soft bite that makes you shiver, and then his mouth is lower, trailing down your chest, over the swell of your breast above the edge of your bikini top.
You're still moving against him, your hips finding that rhythm again, and he groans against your skin, his hands coming up to cup your breasts through the thin fabric of your top. His thumbs find your nipples through the damp material, and he rubs them in slow circles until they're tight and aching, until you're arching into his hands and making sounds you can't seem to stop.
"Lando," you breathe, and your voice comes out wrecked.
He looks up at you, eyes dark, mouth wet, curls falling across his forehead and the look on his face undoes you completely. He's looking at you like you're the only thing on the water worth seeing.
Then he drops to his knees.
The passage is too small for it, the floor too close, but he folds himself down anyway, his hands on your hips, his mouth finding your stomach through the damp of your skin. He kisses the soft skin just above your bikini line, open-mouthed and slow, and you feel the heat of his breath through the fabric. His hands slide down your thighs, pushing them apart, and he presses his mouth to the inside of one, kissing his way up, closer and closer to where you're aching for him.
"Let me taste you," he says, his voice rough, his eyes dark as he looks up at you from between your thighs. "Please. I've been thinking about it all day."
Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the damp curls, and you tug gently, pulling his face closer.
"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Lando."
And he smiles and leans in, his mouth finding you through the thin fabric of your bottoms, and you gasp and grip the door behind you as the first hot drag of his tongue sends a shock of heat through your whole body.
The fabric of your bikini bottoms is still between you, a thin, damp barrier that he doesn't bother removing yet. His tongue presses against it, flat and hot, and even through the material you can feel the exact shape of his mouth, the way his lips part and seal over your clit with a precision that makes your hips buck forward against the door. The sound that escapes you is half gasp, half whimper, and too loud by far because somewhere above deck Max's voice cuts through the engine hum, laughing about something, and Pietra's bright cackle follows right after.
Lando's hand clamps down on your hip, holding you still. He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his mouth glistening, his eyes dark with something that sits right on the edge of amusement and hunger.
"Quiet," he murmurs, and the word is a warm gust of breath against the soaked fabric between your legs. "They're right there, baby."
Before you can answer, before you can even draw breath to form words, his fingers hook into the waistband of your bottoms and tug. The fabric peels away from your skin with a wet sound that seems to echo in the tiny bathroom, and then you're bare, the salt-cool air hitting you where you're already slick and aching. He pulls the bikini down your thighs, your calves, taps your ankle so you'll step out of it, and then he's draping your leg over his shoulder, opening you to him in a way that makes your face flush with heat.
His mouth finds you again. No barrier this time. Nothing between his tongue and your pussy but the mess he's already made of you.
The first direct stroke is devastating, the flat of his tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit in one long, slow, reverent pass that gathers every bit of wetness you've been building since the moment he climbed out of the water. Your head drops back against the door with a thud that's louder than you meant, and your hand flies to your own mouth, pressing hard against your lips to trap the moan that's already climbing up your throat. The taste of salt is still on your fingers, seawater and sunscreen, and you bite down on the heel of your palm as he does it again, slower this time, like he's memorizing the shape of you with his tongue.
He groans against you, and the vibration of it travels straight through your clit and up into your stomach, where it settles into something hot and coiling and desperate. His hands are on your thighs now, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh, spreading you wider, and his mouth works you with a patience that feels almost cruel, not rushing, not chasing, just licking into you like he has all the time in the world and no one waiting twenty feet away.
Above deck, Keegan shouts something about the anchor. Footsteps cross the fiberglass and you can hear the exact cadence of Max's laugh, the way it rises and breaks and rolls into silence. They're so close. If Pietra decides to come looking for you, if anyone needs the bathroom, if someone just walks down the ladder and hears.
Lando's tongue circles your clit, slow and deliberate, and your thoughts dissolve into static.
Your hips roll against his mouth without permission, grinding into the heat of him, and he makes a sound that's half laugh and half something much hungrier. His hand slides up from your thigh, fingers finding your entrance, and then one finger presses inside you, just one, curling slow, and the stretch of it combined with the steady rhythm of his tongue on your clit makes your vision go spotty at the edges. You're making sounds now, you know you are, little broken whimpers that leak out between your fingers no matter how hard you press.
He adds a second finger. Crooks them upward. Finds the spot inside you that makes your whole body clench and your free hand slap against the door for balance, palm flat, fingers splayed. The sound your skin makes against the wood is sharp and unmistakable, and somewhere in the back of your mind you know someone could have heard it, but the thought is distant and irrelevant compared to the way he's sucking your clit now, gentle at first, then harder, then pulling back to flick the tip of his tongue against it in a rhythm that's building something immense and unstoppable low in your belly.
"Lando," you breathe, and it comes out ragged, barely a whisper, his name breaking on your lips like a wave against the hull. "Lando, I'm—"
He hums against you in acknowledgment, and the vibration of it is almost enough to send you over right there. His fingers pump deeper, faster, curling with every thrust, and his mouth stays locked on your clit, tongue working you in circles that are somehow both precise and completely devastating. Your thighs are trembling now, the one hooked over his shoulder shaking so hard you can feel the muscle jumping, and your hand is no longer enough to muffle the sounds you're making little gasps and whines that escape around your palm, damp and desperate.
The yatch rocks. Someone's footsteps cross the deck directly above you. A voice — Pietra's voice, close and clear — says something about the cooler, and you can hear the ice shifting as someone digs through it, and they're right there, right above your head, close enough that you swear you can feel the vibration of their movements through the hull.
"Come for me," Lando whispers against your clit, so quiet you feel it more than hear it. "Right now. Let me feel it."
And you do.
The orgasm hits you like the boat hitting a swell sudden and violent and all-consuming. Your back arches off the door, your hand clamps down over your own mouth hard enough to bruise, and the scream that wants to tear out of you gets trapped behind your teeth, swallowed down into a guttural, shaking groan that vibrates in your chest instead of the air. Your hips buck against his face, riding out the waves of it, and he stays with you through every pulse, his mouth soft now, gentle, lapping at your clit while his fingers curl inside you and draw out every last tremor until you're spent and shaking and barely holding yourself upright.
He pulls back slow, pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh, and when you finally look down at him his mouth is wet and his eyes are bright with something that looks an awful lot like pride.
"Good girl," he says, just loud enough for you. "Didn't hear a thing up there."
And from above deck, as if on cue, Max's voice drifts down: "Hey, where'd Lando go?"
When he stood, his erection strained against the wet fabric of his shorts. Kneeling on the textured floor, you started slow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the length of his shaft, tasting the faint, clean salt of his skin. Your tongue traced the prominent vein on the underside, swirling around the head before taking him fully into the warmth of your mouth. You worked him with a deliberate rhythm, one hand wrapped around his base, the other gripping the hard muscle of his thigh for balance as the boat swayed.
You pulled back, your lips glistening, and looked up at him through your lashes. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark pools of hunger fixed on you. You leaned in again, this time letting the flat of your tongue lavish slow, broad strokes from root to tip before swallowing him down. You relaxed your throat, taking him deeper with each pass until he hit the back, your nose buried in the coarse hair at his pelvis. His fingers tightened in your hair, a ragged groan tearing from his chest as he fought to keep his hips still.
The pace became frantic, your head bobbing, saliva slicking the way. His breath came in sharp gasps. "Gonna come," he warned, his voice a strained whisper. You took him as deep as you could, holding him there as his body stiffened. Hot, salty pulses flooded your throat. You swallowed diligently, milking him with gentle suction until he was spent, then cleaned him with slow, thorough laps of your tongue, savoring every last drop. You finally released him with a soft kiss to his hip, meeting his dazed, satisfied gaze.
Before you could even catch your breath, his hands were on you again. He spun you around, bending you over the small sink, your cheek pressed against the cool acrylic. His palm clamped over your mouth, smothering the startled cry that tried to escape. His other hand gripped your hip, his fingers digging in as he drove into you from behind, a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from your lungs.
The friends' laughter and conversation filtered through the thin door, a mundane soundtrack to the raw, pounding rhythm he set. Each slam of his hips jolted you forward, the edge of the sink biting into your stomach. His hand stayed firm over your mouth, his own breaths hot and ragged against your ear. "Not a sound," he grunted, his voice thick with exertion. You could only moan into his palm, the vibrations swallowed by his skin, your body arching back against his in desperate, silent pleading.
He fucked you with a relentless, punishing pace, the wet slap of skin and the creak of the boat's fittings drowning under the force of it. His release came with a low, guttural sound, his body shuddering against yours as he emptied himself deep inside. He stayed there for a long moment, his weight pinning you, his hand finally sliding from your mouth to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding as you both gasped for air, listening to the oblivious chatter just beyond the door.
He didn't pull out. Still buried deep inside you, his body a solid, sweating weight against your back, his fingers trailed down the curve of your spine. They slipped through the slick mess between your thighs, gathering wetness before circling the tight, forbidden ring of muscle lower down. You tensed, a muffled whimper escaping into the cage of his hand. He pressed the pad of his thumb against the clenching entrance, applying a steady, insistent pressure that made your eyes roll back.
"Relax," he commanded, his voice a dark rumble in your ear. As he began a slow, shallow thrust again, his thumb pushed inward, breaching the tight resistance. The dual invasion was overwhelming, a shocking fullness that tore a raw, ragged scream from your throat, perfectly captured and silenced by his palm. He worked his thumb in deeper, twisting slightly, the filthy, exquisite stretch syncing with the punishing drive of his hips. Your body convulsed around him, a silent, shuddering climax ripped from you as he fucked you through it, his own movements becoming jerky and uncontrolled.
He came with a harsh groan, his release hot inside you, his thumb still lodged firmly in your ass as his body went rigid. For a long minute, the only sounds were your choked, panting breaths against his hand and the cheerful, entirely separate world of your friends discussing where to anchor for lunch. He slowly withdrew both himself and his thumb, the sudden emptiness a shocking void. He turned you, your legs trembling, and kissed you, deep and possessive, his tongue claiming your mouth as thoroughly as his body just had.
You slid down his body, your mouth finding him again before he was even fully soft. You took him deep, your tongue working with a desperate hunger. "Need more," you gasped, pulling off for a second, your lips swollen and wet. "Please, Lando, fuck me again." A dark, approving laugh rumbled in his chest. He hauled you up by your arms, turning you to face the small mirror above the sink. He bent you forward, your hands splayed on the counter, your reflected eyes meeting his in the glass.
"Look at you," he growled, slamming back into your soaked cunt with one brutal thrust that made you cry out. He set a punishing pace, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Such a greedy little thing." His eyes were locked on yours in the mirror, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain on your face. You reached back with one trembling hand, fingers slick from your own juices. You pressed two fingers against your own asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing them slowly inside yourself, your breath hitching. You held his gaze in the reflection, a filthy, inviting smile spreading across your lips as you worked your fingers in deeper.
"Jesus Christ," he snarled, his rhythm faltering for a second. "You want that? You want me there?" You nodded, your fingers pumping in and out in a lewd mimicry. "Tell me," he demanded, his thrusts becoming even harder, jarring your body with each one. "Say it." "Fuck my ass," you moaned, the words slutty and clear. "Please, I need it." With a guttural sound of pure lust, he pulled out of your pussy, his cock gleaming. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly before pressing the thick head against your other entrance. He pushed in with a slow, inexorable force, stretching you impossibly wide, his groan mingling with your sharp cry as he filled you completely.
"You're crazy for this," he panted, his voice raw against the shell of your ear as he began to move. "My perfect, filthy slut." Each word was punctuated by a shallow, testing thrust that stole your breath. The stretch was searing, a white-hot ache that blurred your vision in the mirror. Tears welled and spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks as you bit down on your own knuckle, the metallic taste of blood a sharp counterpoint to the salt of your tears.
His hips drew back and then pistoned forward, setting a brutal, driving rhythm. The sound was obscene, a wet slap of flesh meeting flesh, each impact driving a choked sob from your throat that you strangled into a whimper. "Take it," he commanded, his hands like vices on your hips, holding you open and impaled. "You wanted it, now fucking take it all." His pace became frantic, unhinged, his control shattering. The boat rocked violently with his force, your body bowed and trembling under his, a vessel for his frantic need. You could feel every ridge, every pulse of him as he neared his peak, the pressure building to an unbearable point inside you.
"I'm gonna fill this tight little ass," he groaned, the words slurred with pleasure. His movements became shorter, harder, a final, desperate ramming. His rhythm was a brutal, unyielding metronome, each deep plunge stretching your to a breathtaking limit that hovered on the razor’s edge between agony and ecstasy. Tears blurred your reflection in the mirror, but your eyes remained locked on his, wide and glazed with a submission that drove him wilder. “Look at you,” he growled, his voice shredded with the effort of his restraint. “Crying and taking it like you were made for it. My personal little fucktoy.” He leaned over you, his chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back, his mouth at your ear. “You feel that? How deep I am? You’re gonna come just from this. Just from my cock in your ass. I own this.” His words were a filthy incantation, and your body believed them. A different kind of tension began coiling deep in your belly, a hot, electric wire of pleasure that wound tighter with every savage thrust.
The change in you was instantaneous and profound. You choked sobs shifted in pitch, becoming high, desperate whines that vibrated against the hand you had clamped over her own mouth. Your inner muscles, which had been clenched in a tight ring of resistance around his invading length, began to flutter and spasm in a frantic, involuntary rhythm. “That’s it,” he snarled, his own control fraying at the edges. He could feel your climax building around him, the convulsive grip of her body milking him toward his own ruin. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I wreck this perfect ass.” He fucked you with renewed, frantic intensity, his hips a blur of motion, the sound of their joining a loud, wet slap that echoed in the tiny room. Your orgasm hit her like a physical blow, a silent, seismic scream shaking your frame. Your vision whited out, your legs buckled, and you would have collapsed if not for his iron grip on your hips. The intense, rhythmic clenching of you around him was the final trigger. With a raw, guttural roar that was barely muffled by the boat’s engine, he slammed home one last time and held, his body bowing over yours as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing jets deep inside you.
The sensation of his release, so intimate and claiming, sparked a second, smaller wave of aftershocks through your spent body. Lando stayed buried within you for a long moment, both of them panting, dripping, utterly ruined. Slowly, he pulled out. The sudden absence was a shock, a cool rush of air against oversensitized flesh. Immediately, a trickle of his spend began to escape, tracing a slow, warm path down the inside of your thigh. He watched it for a second, his eyes dark and possessive. Then, without a word, he dipped two fingers into the pooling evidence at your entrance. He pushed them back inside you, working his cum deeper with a slow, deliberate circular motion. “No,” he murmured, his voice low and final. “This belongs inside. You keep it. Every drop.” He sealed his decree with a rough, open-mouthed kiss on your shoulder, his fingers still working gently, insistently, until nothing remained to leak out.
The silence in the head was heavy, broken only by their ragged breathing and the cheerful din from the deck. Lando straightened, his movements slow and satisfied. He ran a hand through his damp hair, then reached for a small towel, wiping himself down with a casual efficiency that belied what had just transpired. He handed it to you without looking, his eyes already assessing their reflection. You took it with trembling fingers, cleaning up as best you could, the rough fabric a stark contrast to the sensitive, well-used flesh between your legs. Every movement caused a slow, internal shift, a visceral reminder of his possession sealed deep within you.
He pulled his board shorts back on, the damp fabric clinging. He turned to you, his expression shifting seamlessly from predatory intensity to one of mild concern. He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the last trace of your tears. "You okay?" he asked, his voice now soft, almost gentle. You could only nod, your body humming with exhaustion and the secret, liquid heat he had ordered your to keep. He opened the door, the bright sunlight and sound of laughter flooding in, a jarring return to reality.
"There you are!" called Max from the sun-drenched deck. "We were about to send a search party."
Lando stepped out first, shielding his eyes with a relaxed grin. "Sorry, mate. Just helping her out," he said, his tone light and easy. He half-turned, offering you a hand to step out. "She's not feeling too well. A bit seasick, I think." The lie was smooth, effortless. You took his hand, your legs feeling unsteady. As you emerged into the blinding light, the warmth of the sun on your skin was nothing compared to the deeper, secret warmth pooling inside you. You managed a weak, blurry smile for your friends, the feel of him still leaking slightly, a filthy, thrilling truth beneath her clean bikini.
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♡ feedback & reblogs mean the world.
written by minmin.
☆ warnings: reserve driver!reader x landoscar being kinda gay, drinking game, p in v, praise kink, soft degradation, exhibitionism/voyeurism, slight objectification, dom!lando, switchy!osc ⋆ inspo: (x)(x)(x)(x)
⋆ ‧ ⋅ ☾ ‧ ⋆ ⋅ ☽ ⋆ ‧ ⋅
the announcement played over the airport speakers.
eight hours. flight delayed. an entire night.
everyone grumbled, disappointment exhaled in soft breaths.
lando was the exception.
he was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. grinning like this delay was a gift rather than a punishment.
beside him, oscar was quieter. phone in hand, with that calm expression covering any tension coiling underneath. you noticed it. a flicker, a slight tightening of his jaw as he watched lando walk around the airport lobby with that stupid grin.
as the reserve driver, you were usually the one balancing their energies. dragging behind them yet keeping the dynamics solid, intact. but something that has been simmering for the past few months. something heavy. tense.
“could be worse.” lando chirped, glancing at the arrivals board. “could be stuck doing boring debriefs.”
you snort, leaning back against the coolness of the wall. it soothes the tightness of your skin. you keep up your banter. your usual bitey remarks towards lando.
“yea. could be stuck with just you. thank god for osc.”
lando’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. he stepped into your personal space, with no regard just as usual. the scent of his cologne sneaks up on you.
“you’d miss me. both of you actually. you love my company. how i make everything interesting."
oscar chuckles.
“i absolutely would not.” you lie.
your eyes lingered on the way his curls were messy from the headset he was wearing hours ago. he caught up on that, and smirked.
what a little shit.
oscar looked up from his phone. a faint, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. he knew the rhythm of your ongoing teasing with lando. the constant banter. the way lando never stopped pushing. the way you always pushed back.
oscar actually likes it. grew fond of it.
lando slung an arm over your shoulders. his thumb grazed your shoulder through your team hoodie.
“come to my room, both of you.” he said, casual.
the tone was light. no implication of a heavier suggestion.
“we’ll order food. kill time. chill or whatever.”
you agreed without a second thought. no thought, just instinct. always safe around the boys. always comfortable.
oscar hesitated for a heartbeat. brief awareness crossed his face before nodding. he knew. knew exactly what lando was doing. oscar did not say anything, just followed his teammates.
──── ☆☆☆
lando's room became a mess again.
his hoodie tossed over a chair. suitcases half open. a gaming controller abandoned on the coffee table. he headed to the mini fridge, grabbing the hotel's mini bottles of alcohol.
“we’re not sleeping. so… truth or drink.”
lando's voice is rough. tired but cheeky. he grabbed the bottles and started mixing the alcohol with the cans of monster he had in his suitcase.
you giggled, leaning against the headboard on the bed. “oh god. are we sixteen?”
oscar echoed your movements. leaned his back against the wall near the window, his arms folded across his chest.
“lando apparently is.” oscar murmured.
lando pointed at him. “you’re playing, osc. no shitty excuses. it's just us.”
he poured three glasses, sliding one to you and one to oscar. lando dropped onto the edge of the bed. his eyes are fixed on you.
“alright, i'll start.” lando announced. "most inappropriate place you’ve ever gotten turned on?”
you eyes widen. “that’s not how you start! you’re supposed to ask about embarrassing childhood stories and shit first. ease us into it, lan.”
“rules are boring. i'm not.” lando countered. he leaned forward towards you. “answer. or drink.”
you looked at your glass, then at lando's face. he's waiting. somehow patient.
“it was a race weekend. in the garage. the vibration of the cars starting up… i don't know. it just did things.”
lando’s eyebrows shot up. oscar shifted subtly against the wall.
“the adrenaline, the noise… it’s all a lot.” you added, feeling the heat creep up your neck.
“so what did you do about it?” lando asked.
“i took care of it later.”
lando chuckled a low, satisfied sound. almost proud of you.
"see? you act all unimpressed by me, but you’re just as fucking filthy.” he took a sip and turned his gaze to oscar. “your turn, mate. same question.”
oscar didn't hesitate. he picked up his glass and drained the entire thing in one go. the burn hit his throat. he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. his gaze never broke from yours.
“pussy.” lando teased, though his grin was fond. “alright, piastri. ask a question.”
oscar set the glass down and moved to the bed where he can join both of you. his voice was steady.
“okay. have you ever thought about one of us while you were taking care of things?”
oh. the room went dead fucking silent.
the playful energy vanished. replaced by this sudden heavy heat. lando’s jaw dropped slightly, his gaze darting between you and oscar. this wasn't the polite oscar piastri that everyone saw. this was the man who hunted down lap times with ruthless efficiency. quiet but focused, determined.
you didn't drink. you met oscar’s gaze and didn't back down.
“this morning. before we left for the track.”
lando let out a breathy laugh.
his cock twitched. “which one of us?”
“both of you.”
lando’s hand went to his glass, but he didn't drink. he was still staring at you, his eyes roaming over your body. oscar clears his throat, and refills his own glass before taking another big sip. lando joins him.
"dirty girl. you spend every second proving you can handle the pressure. always so disciplined. so good. do you always want that control, or do you want someone to handle you? maybe be a bit of a prick about it, too?" lando is pushing your buttons.
you didn't reach for the glass.
“i want to be handled. i want someone to take control and not be polite about it. want it rough. but be told i’m doing a good job while it’s happening.” you're whispering. raw, rambling. the alcohol is starting to get the better of you.
lando made a sound. half-groan, half sob. “praise kink. oh my god. you’re an overachiever even in your pretty little head.”
oscar’s pupils dilated. he didn't move, but the air around him felt heavy.
“my turn again.” lando said.
"what, why?" osc questions.
"my game, my rules. osc… you’ve been drinking a lot to avoid answering. what’s the filthiest thing you’ve imagined doing to our little reserve driver? maybe while seeing her sitting in the sim all focused?”
your thighs clenched. your cheeks flushed. lando cannot be fucking serious right now.
oscar reached for his glass. his pupils look heavy. he was going to drink, to hide again. but lando leaned forward and caught his wrist. oscar looked at you, then at lando.
"stop hiding, osc. just say it." lando whispered.
“… i imagined her bent over the console. just taking her from behind, and you're watching us. maybe touching her a bit, too.”
oscar's words were raw. lando's breathing is shallow now. he looked at oscar, and for a moment, you see it. that total lack of jealousy. that raw, shared hunger.
oscar wanted this. and lando wanted this too.
“you two look like you're about to kill each other. or fuck." you joke lightly, your own heart hammering against your ribs.
lando looked at you. and moved towards oscar. not patient, just desperate. he grabbed oscar by the back of the neck. strong hands pulling oscar close to him on the bed. they kiss.
almost a collision.
teeth and soft whines. you watched, as lando's tongue pushed into oscar's mouth. that frantic, messy hunger. oscar’s hands came up to grip lando’s waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
they agreed to share you, but right now, you're sharing them. what a pretty fucking sight. the two men you spent months crushing on, just devouring each other. not soft, but needy.
you crawled next to them. you reach out, placing one hand on lando's lower back and another on oscar's shoulder. both drivers broke apart, their foreheads still pressed against each other. faces flushed, pupils blown. lips wet.
“please don’t stop.” you're shameless.
“enough watching.” lando mumbles.
lando grabbed you and pulled you into the middle of them.
you're surrounded by their heat, by their scent. cologne and sweat. lando's mouth was all over yours, tasting of oscar and something sweet. oscar’s hands moved under your hoodie, his palms hot against your bare skin.
“clothes off, now.” lando muttered against you.
everything felt hurried. desperate. lando's movements were a needy blur, his hands everywhere all over you. he was the one who stripped you, but somehow kept glancing at oscar. just making sure osc was seeing everything. enjoying everything. lando's mouth found your neck, your tits. big strong hands never still. so vocal, suddenly whispering every filthy thought he has ever had about you. fingers moving downwards, tracing your core. his fingers find your wetness and start working you with a speed that had you arching your back.
“i’ve seen you look at her, osc. you know you want her, come on mate."
oscar was different. steady but strong. his large hands pin you down to the pillow just for a brief moment, forcing you to look at him. he kisses you deeply, his tongue contrasting lando's motions over your clit.
“you're so fucking pretty.” oscar groaned into your ear, his voice breaking.
“he thinks you’re fragile. little osc thinks he has to be careful with you.”
lando reached down, grabbing a condom from his backpack. always prepared, what a fucking slut. he handed it to oscar who understands it as a nudge to roll it over lando's cock.
but lando pulls back, shaking his head.
“you’re not putting it on me. i wanna watch. just like you said.”
oscar looked confused, yet his cock is leaking. his breathing becomes short and sharp. “lando-”
“put it on, oscar. and get on your back.” lando commanded.
osc hesitates.
he then nods and rolls the condom on his needy cock with trembling fingers. his gaze never leaves yours. he positions himself between your legs. but before he could push in, lando moved.
lando grabs your waist, guiding you to straddle oscar. he lifts you to position you over oscar’s aching cock. all with that stupid grin on his face. you felt oscar’s cock press against your entrance. thick and demanding, that delicious blunt pressure pushing against your cunt. oscar let out a choked sound, his hands reaching up to grip your waist. his knuckles are fucking white.
“slow, osc.” lando teased, his voice low and vibrating against your back. “she likes the build up.”
lando placed his hands over yours on oscar’s shoulders. his chest pressed firmly against your back. he leaned in, biting softly at the shell of your ear.
“go on then. take him. show him what you told us. how you want to be handled.”
you lowered yourself down further on oscar's cock. that a slow, agonising shift where his cock is splitting you open slowly in the best fucking way. oscar’s eyes flew shut. his hands gripped your thighs tighter.
“good girl. take him all the way. that’s it. fuck- look at how well she takes you, osc. look at her.” lando praised.
a guttural groan escapes oscar's throat as your cunt takes all of him. he's big, filling every inch of you. you feel his cockhead push against your walls. against your tight cunt.
“jesus fucking christ.” oscar rasped, his head falling back against the pillows.
lando didn't let you go. he kept his hands on your hips and began to move you. his hands firm and possessive over you.
he started bouncing you on oscar's cock.
at first, it was tentative. a steady pace that allowed you to feel every vein of oscar's cock. but lando increased the speed, his movements becoming more aggressive. more direct. he slammed your hips down against oscar. over and over again, that brutal force. he's giving you exactly what you need. what you and oscar both need.
“see? told you. she wants it harder. don't you, pretty girl?”
this man needs to learn how to shut the fuck up.
you cry out at the impact. your fingers digging into oscar’s shoulders. his cockhead repeatedly hitting your neediest spot.
"ask for it. tell us what you want." lando teases.
“harder, please. fuck-”
“that's it, good girl." lando glances over to oscar. "i told you. she wants to be used. she wants to be told she’s a good little driver while we wreck her.”
oscar's hunger starts to take over. he wanted to take control himself. he gripped your hips, thumbs digging into your skin. began to thrust upward to meet every downward stroke lando forced you into. every bounce, every impact turning you into a melting mess.
“you’re doing so well. so fucking good for me. for us.” oscar gasped.
oscar's eyes are all blown out, his composure completely shattering. his brain only registers your cunt. the way it squeezes his cock, the way it coats him with your slick. oscar's praise makes your cunt clench tighter around his cock.
you're caught in the middle of them and their strength. your two teammates.
you arch your back. your head falls onto lando’s shoulder as he continued to bounce your pretty body over oscar's cock. the friction is overwhelming. oscar’s thick cock stretching you, lando's warmth pressing against your back. lando reached around, his fingers finding your clit. he rubs quick little circles, giving you that sweet and sharp pleasure. lando watches oscar, the way his eyes roll back as you squeeze onto his cock each time lando touches you just right.
“is she tight, osc? tell her how tight she is.” lando asked, voice thick with pure lust.
“so fucking tight. lando…i'm so close-” oscar groaned, his pace becoming frantic.
"don’t you dare stop. look at her, she needs more. look what we're doing to her.”
lando moves one hand from your hip to oscar’s chest. his large fingers spread over oscar’s racing heart. almost caressing him.
you're a mess of sweat and broken gasps. your head is lolling back against lando’s shoulder, unable to keep yourself up. the room is filled with the sound of skin slapping. the obscene sound of three people being pushed to their absolute limit.
“please lan, harder.” oscar is begging.
lando obeyed. he bounces you over oscar's cock, hands guiding your hips back and forth onto his cock. your own orgasm creeps up on you fast. your walls clamp down on oscar. lando bruises your hips as he holds you there, helping oscar shatter under you. oscar thrusts up harshly into you one last time, cumming with a desperate and pretty whine. filling the condom. but lando didn't stop. he kept moving your body until both of your climaxes tore through you, turning you into two little pretty messes.
your breating is ragged. broken.
but lando wasn't done. it's his turn now.
he pulled you off of oscar, who reacts with a pretty whimper at the loss of contact. lando is hard. absolutely throbbing.
he doesn't ask. he quickly rolls another condom on himself and pushes his cock into your cunt. you feel so fucking good. all soft and wet from oscar fucking you so well just a few moments ago.
“fuck. so warm. so tight.” lando choked out, his eyes locking on oscar’s.
he pulls his cock out, letting you feel that sweet mean drag against your cunt as he pushes it all the way back in again. and again. and again.
it feels fucking insane.
oscar crawled up the bed with the little energy he had left. his face all flushed, cheeks pink and hair all messy. he leaned over your shoulder, leaving soft kisses on your neck until his mouth finds lando’s.
their rivalry somehow turned into something sweet. something domestic yet filthy.
lando hammered into you, his cock dragging in and out of your needy cunt. you're taking it so well. such a good girl for both of them. their best fucking girl. his hands push your hair out of your face, and you can see your boys sharing their kiss. all while lando keeps thrusting into you. fucking you and filling you.
it's all too much.
the taste of oscar still on your lips, the feeling of lando's cock stretching your cunt after taking such good care of oscar. the weight of both of your boys pressing into the mattress.
and lando can feel it all too. he's so close. a few more thrusts into your sweet cunt and he cums. a sharp little whine, his body finally giving out as he lays on top of you. oscar also lays down near you both, one hand brushing against your cheek and the other against lando's body.
the silence was heavy. not with regret or shame, but the terrifying weight of something uncertain. something genuine.
lando was the first to move, collapsing back onto the pillows and pulling both of you near him. he curled up into your side, his head on your chest. he looked small, vulnerable. oscar's arm draped over your waist, his leg also tangled with yours. he pulled the covers over you and lando.
“best delay ever.” lando panted, his voice wrecked.
oscar let out a soft, genuine laugh. he kissed the top of your head, his breath finally evening out. “i think we might have ruined the professional dynamic of the team.”
“i’ve wanted this for a long time, you know. just didn't know how to ask properly.” lando whispered into the crook of your neck.
“i don't think we need to ask anymore.” oscar reassures lando. he reaches out and gives him a little pat on his curly head.
you smile. “it’s gonna be complicated, though. the team. the media. everything.”
lando propped himself up on one elbow, looking at both of you with a wide grin. messy and flushed, but so fucking happy.
“sooo, who’s hungry? i think we should order the most expensive thing for the room service. mclaren is paying, obviously.”
oscar groaned, but there was a smile on his face. “an absolute menace.”
“yeah, our menace.” you agreed.
──── ☆☆☆
might make this into a series??? not sure! lmk what u think <3
You fumbled with the room key, missed, tried again; Lando’s lips found your jaw and then the shell of your ear, hungry, already slightly drunk on the attention he wasn’t supposed to need. He hadn’t let go of you since the club, not even as you’d elbowed open a cab’s sticky back door and climbed into his lap, not even as you’d paid the driver with a crumpled fifty. His hands were greedy, never quite squeezed tight enough to bruise, but always insistent, as if afraid you might dissolve into the city smog if he let up for even a second.
When the door finally yielded, you staggered into the suite, catching yourself on the impossibly soft arm of a velvet sofa. Lando followed, shedding his jacket and pressing himself to you from behind. He was still trying to be the one in charge—pinning you against the furniture, hands mapping out your hips, tongue already finding your neck’s most sensitive spot.
You twisted, sudden, and tumbled him backwards into the couch, straddling his lap before he could object. “Not so quick, superstar,” you said, leaning down until your noses nearly touched. Lando’s face was flushed, pupils so wide there was only a ring of ice-blue around them. He made a show of not submitting, but you felt the subtle shiver go through him at the press of your thighs. Out in the world he played swagger and control, but here, hands knotted in the fabric of your skirt, he was already melting for you.
You kissed him until he forgot to breathe, until he was gasping and desperate, the sharp lines of his jaw softened by the wet heat of your mouth. You paced yourself; you liked drawing it out, liked the way he pretended it was pain, biting at your lower lip as if you could possibly be the one to break. Lando’s nails dug into your hips when you rocked forward, a low moan leaking from his throat, and that tiny crack in his composure made you want to devour him more.
“Thought you said you could last all night,” you murmured, grinding down in a way that made him buck up, helpless, the gathering pressure of arousal almost comical in someone who spent his days squealing through chicanes at 330 kph.
Lando tried to flip you, but you caught his wrists and pinned them above his head, grinning down at him. He fought the hold for a second—he liked to put on a show, and you let him, just for the way his arms flexed and the wild charge in his blue-green eyes. But his resistance was only another kind of invitation, and when he stilled, you shifted, using one hand to keep his wrists pinned and the other to trail goosebump-raising lines up his chest.
You freed his hands, only to dig your fingers into his hair and kiss him again, harder this time, until he was making a mess of himself, fully pliant and helpless under you. Lando was good at giving up control; he wore need like a cologne, and he wanted you to see it, wanted you to make something of it. You bit lightly at his earlobe, his cheek, the hinge of his jaw, leaving invisible marks for no one but yourself.
You licked up the salt at his collarbone and nipped hard enough to make him gasp, the way a fighter tests the bruise for weakness. His fingers twisted in your hair, tried to angle your mouth back to his, but you ducked, tracing the bared tendons of his neck, sucking at skin until it threatened to purple. Lando’s head fell back, baring his throat, and you felt him shudder all the way to his knees. You gave him a warning squeeze at the thigh—a silent don’t get cocky, not yet—but Lando wouldn’t stop squirming, restless under you.
“Jesus,” he breathed, when your teeth grazed his Adam’s apple.
“Say please,” you whispered, letting your tongue flick just inside his open shirt at the hollow of his throat, feeling the racing panic of his pulse.
He laughed, strangled, trying to line up the next attack: “Come on, you know I don’t—”
You bit down, this time deliberate, and Lando arched into you so hard the couch groaned. “Fuck. Please,” he managed, voice gone hoarse and bright with disbelief. He sounded like he hated giving it up, but you felt the way he trembled beneath you, the way his hands slid from protest into frantic, greedy mapping: up your back, your shoulders, the sharp line of your jaw.
You unbuttoned his shirt at the pace of a lazy summer afternoon, dragging your knuckles across each strip of skin as you opened it—first the top, then the next, then the next, slow enough you saw his stomach notch in when your hand skimmed the edge of his ribs. Lando squirmed, trying to help, but you slapped his hands away. His shirt peeled open: a fresh canvas, the skin warm and golden and shivering under your lips as you traced the bones of his shoulders and the muscle that made him almost superhuman from the chest down. You pressed your mouth to every inch you could find, sucking little galaxies of color into the tender places he might have hidden from the world.
He grabbed for control, surging forward in a half-sit, twisting to kiss you deeper, hands roaming. You let him—for one heartbeat, two—before palming his face and shoving him back, grinning at the shock that lit up his eyes.
“Warned you,” you said. Your voice had thickened with want. “You keep fighting, I’m gonna get creative.” You flexed your hips, grinding down, loving the way his whole body stuttered in response.
“Please,” he said again, but this time it was wet and desperate, tongue stumbling over the word, so much more honest than he’d ever been behind a microphone.
You slipped a hand under his button-down, found the racing heat of his heart, and trailed your nails up to the clavicle, then back down, soft at first, then harder, leaving faint red trails. Lando whined low in his throat, tried to clutch at your hips again, but you caught both his hands and pressed them flat above his head, pinning him to the couch with just your weight and the sharp warning in your smile.
“You like losing, don’t you?” You murmured, and kissed under his jaw until he shattered, every corner of him surrendered to your bite.
He mumbled something against your hair—some low, senseless confession, too ruined to be words—and you let yourself believe him, if only for tonight.
You raked your nails over his sides hard, never enough to break skin, but enough to snap a gasp from him, and in answer he tried to wriggle up the couch, away from the raw sensation. You caged him back with a palm to the chest, and with the other hand, yanked his shirt off his shoulders; it caught at his elbows for a second, trapping him, and you leaned in to breathe deeply at his throat. He smelled of sweat and the half-sweet burn of club liquor, but there was sun in him too, salted and bright, not even hotel aircon could bleach it out. Your hand mapped a quick, hungry circuit across his ribs, then his stomach, below the line of his waistband. You could feel the fine tremor in his muscles as you grazed your nails up, up, until they caught at his nipples.
He made a noise—high, breaking, nothing like his voice in real life, and you almost laughed for how it snapped out of him, but you didn’t, because he was already hyperaware, already pink and desperate, watching you with a kind of disbelief. You liked how reactive he was: first shocked, then ruined, nipples hardening almost immediately under your touch. You rolled one between pinching fingers, gently, then with more cruelty, the other hand bracing his jaw so he couldn’t look away. Lando writhed, burying the top of his head against the back of the couch, but that only bared his chest further. You flicked the nipple, sharp, and he yelped—actually, truly yelped—knees coming up reflexively as if to shield himself, but you were ready, and you pressed them apart again, keeping him completely open.
“Sensitive?” You asked and tapped the spot again, this time with a finger wetted at your own tongue.
He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn’t stop the way his hips jerked. “It’s so—fuck, okay,” he tried, and failed, to laugh it off, but his voice wobbled and the sound turned to something helpless, almost a whine.
That lit you up. You ran your mouth down the length of his throat, pausing to lap at the sweat at his pulse, then snaked lower, all the time never losing the rhythm of your hands at his chest. When you dragged your teeth over the sensitive skin just below his nipple, he went taut, every muscle in his body drawn wire-tight. You circled the area with your tongue, slow and mean, then sucked, hard, until you could feel him start to shake under you. He grabbed at your shoulders, tried to push you away, too overstimulated to handle it, but you bit down—light, just enough to leave a mark—and he caved, the resistance draining out of him in an unsteady rush.
You didn’t let up, alternating between sides, pinching and licking, then switching to sharp flicks of your tongue, and he was melting, making noises no one in the world had ever wrung out of him. He was shockingly vocal, for how cocky and self-governed he’d been an hour ago: every time you changed the pressure, or switched tactics, he moaned, or gasped “shit—shit, please,” like it hurt somewhere deep inside him. You loved it. You ran your tongue up to his neck, then down, over each rib, tongue etching wet lines across the sweat-damp terrain; sometimes you just pressed your open mouth to his chest and inhaled, like you needed all of him inside you.
You felt him getting hard, obviously, through his pants, but you ignored it for now, wanting him to lose track of himself entirely, reduced to nothing but nerve endings and want. You cupped his face after a while, kissing him slow and deep, letting him come back to earth. He was glassy-eyed, flushed all along his cheekbones, breathing like he’d just run a mile in the rain. It made you want to break him more.
But now you took your time, slow and methodical: kissing a stripe down his sternum, hands kneading at his ribs, up to his clavicles and along the hard edge of his deltoid. No inch untested, every angle mapped with mouth and tongue. Lando was shifting, squirming, every so often trying to grab at you—your shoulders, your waist, your hair—but you batted him away or pinned him down, administering a firm click of tongue or nip whenever he started to resist.
His sounds got higher, less controlled, until he was panting and cursing, nonsense words choked off by the way your fingers dug into his hips. You pulled away, just for a second, eyes locking with his, and raised your fingers to your own mouth, wetting them, making a show of it before returning to his chest. You traced the wetness around each nipple and this time, instead of the shock, he shuddered visibly, entire torso vibrating with it.
“Can’t handle it?” You murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “I thought you liked to push limits.”
He shook his head, grinning dumbly, and for a moment you saw the anxiousness in his teeth, the way he almost begged you not to stop, but also not to keep going, torn in the best way. “You’re a menace,” he managed and you rewarded him with a long, slow drag of your tongue across his other nipple, bottoming out his brain entirely.
You kept at it until the flush on his chest was mottled red and pink, and you could feel his wet, shuddering breath on your forehead. You eased up then, crawling your warmth up until your lips ghosted over his; Lando exhaled, trembling, and for once didn’t try to one-up the moment. He let himself be held like that, leaking need, uncertain if you’d let him come up for air or drag him deeper under.
You slid down his body, trailing your mouth over skin hot and damp with sweat, tasting the aftershave and something elemental in him that crackled under your teeth. You pressed your lips to every mole stippled across his torso, cataloguing each one with tongue and a sudden, unaccountable tenderness you hadn’t meant to allow. The dark dot just to the left of his navel got a swirl of tongue, a tiny punctuating kiss, and Lando gasped, thighs shoving up against your shoulders, the sound spilling into a laugh like he couldn’t believe this was real.
At the waist of his jeans you paused, breathing slow and shallow, pulse so loud in your ears you could barely hear his desperate, ragged laughter. You bit gently at the skin just above the waistband, catching it between sharp teeth, then licked to ease the sting, and felt his hand tangle in your hair, like he was too spent to grip, just needed somewhere to anchor so he didn’t float up off the couch. You looked up and he was wrecked, blinking down at you like every nerve ending had been rewired and laid bare.
The button on his jeans was slick with your spit and when you pulled it open you did it one-handed, drawing out the moment until Lando was visibly vibrating, chest seesawing, hips twitching in micro-increments. You peeled the zipper down slow, tongue tracing the V of skin exposed, and he practically keened at the contact, head thrown back in surrender.
You palmed him through underwear, just the heel of your hand, enough for him to know you could be mean if you wanted, but you’d chosen not to, not yet. The hardness there was a revelation: so eager, so straining, like his body was trying to outstrip the limits of fabric and patience both. You exhaled hot against the damp cotton, and he swore, a strangled “fuck, please” that sounded so unlike him you wanted to preserve it in a glass bottle to smash later in the face of his arrogance.
You laughed low and pressed your mouth over the shape of him. Through the thin cloth you let your teeth just graze, slow enough to unspool his thoughts from his body, and he bucked up in a helpless jerk, more animal than human.
You palmed him again, and this time, with the slow precision of a surgeon, you pressed two fingers down the length of him, mapping every twitch and shiver, feeling the hard, human heat pulse reckless against your hand. The cotton was already soaked and you rubbed your thumb gently, just enough to tease out another strangled sound. Lando clutched at your wrist, as if anchor against the threat of coming apart, but even that small resistance turned arcs of electricity back through you.
“So hard for me, so wet,” you flattened your palm, used the edge of your pinky to carve a path up, then circled with a pressure that would drive someone less wound, less desperate, to the edge of violence.
He was panting, openly and ragged, hips lifting again and again with shame-discarding need. It was the kind of surrender that would mortify him in any other room, but here—arms slack above his head, legs trembling open, body begging—he couldn’t manage more than the greedy, inarticulate pleadings that came out with every rock of your hand.
You half-expected him to jerk away, to try to snatch the throttle back, but when he whispered, “Fuck, please,” it sounded like a prayer. You kept your grip light, methodical, increasing only when he thought he couldn’t bear another second of waiting; you eased the waistband down with your lips, tongue flicking at the skin just above, then lower, tasting the trace of his sweat and the ghost of whatever minty soap these hotels standardize on.
He would have been beautiful even if you hadn’t wanted him ruined. You liked the way his body snapped between resistance and liked the way the first brush of tongue against his boxers made his back arch, every muscle in him straining like a drawn bow. You could see the pulse in his throat, the way his hands clutched and released, useless to do anything but clutch the empty space.
You licked along the ridge, tasting him through fabric, heat seeping through soft cotton as if your tongue could incinerate the last buffer between your mouth and cock. Lando choked, legs clamping around your shoulders for a second, but you bit down on the inside of his thigh, warning. He melted, as if the threat alone was enough to keep him wild, but obedient, and you drew your tongue up the length, slow enough to make him sob out another broken, “Please, please. Please, take me—”
You slid the briefs down, just enough to free him, and for a moment just looked: flushed, wet, the head blushed dark and angry. You circled the tip with your thumb, collecting the glisten, then sucked it off, meeting his eyes with your own dare.
He looked completely gone, mouth open in a silent O, and you could feel the tension stringing his whole body, tight as over-torqued cable. You took him in your mouth, barely the tip at first, savoring the salt and the shock of it, the way it filled the whole roof of your mouth and then some, crowding out everything, but taste and heat and your own want. Lando’s hands flexed in your hair, intent, but never cruel, and the way he held you felt as if he’d given over every last scrap of control to whatever you wanted to do to him.
You flattened your tongue on the underside, mapped every vein and ridge, and when you tightened your lips and slid down, he bucked helplessly, hands flying up to your shoulders before dropping away again, afraid to throttle your rhythm.
You set a pace, not fast—not yet—but enough to keep him teetering, always a half breath from breaking. You let your tongue swirl, then pulled off to stroke him with your hand, slick and lazy. Lando was a mess above you, knees trembling, fingers desperate for somewhere to fasten. You kept at it until his thighs started to twitch, then let your nails drag down the inside of one, watching him shudder at the new hit of sensation. You spat in your palm, vulgar, then spread it over him, working the slickness in with a rhythm that made him groan like he was being starved and fed at once.
After a while you glanced up, just to see if he could hack it, and found him watching you, eyes glassy, but present, burning through you with focus so intense you felt it in the pit of your stomach. You smiled, mean as you’d promised, and licked him again from root to tip, watching the muscles at his stomach jump and contract. You felt the heat gathering at the base of him, and you loved the way you could sense the end coming—you could feel it before he ever said a word, long before his hands twisted desperate in your hair.
You used your hand at the base, twisting with the drag of your palm, the other hand splayed steadying him at the hip. Every time you swirled your tongue, his hips jolted, and you could hear the obscenities rattling out of him, half in English, half in something guttural and wordless.
You pulled off for air, stroking him slow, and leaned in close enough he could feel your breath: “Is this what you wanted?” You asked, voice soft enough he’d have to strain to hear, and when he didn’t answer, you bit the inside of his thigh, not hard, but enough to jolt him.
“Yeah,” he hissed, “yeah, just—don’t stop—” and you grinned, worshipful and wolfish, and took him back in, moving faster now, letting your hand work in concert with your mouth. He was making only the smallest sounds now, all his bravado shattered and scattered.
You let your breath warm him, then kissed along the seam where thigh met groin, salt and cologne and something so alive it startled you. He was sweating now, the taste of it already dark, sharp. You pushed his knees wider, not asking, draping your forearm across the bone of his thigh and feeling him jerk at the contact. You licked the crease, slow, pressed your tongue flat, traced the muscle by feel alone.
The shiver that ran through him was nearly violent. You felt it in the way his legs squeezed against you, in the hands clutching at the back of your head with something close to panic. You moved lower, running your tongue beneath, then around, teasing at the velvet weight of his balls. You sucked one, gently, then harder, letting it stretch in your mouth, the sounds he made barreling down into the root of your body. You tongued him there, slow and measured, letting your saliva drag wet circles, and Lando arched, hips snapping upward so that his cock slapped against your cheek. You laughed, open-mouthed, nipped at the closest mound, then switched to the other, showing no partiality for which was wetter, more sensitive.
Once, you’d read that the nerve endings here all knotted up into the base of the spine. You wondered if he’d ever been worked at so thoroughly, if any of his pretty, interchangeable girls had ever taken the time to learn where the body unlocked itself. You suspected not. You let your nails score the top of his thigh in tandem with your mouth, carving out that paradox of pain and gentleness until Lando was writhing, breath gone ragged and battery-acid raw.
You licked your way up, tongue tracing under his cock, felt the tremor of muscle and the fight not to come too soon. Didn’t care. Shifted your grip so you could jerk him with two fingers, slow and mean, while your tongue lavished absolute focus on his balls, laving, sucking, then nipping with surprising sharpness so he lost all sense of pride, every sound that spilled from him groveling in its honesty. His hands grabbed at your shoulders, first to control, then just to hang on.
You broke away to look up, reveling in the way Lando’s mouth was parted, his eyes wild and red-edged, no hint of calculation left. “Say it again,” you whispered, voice shredded with want.
He blinked, confusion smudging the lines of his face. “What?”
“Please.”
The word didn’t even hurt him now, he was so out of his mind. “Please,” he gasped, and the sound of it, from someone so used to hearing crowds shout his name, went haywire in your chest.
You returned your mouth to his cock, but this time you didn’t rush. You alternated—tongue flicking at the head, then down to suck a ball, back up in a circuit to overwhelm his nerves, until he was caught between the hot wet of your mouth and the sharper pressure of your hand. You cupped his ass with your other palm, squeezed, liked the way he bucked to fill the space. When you wanted, you slid a finger further back, just testing, grazing the soft skin until he jolted, a wild animal edge to the way he gasped.
You backed off only to swirl your tongue around the tip, watching his face, then looked down, letting saliva string from your lip in a filthily deliberate show before you sucked him right back. He grunted, hips rocking to chase you, his entire body tensed to the point of shudder.
But you still kept your left hand busy, sliding up to the chest you’d left wrecked and red. You pinched a nipple, rolling it between slick fingertips, and Lando made a whimpering sound that stabbed into you, pure and sharp as glass. You pressed harder, flicked it, then sucked him with your whole mouth, and his entire body seized, as if someone had wired him direct to the wall outlet.
You switched sides, pinched the other, and the feeling in your mouth swelled, his cock pulsing so close to orgasm you risked it. You wanted to drag it out. You released him for a heartbeat, licked around the crown, tongued the slit, and heard—actually heard—him sob your name, just for you.
“Is that all it takes?” You whispered, not unkind, just goading. You flicked the nipple again, watched the ripple of sensation jerk through him, then went down, throat relaxing, letting him in deeper until your chin pressed to the base. You felt the pulse stutter all along his body. Lando’s hands twisted in your hair with something close to reverence.
He tried to warn you—you saw it in the way his chest seized, the frantic shake of his head, then, “Gonna—fuck, I’m—” but you bore down, deepening, unwilling to let him escape back into the clean air of self-control. His body seized, locked, and for a split instant you worried he’d black out. But then his hands were in your hair, clutching tight, and he came with a shudder so violent it nearly jerked you off the couch.
You kept him in your mouth, not letting up, even as he whimpered and tried to twist away, so sensitive he was almost sobbing, the noises coming out of him wet and bright and totally debauched. Only when you felt the tremor ease into aftershocks did you pull off, slow and gentle, and rest your cheek on his thigh, breathing him in.
Lando was an absolute wreck. He’d thrown an arm over his eyes, face gone pink to the hairline, chest streaked with sweat and lovebites, breathing as if oxygen had turned suddenly into something richer, addictive.
Before you could so much as needle him with a word, Lando snapped to life, hauling you up and off—then in one liquid motion, spun you and dropped you onto the couch. You yelped, almost undignified. His hands were already up your skirt, the slide quick and rough, and you opened reflexively for him without so much as a thought.
You tried to plaster on a look of unbothered disinterest, but your whole body prickled at his sudden aggression. The tables had turned, sharp and hot, and you caught your own surprise in the pulse at your throat when he pressed your knees wide apart and bent to mouth at the inside of your thigh, the same spot you’d nearly bitten him minutes ago. Payback, you supposed, but better. You watched his face disappear into your skirt, felt the drag of his mouth along the sensitive, shivering length of your skin, the catch of his teeth almost mean.
Fabric rucked around your waist and your underwear joined the haphazard heap of his clothes at the edge of the sofa. Lando didn’t hesitate: he licked you, slow and flat, the whole tongue at once, leaving you slick and shaking. You gasped; you didn’t mean to, but it came out uncontrolled. His fingers dug into the meat of your thighs and pulled you open, no space for protest, and you squirmed, watched with disbelief as he worked at you like he’d been starving for it all week.
You wanted to make a joke, but your head was buzzing. You heard your own breath get ragged, felt the too-bright heat swirl upward from the point of his tongue spiraling over you, stopping just short of where you needed it most, like he wanted you to beg. When you reached down to claw at his hair, he gripped your wrist and pinned it to the cushion with a force that made you want to yelp again, but you let him, let yourself be caught and held and devoured.
His tongue circled and flicked, and every deft movement made you shake, hips twitching up into his mouth despite your best effort to keep it cool. He licked until you swore, then finally, finally sucked at your clit, soft at first, but then brutal, and you bucked so hard you nearly kneed him in the jaw, which only made him laugh into you, vibration dragging you to the edge of something you’d sworn you’d never let anyone see.
He was a menace. You tried to fuck his mouth, show him he hadn’t bested you, but he held you down, face buried until all you could see was the dark mess of curls and half-wrecked eyes, pupils shot so wide the green and blue were barely visible. He didn’t let up. He went at you until you were on the cusp, seconds from shaking apart, and then he broke away, two fingers pressing in slick and sudden, curling up just right, and your vision collapsed to a pinprick.
You bucked upward, tried to chase his fingers, but he held you down with all the patience and precision of someone who measured progress in milliseconds. He crooked his fingers deliberate and slow, curling until you felt yourself clench around the fullness of him, every muscle strung nickel-taught. You squirmed against the slide, tried to grind for more, but Lando just grinned into you, teeth flashing as he held you right at the razorline.
“Oh, now you know what it’s like,” he murmured, the words a salt-burn dragged up your inner thigh. His lips were glossy, chin slick with you, and he tongued the swollen clit until you saw white, and then—like he had all the time in the world—he stopped, sat back on his heels, and watched you with the lazy confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
“Look at you. Begging already.” He punctuated it with another curl of his fingers, this one so soft it barely touched, but every nerve ending fired as if he’d thrown a switch.
You arched off the couch, made a sound you would have punched yourself for in daylight, and he laughed, small and soft, then picked up the pace—not mercy, not really, but a new kind of sadism. He feathered his thumb over your clit, keeping it barely-there, teasing you open, making you grind down until you were whining, actually whining, and hating how good it felt to lose like this.
He pressed his mouth right up to you, hot breath a warning: “You want it that bad?” He didn’t wait for an answer; he drew his tongue up, firm, and your hips jerked. “Say it.”
You tried to pull him deeper, but he just slowed again, unhurried. “Fucking say it,” he said, voice gone dark and velvet, nothing of his usual half-smirk left.
“Please,” you managed, but it came out more as a gasp, gutted and unguarded.
“What was that?” He twisted his hand, pressed up and in, and you almost blacked out for a second. “Didn’t catch that.”
“Please, fuck—” The words came babbling out, all your careful control gone, every muscle focused on the next jolt of pleasure, the next twist.
He watched you squirm, drawing it out, building the pace so slow it felt like punishment. Each time you neared the edge, he’d ease off, letting the need coil tighter until it hurt. “Should take a video,” he said, and the idea shivered dark through you. “Show you how much you like being ruined.”
You tried to glare, but he ducked in again, tongue lapping fast and then suddenly stopped, waiting for you to really lose it. “C’mon,” he whispered, “let’s see how loud you can get for me.” He sucked at your clit, pinched with his lips, and now you couldn’t breathe, everything inside collapsing to a single point right at the base of your spine.
You begged, outright, no irony, just “please, please—don’t fucking stop, I’m—” and he kept going, mouth and hand in perfect sync, just as mean as you’d been with him. Your body tensed, legs locking around his shoulders, and you tried to hold off, wanting to outlast him, but he wouldn’t let up, not even as you fought to keep composure. He curled his fingers and flattened his tongue at the same time, and the orgasm detonated through you like shrapnel, tearing noise from your throat you’d never heard before.
He didn’t slow; if anything, he doubled down, drawing it out, coaxing wave after punishing wave until you were shaking, your thighs slick and your pulse so wild you could feel it in your teeth. He finally released your wrist, let you writhe and clutch at him until the aftershocks subsided. He leaned back, licking his lips, face smug with the kind of pride you couldn’t fake.
“Didn’t take much, did it?” he said, fingers still inside, just barely moving, like he wanted to keep you right on that edge.
You wanted to punch him, or kiss him, or both. “Shut the fuck up,” you breathed, but your voice was spent, weak as paper.
He thumbed your clit again, gentle enough to make you jolt, and you shuddered, oversensitive, pushing at his wrist to make it stop. When he finally withdrew his hand, it left you aching and hollow, and you watched him—disgusted with yourself for how it turned you on to see the evidence of you on his mouth, on his chin, on the hand he wiped carelessly on his own naked stomach.
You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth, trying to catch your breath, which came out as a delirious, unsteady laugh. “You’re fucking insane,” you managed.
“You started it,” he said. He worked his way up, pushing your dress further, until he was eye level with your face again, grinning like a maniac. His hair was a mess, the lower half of his face wet and shining, and he looked so genuinely pleased with himself that you couldn’t summon up any real venom, no matter how much you wanted to needle him.
He kissed you then—not sweet, not soft, but wild and open-mouthed, and you tasted yourself on him, which made you want to bite him again. You did, nipped at his lip until he hissed, then pulled him closer, arms around his neck, yanking him flush against you.
You didn’t plan on moving for the rest of the night, but Lando slid you sideways on the couch, your thighs slung over his lap, muscled arms caging you in. There was a wetness cooling on your legs and fabric bunched at your waist, the inside-out feeling of having been completely undone. He braced you with a rough hand at the small of your back, pulled you up against him, and went in for the kill, barely pausing to let either of you get a full breath.
You fought for dominance, a quick sequence of grip and countergrip—your knee jammed to his chest, his forearm pinning you armrest-to-armrest, then, in a moment of brute force, he pulled the top of your dress down. No finesse; elastic snapped, and your tits spilled out, skin flushed from neck to nipple from the heat of your session. Your nipples were already peaked, wounded-pink, and for a moment it didn’t seem possible his mouth could be that much hungrier, but Lando latched onto you with the feral drive of a kid who’d lost too many games in a row.
His tongue was hot and flat, lapping sweat from beneath your left breast, then the right, then he mashed them together, grazing each nipple with teeth, alternating as rapidly as his tongue could flick. You tried to fist his hair, but he caught your wrist and pinned it again, licking a long stripe up the center of your chest before sucking an areola so thorough it might leave a mark. Your nerves, already shot from before, started a fresh round of panic as he worked you over, switching from tongue to lips with no warning. You didn’t care about the noise now; you moaned, honest and cut clean, legs clenching hard enough to bruise.
“You’re a fucking disaster,” he said, voice muffled in the valley between your boobs, but he never stopped with his tongue, the edge of every consonant honed on your skin. You wanted to say something clever—you could taste the comeback forming—but then he sucked your nipple between his teeth, rolling it just so, and the whole sentence died in the back of your throat.
You’d never thought of yourself as the sort of girl who got off on this much attention, but his tongue kept up, working each nerve ending like he could taste the difference in you. He slid a hand up, catching both breasts, thumb pinched tight, holding them for his mouth to ruin. You could see the dark flush blooming, streaks of red veining out from where he’d bitten down. Your hips bucked without permission; you found yourself riding his thigh, chasing the friction, reduced to the same embarrassment he’d suffered so well.
“Look at you,” Lando said, mouth wet against your nipple. “Fucking melting. Thought you played tough.” He shimmied you both upright, pushing you back into the couch, so that the bounce made your tits leap in his hands.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you tried, and it almost landed, except your voice came out shaky, more breath than word.
He bent in, sucked the other nipple, licked a spiral around it. “Tell me to stop,” he said, and then bit down, this time the tremor going straight to your pelvis.
You wanted to say you could handle it, that you were in control, but then he wedged his thigh up and you ground against it like your life depended on it. He palmed your breast, squeezing, while his mouth worked the other, the tongue pace relentless. With every rock of your hips you felt the hardness of him, still pressed against your thigh, not flagging in the slightest.
You caught him watching you—dead center, blue burning through you—and for a second you thought he’d let the tension relax, let you get air, but he scooped you under the knees and hauled you sideways, onto his lap, you dress bunched at your waist, nothing left between you, but slick and heat. He kept your legs splayed, one over the couch arm, and dove again between your breasts, devouring as though he could take your entire self inside and leave you nothing, but the aftertaste.
He kept up the attack: sucking, then kissing, then biting until there was a line of red imprints from one nipple to the other. You wanted to claw at him, but he’d pinned you so neatly, all you could do was hold on and take it. He bracketed your ass with his hands, grinding you down against the hard line of his cock, until you didn’t know if you were going to sob or combust.
Then, in a sudden pivot, Lando let you up—only to spin you, stomach to the cool velvet, your nipples dragging across the upholstery with a friction you instantly regretted loving. He knelt behind, forced your legs apart, and dragged your hips up so the crescent of your ass was at perfect height for his mouth.
He dove in immediately, licking you from clit to asshole, sucking every ounce of wetness out until you were gasping, trying to claw your way up the back of the sofa for more. His hands never let you move: fingers splayed over your back, pressing you down, a thumb digging into the muscle by your hip to keep you right in the sweet spot of his tongue.
You ground back, you couldn’t help it; there was no dignity left. The desperate, wet sounds of his mouth working you set off a fire in your chest, radiating down to thrum at every pulse point. He alternated, first licking broad and slow, then quick darts of tongue, always returning to where you were neediest, where each touch stung like a pulse of electricity.
Lando paused to catch his breath, but only to say, “Should see yourself. Can’t get enough, can you?” He punctuated the question with a sharp bite to your ass, then a kiss, then another plunge with his tongue, back to work as if doing penance.
He tongued your rim, soft and deliberate, and you bit the back of your hand to keep from screaming. He licked up, swirling, then let his thumb press at the edge, opening you just enough for the nerve endings to riot. There was nothing in the world, but the obscene, relentless pleasure of it; you arched, nearly headbutted the armrest, but he just snorted into you, deeper, firmer, and didn’t let up. With your face pressed to the armrest and the velvet growing damp under your cheek, you thought you might actually black out if he didn’t fuck you, soon, hard, right now, and if it meant dying by inches from the frustration then maybe that was the way you deserved to go.
You tried to reach back, desperate, hand snaking for his wrist—but he caught it, laced your fingers and planted them both in the small of your back. You arched, ass up, and felt the tip of him—already hard again, already thick and hot—drag from clit to entrance, over and over, so close you could have sobbed. Lando lined himself up, face pressed to your lower back, chest shuddering with every breath. Then he moved his hips forward, just nudging, a slow rolling attempt at mercy.
You wanted to spit, wanted to tell him he was a coward, but only a whimper came out. He eased the head in, then pulled back, then in again, a deliberate tease. Every cell in your body screamed for friction, for the brutality of being split open, filled, but he kept you right at the edge with the kind of meanness only a fellow addict could understand. “Lando,” you moaned, your dignity gone somewhere with your underwear, “if you don’t—”
He pressed forward so you felt every millimeter, then withdrew again, shallow, laughing through his teeth at how fast you came unspooled. He ran his cock along your slit, wet enough that it smacked when he let it fall, and the sound vibrated down your spine. You nearly sobbed, back arching, hips shoving back for more.
“Still think you running the show?” he rasped, and the velvet of the couch bit into your knees as you tried to push yourself toward him. He wouldn’t let you. One hand braced your hip, the other snaked under your belly, holding you in place, immobilizing you for the drag of his cock just outside, just about, just almost in.
You gasped, “Please, Lando, please—” so greedy for it your voice broke in two.
He gave you the tip, just that, held it as if he was satisfied with the outline of absence it pressed into you. “You can do better than that,” he said, breathless. You tried, but your hands were shaking; you could barely make your body obey.
You contorted, tried to look over your shoulder, but all you caught was the dark gleam of his hair, the wildness in his voice. “Please fuck me,” you said, urgent, shameless. “I can’t, I can’t—” and you couldn’t even finish the sentence.
You felt him smile against your lower back. “Could’ve sworn you liked to win,” he teased, and then, without warning, thrust in to the hilt. It wasn’t slow, or gentle, or even cautious—just a punch of heat and fullness that erased your thought process, left you gaping, cheek mashed to the velvet, mouth open with no sound coming out.
“Fuck—” you managed, every bone dissolving. He snapped his hips again, harder, and you felt your body open for it, every inch slick and electric. Lando had spent all his energy learning how to control a cockpit, but here he surrendered to the violence of it, hands digging into your hipbones, pace unrelenting. You were babbling now, something near a scream with every drive of his cock, the pressure so good it bordered on painful.
You’d done this before—shoved each other around in bed, left each other bitten and bruised, but nothing like this. He pistoned in, straining as if he could get deeper than your body allowed, and for a split second you thought you would actually break from it, come apart entirely.
“Who’s begging now?” he muttered, knuckles white where they gripped your waist.
You tried to bite back your answer, but there was no room for shame. “Me,” you gasped, “please, don’t stop, don’t—” and it felt like falling through the floor, gone and gone and gone.
He rutted into you, no rhythm left except desperation. Every drag and push jangled teeth, reminded you you were alive, that there was something in you still tethered to physics and skin. Your hair clung damp to your forehead, sweat running cold along your shoulders, but you couldn’t move except to buck back against every thrust, needing it, sobbing for it.
Then he angled his hand, thumb finding your clit from behind, and the wet noise it made was obscene, the friction jolting through you like a wire. You scrabbled at the armrest, all but climbing it, helpless to control the way your whole lower half seized up. He flicked your clit, once, twice, then rode you through it as you splintered. The orgasm hit like a rigor, bending your spine to a perfect O, and you screamed into the velvet, crushing the soft fiber in your mouth to keep from waking the neighbors.
Lando didn’t let up. He fucked you through it, again and again, until you were limp, until your thigh muscles jumped with aftershocks you could not predict. By the time he finished, you could barely tell where you ended and he started—just one long mess of shaking limbs, sweat, and spit.
He collapsed over you, chest to your back, still inside. You lay there, gasping, neither willing to ruin it by speaking first. You felt the rise and fall of his body, the way his exhale rattled like a confession. For a second, you wondered if he’d ever let anyone win before, or lose, or if surrender was a new word in his vocabulary. He kissed the spot below your ear, slow and apologetic.
You tried to think of something clever to say, but the best you could manage was a choked laugh, muffled in sofa cushion. “You’re the worst,” you muttered and felt his smile etch hot and crooked against your neck.
He eased out, hands bracing your hips as if you might break, and you tumbled together in the heap, ruined and reckless. You didn’t need to look at him to know that he was grinning, that lazy, wolfish half-smirk. Your throat tasted of salt and couch lint. Your knees ached. You felt a grin break across your face before you could stop it.
You trailed the rough pad of your thumb along his cheekbone, admiring, for once, the artless vacancy of his expression. His hair, glossy with you, fell over his brow in shattered commas. You thought about the half-bored way he’d stared at the start lights earlier, the full lip quirk he gave press like none of it mattered. Now here he was: gasping, undressed, hollowed out.
He rolled closer, hand searching across the tangle of dress and thigh and velvet, landing at your wrist. He let your fingers tangle, easy, like a tangle of shoelace before a race.
For a long while, there wasn’t anywhere to be, but here. The wet stink of sex, the sticky funhouse echo chamber of your heartbeat, the lines on your thighs where velvet had impressed itself deep enough to nearly outlast the bruises. It was nearly funny. You’d always told yourself you were the one who could walk away, that you could fuck or fight or strike back without ever really giving in. But now your body was still jittering with aftershocks, fingers nestling into the sweat-ringed hollow of Lando’s armpit, as if your DNA were already mutating to fit the shape of his bones.
