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.
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.
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 ♥︎
☆ 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.
summary: just life when you're a pro tennis player and your fuckbuddy is a formula 1 driver
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !!
word count: around 8k ( open for a possible part two)
➽───────────────❥
“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”
You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.
You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.
This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.
Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.
“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”
You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.
The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.
Just like that.
“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”
You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.
And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.
You tried not to look, you really did. But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.
And there he was.
Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.
You smirked. Of course he was here.
“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.
Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.
You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.
That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.
It had been after his Monaco win.
You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.
You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.
It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.
Except it didn’t.
Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.
You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.
Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.
Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?
It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.
And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.
The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.
It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.
You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.
But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.
Horrible.
You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.
Terrible.
“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”
From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.
You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.
Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.
Thwack.
The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.
Fucking finally.
“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”
You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.
By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.
You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.
“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.
As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.
“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”
You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.
When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.
Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.
Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.
It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.
And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.
And that was good.
Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.
And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.
What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.
“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.
“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”
His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.
“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.
“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”
“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”
That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.
“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”
You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”
That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.
“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.
You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.
“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”
You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.
“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.
You felt it.
The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.
And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.
Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.
By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.
And then your phone buzzed against the bench.
Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?
Five minutes. Almost on the dot.
There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.
You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.
With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.
Always neutral territory.
But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.
You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
Send the address.
Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.
Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.
The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.
Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.
This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.
By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.
You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.
Your manager’s name.
You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.
The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.
But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.
Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.
“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”
Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.
Or what?
They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.
You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.
And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.
You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.
You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.
So you did what you’d always done best.
You compartmentalized.
One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.
And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.
Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.
“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.
He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”
His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.
And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.
“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”
“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.
He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over
“How was training?”
“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “
His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”
You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”
“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”
“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.
“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”
You didn’t get the chance to respond.
He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.
Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.
Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.
But only for a moment.
Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.
Concrete results.
Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.
He felt it. Of course.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses
You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.
You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.
It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.
You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.
And yet.
Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.
With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.
Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.
“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.
But he felt it again, of course he did.
And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.
“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”
You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.
For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.
But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.
You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”
The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”
He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.
“How do you do it?”
He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”
You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”
That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.
“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”
You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”
You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”
The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”
He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”
You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”
For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”
“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”
You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”
You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.
“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”
You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”
“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”
He paused. Eyes locked in yours.
“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”
The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been waiting for that confirmation more than you had. “Good,” he said. “That’s what matters”
You lay back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly as you breathed in. “I just hate that sometimes,” you admitted, voice quieter now, “no matter how hard I work, my dreams still depend on someone else. On sponsors, contracts, decisions I don’t get to make.”
He nodded slowly, letting out.a small laugh “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours. “But I still think… at the end of the day, we’re more in charge of our destiny than it feels like.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Because when it finally happens, when you win that tournament, it won’t be just luck. It’ll be because you were ready when the moment showed up.”
You smiled then, small but genuine, and for the first time that night, it reached your eyes.
He was right.
You turned your head toward him, meaning to say something light or teasing to balance the weight of the moment, but the words never quite made it past your lips.
He was already watching you. His expression was soft, open in a way that felt almost intimate given how carefully you both usually avoided that territory, and for a second it struck you how rare it was to be looked at like that without expectation attached.
You lifted your hand and let your fingers settle against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again, as if he were taking his cue from you.
That was what you’d needed, you realized then. Not urgency. Not distraction. Not even sex, though it had crossed your mind more than once tonight.
What you’d needed were those few words, spoken without judgment or pressure, grounding you back into yourself when your thoughts had been threatening to scatter in every direction at once. They had soothed something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t known to ask for.
So you didn’t answer him.
You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slower and softer than before. This time it wasn’t about proving anything or trying to lose yourself in sensation. His hand came up to rest at your waist, warm and steady, and you felt him relax beneath your touch, meeting you there without question.
And finally, your mind was quiet.
The kiss shifted almost without you noticing, the softness giving way to something warmer, more insistent, as if the relief you’d been holding back finally found somewhere to go. His hand slid more securely at your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there, and you felt the familiar spark catch, the kind that always lived just under the surface between you, waiting for the slightest excuse.
For a moment, you were only aware of the heat of him, the quiet sounds between breaths, the way his thumb traced an unconscious arc against your side.
And then he pulled back.
Not abruptly, not coldly, just enough to look at you properly again, his forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” His eyes searched your face, not suspicious, just careful. “We can just… have dinner and Chill. Watch something stupid. Whatever you want.”
You smiled at that, softer than before but steadier, and lifted your hand to his jaw again, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m good. Really.” You met his gaze, letting him see it. “Head’s clear now. I promise.”
He studied you for a beat longer, then nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders as a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure?”
You didn’t give him time to overthink it, didn’t waste a second on words. You leaned in again, sealing his mouth with a brief, teasing kiss; tongue flicking once against his before you pulled away, letting your lips trail lower in a scorching path along the column of his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Yeah, positive.”
And with that, your hand dipped boldly between your bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his boxers to wrap around his cock; thick and velvet-hard, already leaking steadily from the tip as you gave him a firm, twisting stroke from root to crown, thumb smearing the pre-cum in a slick glide that had his hips jerking up into your grip
Lando half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound rumbling deep and breathless from his chest, a choked “Fuck—wow, my words did really inspire you, yeah?” spilling out in that cheeky British drawl, even as his free hand fisted the sheets, abs clenching under your other palm where it splayed across his stomach.
You laughed low against his skin, the vibration drawing another shudder from him. “They definetely did,” you murmured, nipping the hinge of his jaw, your grip slick and unrelenting to really show him you were okay, more than okay, finally here in the filthy rhythm of it.
You and Lando lay tangled on your sides, face to face in the rumpled sheets; breaths syncing in hot, ragged bursts as your fist pumped his cock with slick, twisting strokes that had him thrusting lazily into your grip.
His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you there while his other arm hooked under your thigh, hoisting your leg up high over his hip in one fluid, possessive yank, before he slotted his thick thigh between yours; the coarse hair and muscle grinding right up against your soaked folds with delicious pressure that made you whine into his kiss.
You got so utterly lost in it then, the world narrowing to the fllawless heat of his mouth devouring yours, tongues sliding sloppy and deep, teeth clashing, your hips rocking instinctively to hump his thigh, dragging your swollen clit over the rigid flex of it with every needy grind that smeared fresh arousal down his skin.
His free hand roamed everywhere: palming the heavy swell of your tits through your bra, rough fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed under the lace before hooking into the straps and yanking them down roughly.
The clasp snapped open with a quick twist at your back and he shoved the fabric aside to expose your bare breasts, kneading the soft flesh with greedy squeezes that had milked moans from your throat.
You were so consumed by the blaze of his touch that your hand faltered on his cock, strokes slowing to a distracted squeeze before falling away entirely, forgotten in the haze.
But he didn’t mind, not one fucking bit, didn’t even break rhythm, just growled low into your mouth before abandoning your lips to latch onto the frantic pulse at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise as his teeth scraped the tender skin.
With a shift of his hips, he rolled fully on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight in the best way: his cock trapped heavy and leaking between your bellies, twitching against your skin as his fingers quickly hooked into your panties, ripping them down your thighs in a frantic tear that left you fully bare and exposed, the ruined lace dangling from one ankle like a trophy before he kicked it off entirely.
“Fuck,” he rasped between kisses, lips dragging wet and stinging along your collarbone, nipping the swell of your breast before soothing with a broad lick, his hand now free to roam your naked curves, “It was fucking hot to see you train today,” he confessed.
“… was so hard not to follow you into the locker room and fuck you right there.”
Breathless, ragged laugh punched out of you at his confession, “What stopped you then?” you gasped out, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he continued to lavish your breasts with bruising kisses and rough, possessive squeezes.
At that, Lando pulled back just enough to look down at you, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed face. He let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. “Why?” he teased, “Would’ve you liked it? Would’ve liked the risk?” His thumb stroked the sharp bone of your hip, his gaze locking onto yours with playful intensity. “Hearing every footstep outside the door, knowing anyone could walk in and see me buried balls-deep in you?”
Oh, he was playing dirty.
He didn’t give you a chance to answer, didn’t wait for the breathy yes already forming on your swollen lips.
With a growl that was half-laugh, half-pure hunger, he lowered himself between your legs in one fluid, predatory slide, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart until you were spread wide open for him.
One hand remained latched possessively on your breast, kneading the soft flesh and pinching your nipple into a stiff, aching peak; the other hand released your hip to hook under your knee, spreading you even wider before his fingers laced tightly with yours, palm pressing your joined hands into the mattress.
And then he devoured you.
His mouth crashed onto your pussy with no preamble, no gentle exploration. His tongue speared deep inside you in one long, filthy lick from your soaked entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the gush of your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your most sensitive flesh.
“Fuck, your taste…” He ate you out like a man possessed: tongue fucking you in deep, rhythmic plunges before flattening to swirl broad, relentless circles around your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.
You cursed and moaned, a litany of broken fucks and oh gods spilling from your lips as your mind fractured, splintering far away from all the worries and the sponsor anxieties that had shadowed you when you first walked into his apartment.
Now there was only this: the searing heat of his mouth devouring your cunt, the rough, possessive grip of his hand still kneading your breast, the slick, filthy sounds of his tongue fucking deep into your dripping core before swirling with relentless precision over your swollen clit.
You were left fighting to control your breathing, to not explode too soon, but it’s a losing battle; every time he sucked your clit into the wet heat of his mouth, sent another violent tremor through your limbs, coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter in your belly until it’s a white-hot knot begging for release.
“Lan, I’m so close…” you barely whispered but then, when you came, it crashed over you with shocking force, your back arching off the bed as your pussy convulsed around his tongue, gushing fresh wetness that he drank down with greedy.
And through it all, you couldn’t stop smiling, a breathless, dazed grin spreading across your face even as tears pricked the corners of your eyes… because that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it?
This raw, uncomplicated hunger, this mutual understanding that stripped away everything else until it was just two bodies chasing the same fire. It was why you kept seeing each other, why you kept crashing into his orbit: for moments like this, where the world narrowed to sweat and skin and shared, shuddering release.
And with him, it was something else. Better and more intense than anything.
You stay like that for a few seconds, panting and smiling dopily at each other in the aftermath: him kneeling back on his heels between your splayed legs, his mouth and chin glistening with your spend, a smug, boyish grin lighting up his flushed face; you lying sprawled and boneless on the rumpled sheets, chest heaving as the last tremors subside.
And after a few moments, without a word, you just lazily rolled over onto your stomach, ass lifting in a deliberate, inviting arch as you buried your face in the pillows with a contented sigh, presenting yourself to him fully.
Lando let out a low, delighted laugh “Oh, just like that?” he teased.
His hands came down on your ass immediately, palms smoothing over the curves with a possessive squeeze before one lifted and came down in a sharp, playful smack that echoed in the quiet room.
"No 'please,' no 'fuck me, Lando'—just ass up, ready to go? Wonderful" he murmured against your shoulder blade, nipping the skin there before lining himself up at your entrance, the broad head nudging against your sensitive, swollen folds. "Now let's see if I can fuck all those other thoughts right out of you for good, yeah?”
