drew !!

you'd booked the campsite two weeks ago. he’d looked at the confirmation email over your shoulder and said camping? like, outside? in a tone of genuine uncertainty that had made you laugh.

"when did you last sleep outside?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"define outside."

"tent. sleeping bag. y’know, bushes."

he thought about it for longer than was reasonable. "a festival, maybe? 5 years ago? but there was a hotel option and i—"

"you took the hotel option."

"there was a hotel option," he repeated, like this was a defence.

꩜

the campsite was in the peaks, down a b road that turned into a track that lando had side eyed for the last stretch of it. you’d been here every holiday as a kid, and the smell of cold air and pine hit you when you got out of the car, reminding you of your childhood. 

lando got out and stepped directly into mud. he looked down at his trainers. some limited edition ones, you were fairly sure. the kind he kept in the box.

you waited.

"fine," he said, to himself, and grabbed a bag from the boot.

you’d been with him long enough to know that was good, actually. he was like that. annoying about things that hadn't happned yet, easy about things that already had. it was one of the things you liked about him, even though you'd never tell him because his ego didn't need it.

"help me with the tent," you said.

"i know how to put up a tent."

you squinted at him.

"i could know how to put up a tent," he revised. "how hard is it?"

it took 40 minutes, which was 35 more than it should have taken, but that was with lando’s help. he was genuinely trying, the poor thing, but he’d still managed to get the poles into a configuration that physics could not account for. he stepped back and looked at it with his hands on his hips.

"somethings not right," he said.

"no."

"but I followed—"

"give me the poles," you demanded, holding your hand out, and he passed them over without much argument because he was genuinely confused rather than defensive about it. you fixed it in about two minutes. he held the torch and passed you pegs when you pointed at them and when the tent was standing, correctly, he looked at it happily.

"good," he clapped.

"you held the torch really well."

"i helped in other ways too, don't reduce it to the torch."

"name one other way."

he picked up his bag. "i’m getting the sleeping bags."

"of course you are," you said, to his back.

꩜

the fishing thing was your fault, genuinely, and you'd known it was going to backfire even when you were saying it.

you’d told him a week before the trip. he had been in the kitchen eating toast and you'd said, very casually, that camping obviously meant catching your own dinner, and lando had put his toast down and said catching it from where in this careful voice, like he was hoping he'd misheard you, and you'd said the lake, babe, and watched his face collapse.

"fish," he said.

"fish."

"you want me to catch a fish and then eat it."

"that’s generally what catching dinner means, yeah."

he looked at you for a long moment. then he picked his toast back up and put it down again without taking a bite, like he'd lost the ability to eat with this new information. "i hate fish," he huffed. "you know i hate fish."

"it’s camping. you catch what you catch."

"we could catch something else."

"like what."

"i don't know. a rabbit."

"you’re not catching a rabbit."

"why not."

"because you're not going to catch a rabbit, lando."

he’d texted you three times that evening when he was supposed to be doing simwork at the mtc. first: genuinely asking if there's a way to do the camping thing without the fish part. then, ten minutes later: what if we just brought food. then, at half eleven: please we can even just buy fish and cook it, i don’t want to catch them!!! hello?!

and then there were the waterproof trousers, express delivered to the apartment. apparently he had prepared to wade into a lake and catch his own dinner before he'd eat it. he’d mentioned them so casually, like it was just an obvious step, and you had held it together for another 20 minutes in the car before you cracked and told him you were joking and that you'd brought pasta in a tupperware and a camping stove and there had never been any fish.

he’d gone quiet. then he petulantly looked down at the trousers he was wearing.

"they look nice though," you patted his thigh.

"that’s not the point."

"what is the point?"

"i was gonna wade in there and catch something i don't even like and eat it," he said. "for you. that’s was where i was."

"that’s very romantic actually."

he whipped his head to you and frowned. "i can see you trying not to laugh. don’t laugh. it’s not funny."

"it is a little funny."

"it is a little funny," he’d repeated, voice pitched high to mockingly match yours, but he’d looked back out the window, and you saw his jaw move in a way that meant he was trying not to smile about it.

꩜

dinner was actually nice. you hadn't been sure—there was a version of this where lando was quietly miserable the whole time and too polite to say so, but he'd been given the job of keeping the fire alive because you needed him occupied, and he'd taken it very seriously, feeding it increasing sizes of kindling, and by the time you were eating he looked like a man who was very proud of himself.

"better than i thought," he said, onto his second bowl of pasta. "i had low expectations." 

the way he looked at you made your cheeks heat and you felt the same giddiness you felt when you first met him. you didn’t know what to do with it. you kicked his shins instead. he grinned and went back to eating. 

the sky had gone that deep black that only happened out here, away from everything, dotted with thousands of stars. lando kept glancing up at them between bites.

"you never see this in monaco," he said.

"light pollution."

"too many lights, yeah." he looked up for a long moment. "it’s mad, isn't it. this is just what it looks like everywhere and we just can't see it."

you’d learned early on that there were two landos. the one everyone saw—the energy, the jokes, constantly funny, loud. and then this one, quieter, that he only really let be seen when there was nowhere he needed to be and no one he needed to be anything for. you’d fallen for both of them, but the second one had properly finished you off.

"this is why i wanted to come," you said.

you leaned down and kissed the top of his head, before he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down into his lap, wrapping both arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“love you,” he whispered.

you’d normally tease him for being such a sap but for some odd reason, it honestly made you want to cry.

꩜

the tent was small. you knew this, you'd slept in it a hundred times, but that was always alone or with your sister when you were twelve, not with lando, who was not twelve and not small. side by side in the sleeping bags there was maybe four inches of unused space. you had bullied lando because he had bought some fancy sleeping bag to apparently prevent hypothermia and leaches or whatever other bullshit he’d read about when you told him he was going camping, but you were honestly freezing so you made him shuffle a bit so you could slip into his bag too. his arm snaked around your lower back.

"this is actually cosy," he said.

"you’re such a liar," you said. "you were going to say cramped."

"i was going to say cosy and a bit cramped."

the torch went off. it was silent, except for the occasional thing moving in the trees which was fine and normal but lando had asked what's that the first three times until you'd explained the concept of nocturnal animals and he'd gone quiet in a way that wasn't entirely settled.

another rustle, significantly closer to your tent. lando made a small sound into your hair.

"hedgehog," you said.

"i didn't say anything."

"you made a noise."

he grunted. "could be anything, that's the thing," he said. "could be loads of things. you can't see anything."

"that’s because it's night."

"in monaco you can always see something."

you turned your head toward him in the dark. "are you scared of the dark?"

"no."

"lando."

"i’m not scared of the dark, i just prefer when there's some light, that's a completely normal preference shared by most humans."

you were finding this completely endearing, which was probably a problem.

another rustle. louder this time. he tightened his grip on you, moving you so you ended up with your head on his chest, which was warm and solid and smelled like the woodsmoke from the fire.

“probably a bear, that.” you lied, relishing in the way you could hear his heartbeat quicken.

"i’m not scared," he repeated.

"you keep going tense when it makes a noise."

"i’m alert," he said. "that’s… that's situational awareness."

"lando."

"what."

"it’s fine if you're scared."

the tent shook a bit and you felt him go rigid next to you for approximately one second before he caught himself. you pressed your lips together very hard.

his voice was slightly higher this time. "i'm just. it's very dark."

"it'll be okay," you said, and you meant it gently, and mostly managed it, except your voice wobbled a bit at the end that gave you away.

“i know it’ll be ok. i’m not a child. i'm just making an observation about the darkness."

"okay."

"it's very dark."

"you’ve said."

"just noting it."

꩜

lando lasted about twenty minutes before his hand, which had started at a perfectly reasonable location on your waist, began to migrate.

you caught it. put it back.

two minutes later, migrating again.

"norris," you grunt sleepily.

"i’m cold."

"your hand is warm, actually."

"the other parts of me are cold."

"let me guess, your dick."

there was a pause. “no.”

“go to sleep.”

he made a sound that was awfully close to a whine, but you weren’t going to call him out on that. his hand stayed where you'd put it for another few minutes and then began moving down to cup your ass. you could feel his cock pressing against your back, slowly thickening.

"i can feel that."

"feel what?" he said, innocent.

you lifted your head to look at him, pointless in the dark but you still glared. "it’s cold so you're putting it on my ass."

"i'm scared," he declared.

"you just said you weren't."

"i changed my mind. i need comfort." he squeezed for emphasis and you made a sound that you had not fully intended to make and felt him go very still.

then, quietly: "yeah?"

you didn't say anything for a second. the dark, the tent, his hand, his heartbeat under your cheek. the sounds outside were completely irrelevant.

lando kissed you slow and you let him, and his hands pushed under your thermal. you combed your fingers through his hair and he made a low sound against your mouth and shifted, pulling you properly on top of him. you could already feel his cock throbbing against your clothed cunt and you rocked forward once, deliberate, just to feel him suck in a breath.

you sat up, knees either side of him, and pulled your thermal over your head. cold air hit you for about half a second before his hands blindly scrabbled for your tits in the dark, and he sat up too so he could get his mouth on them. you bit down on a noise and fisted your hands in his hair to keep him there.

"shit," you managed.

he made a sound against your tits that was pure smug. he flattened his tongue over your nipple, then sealed his lips around it and sucked. it made a wet sound that went straight to your cunt and you could feel arousal soaking your panties already. 

"lando."

"hm."

"i’m supposed to be comforting you, aren’t i? you're scared, remember."

he huffed a laugh against your neck, sucking a bruise there. "i’m feeling much better, actually. funny how that works."

you pushed him back down by the shoulder and he went, chuckling quietly, and then you got his shirt off and the laughing stopped because you ran your hands down his stomach and felt him go tense under you, and that was one of your favourite things in the world, honestly.

"you’re so easy," you told him.

"you’re so hot, what do you want from me."

you got his pyjama pants and boxers down enough to matter and wrapped a hand around his cock. his head rolled back.

"that’s—" he swallowed. "yeah, that's—"

"good?"

"don’t fish for compliments right now, please, i’m—"

you stopped yourself from making a fishing joke and instead stroked slowly until he stopped forming sentences. he was warm in your hand, pulsing and hard and making these quiet desperate sounds that he always tried to keep down and could never quite manage, and you kept the pace unhurried and felt his hips buck up, trying to move things along.

his hand slid down your stomach and under the waistband of your panties and then his fingers were on your cunt and it was your turn to melt. he parted your folds with two fingers, finding you dripping, and made a quiet pleased sound.

you stroked him faster and he retaliated with his fingers, two pressed inside you while his thumb worked circles over your throbbing clit and you grabbed his shoulder and had to stuff your face to his neck to muffle yourself.

"we’re in a tent in the middle of nowhere," he said, "and you're still trying to be quiet."

"habit," you panted.

"bad habit." he curled his fingers and you tightned your grip on his shoulder, nails digging in.

"god—"

"there we go," lando said, and you could hear him smiling, and normally that would be annoying but right now you couldn't locate the annoyed part of yourself at all. you were wet and worked up and he'd been stoking this for the better part of the last hour without even trying and you were done with the back and forth.

you pulled his hand out, shifted up onto your knees, pulling your joggers and panties off. he went still beneath you, hands settling on your hips as you reached for his cock, lining him up, and sank down onto him slowly.

he made a truly pathetic sound.

you rolled your hips slow, finding the angle, and landos head went back and his grip tightened. his cock hit deep at this angle and you felt it in your stomach, that low pull building, hips grinding. you braced on his chest. he had one hand on your hip and the other had returned back to your clit, thumb working in tight circles. your thighs were starting to burn and the pressure was building to a point where slow wasn't going to cut it.

"lando—"

"yeah." he canted his hips up to meet you and you moaned loud at the pressure of him deep inside you. 

“look at you," he said quietly, and there was no smirk in it this time.

you came with your face in his neck, fingers grabbing at his shoulders, hips grinding while he worked you through it. he kept his thumb rubbing you until you grabbed his wrist to make him stop and then his hands moved to your hips.

he waited until you'd stopped trembling.

then he flipped you. one smooth move, your back hit the sleeping bag and he was over you and settled between your thighs in the time it took you to register what had happened. something in you went molten all over again. he pushed back into your pussy and you gasped. the pace was nothing like yours had been—deep and hard, hips snapping forward, sending you scraping your nails down his back.

"fuck—lando—"

"yeah," he groaned, into your throat. "i know, baby."

lando’s mouth was on your neck, your jaw, biting at your collarbone, and you had your nails in his skin and your other hand gripping the sleeping bag. the sounds in the tent were filthy, skin and breath and the obscene squelch of how sloppy your cunt was. he reached between you and got his thumb back on your clit and pressed and kept his pace and you arched up hard into him.

"i can't! I literally just—"

"you can," he coaxed. "come on. for me."

you came a second time harder than the first, clenching tight around his cock, his name broken apart in your throat. he grunted against your neck, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and shuddered through it with your name on his lips.

꩜

you were back in the sleeping bag eventually, because you both had somehow wormed your way out of it. lando was on his back and you were using his chest as a pillow, the sleeping bag pulled up because it was cold. you could feel his heartbeat slowing. 

"still scared?" you whispered.

"i was never scared."

"lando."

"what."

"you made me check the zip twice for animals."

a pause. "that's just sensible. coudld happen to anyone."

there was brief silence, and his hand was in your hair, combing slow.

"can we come back?" he broke the quiet. "another time."

"you literally complained for the entire drive here."

"that was before." he pressed his mouth to the top of your head. "can we come back."

"yeah," you said. "we can come back."

he was quiet after that. his breathing slowed. outside the hedgehog or whatever it was did its thing in the undergrowth and neither of you mentioned it.

this was a bit rushed so i'm sorry if there are any grammatical or spelling errors

and a little poll cos i wanna know what you guys want me to post next:

♡

there is a special place in hell for oscar piastri and lando norris. and it's paved with spilled beer, sticky shot glasses, and a bass-heavy playlist that makes your overhead lamp shiver with each pulsating beat. (one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, god, when were they going to shut up?)

you'd tried it all at that point. high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds. white-noise apps. begging to sleep at your best friend's, or your ex's, or an overpriced hotel room on the other side of the island (a low moment, you admit). and fifteen desperate texts to your landlord later, righteous rage was coloring your insides less rational by the minute. (god, you would break your own lease if it meant those two inconsiderate idiots would get what was coming to them.)

what kind of normal neighbors threw parties on a tuesday night? what kind of normal neighbors kept a strict schedule—december to february, blackout season, working nine months just to come home and ruin your remaining three? what kind of neighbors haunted your peace (in-person) when they weren't haunting the screen of your living-room television?

the answer? none. except these two.

(fuck it).

your feet hit the tile cold and sharp as you count the steps out of bed, across the hallway, up the echoing stairwell, breathless with exhaustion and a splinter of glee you haven’t felt in weeks. (maybe you want a fight. maybe you want to be the problem, for once. it's only human.)

"some of us pay rent here," you rehearse, not-so under your breath. "some of us have actual jobs. some of us care whether or not our neighbors can sleep through the night.”

you take the stairs two at a time, a bead of sweat trickling down length of your spine. up close, the beat syncopates with your pulse, every floorboard humming under your bare feet, slinking up your calves. (only then, somewhere on the landing, do you realize you're not at all dressed for the confrontation you're about to instigate. of course.)

it's too late to turn back now. you raise your fist as you approach the door, swallowing the taste of marijuana smoke curling under the jamb, the clatter of a southern-english accent, sweat, and sugar, and suffocating heat. you pause. you could walk away, try again tomorrow, let your anger go gracelessly. (but all of a sudden the music gets impossibly louder, crashing through a fresh round of voracious laughter, and your patience—never your strong suit—snaps right in half.)

you knock. no, you pound. hard enough that it goes silent for half a second before resuming (if not doubling) in volume.

it takes fourteen seconds for someone to come to the door. you're raising your hand to knock again when it swings open, and there goes your dignity, because lando norris is standing in front of you, and he's smiling, and very, very drunk, and, oh, no.

he's shirtless, flushed a deep cherry-red, black training shorts riding halfway up his thighs. he pulls at them with his free hand as he throws a 'be back 'n a second' over his shoulder, pupils blown wide under blinding hallway light. you catch low-lit glimpses of drinks stacked on an entryway table before lando steps out, letting the door shut with a low clunk behind him. "hi, neighbor," he slurs, voice curling gentle and soft. "y'lost or somethin'?"

you open your mouth to say something, anything, but all you can do is inhale the scent of his sweat, the reek of gin splashing faintly under expensive cologne, and it should disgust you (it almost does), but your anger is tangled now, caught in something deep, and dark, and wrong. (you came here to yell at him, remember?)

"i've lived here longer than you," you bite out, and you swear lando's eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. "so no. i'm not lost." "m'kay," lando chuckles, a low, warm thing that starts in his chest and spills down the hallway. "d'you wanna come in? 's that it?"

"no," you say, indignant, and his smile shifts, looser, an uptick in the curve of his mouth.

"wha's up, then?" he asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. his grip is tighter than you'd expect, knuckles turning white, as though he's holding himself back from reaching for you, resisting the urge to pull you in with him—

"what's. up?" you snarl. "what's up is that it's four in the morning, and you're throwing a fucking rave! what's up is that the walls in this building are made of fucking paper and i have to listen to every fucking thing—"

the door opens, interrupting you, and oscar steps out slow, hair touch-mussed, white t-shirt sticking translucent-thin to the dip of his collarbone, the sharp hinge of his shoulders. he doesn't say anything at first, standing there too tall, too comfortable, gaze scraping over you so thoroughly you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.

(it's surgical, his silence. you swear he's underneath your skin, storing your image for later review. you think about snapping at him to stop staring, but that would be admitting you feel seen when all you wanted was to be heard.)

"everything alright?" oscar finally asks, voice vibrating straight to the bone. you suddenly feel violently unsteady. lando doesn’t move, and for a second you forget what you wanted to yell about. (for a second, the entire world goes deathly quiet.)

"no, actually, it's not," you snap. "unless you're about to tell all these people to get the fuck out, nothing is 'alright'."

oscar blinks, arms folding slow across his chest. "didn't think we were that loud."

your scoff is graceless. "you have got to be kidding me."

"i'm not."

"are you seriously telling me you don't hear it?"

"we don't."

"it's fucking loud."

"this could've been a text message," your rage burns so hot you almost hit him. though you doubt it would do much.

"fuck. off."

"gladly," he replies, expression something between surprise and amusement. "you're what's keeping us here."

you wish you had something to say to that. you really do.

but oscar moves, slow, cracking the door just enough to let the party spill out in tidal waves of laughter and thudding bass. there’s the unmistakable crash of glass shattering hard on tile, the scrape of voices overlapping in drunken crescendos, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor and lando’s impossibly sharp cologne that drifts under the door and settles right smack in your diaphragm.

lando shifts off balance, and it's watching electricity, the way oscar’s hand slides up without missing a beat, palm coming to rest with such easy certainty against lando’s elbow that it makes something coil tight in your gut. (they fit together, in some secret way you've only just noticed.)

you blink, and the doorframe is suddenly closing on you, an acute end to the conversation. "i'm telling the landlord about this!" you snap, cutting through the lull between songs.

oscar throws a glance over his shoulder, mouth quirking upward. (you'd think he was beautiful, if he wasn't such an ass.) "cry to daddy, baby. go ahead."

you're halfway down the stairs when you realize he called you baby.

♡

it only gets worse from there.

you decide to start with mailing lists. harmless, really. except you sign both lando and oscar up for fifteen of them. each.

first, the alcoholism anonymous emails. ("struggling to stay sober? you’re not alone. join our virtual support meeting!") then, the porn addiction group emails. ("battle porn cravings with our scientifically-backed mindfulness exercises!") the spam is worse: "THE SECRET TRUTH BEHIND F1 DRIVERS’ UNBELIEVABLE FITNESS ROUTINE—CLICK TO FIND OUT!"

you think you’ve got away with it. nights fall silent, merciful quiet pressing against your eardrums with an unnatural pressure. no thudding footsteps. no blaring music. (no reason to see them again.)

that is, until the magazines.

stacked like a brick wall on your doorstep, tied so sweetly that you let yourself believe, for half a heartbeat, that this is some kind of olive branch. an apology wrapped in glossy, fresh pages, slick covers of... official F1 magazines. (well, high-octane marketing that you don’t care about but now absolutely cannot ignore.)

you untie the bow, flipping through the first with impatient flicks of your wrist. there’s lando first—turned away from the camera, low, golden light catching his cheekbones and the faint flush blooming just above the dark fabric of his racing suit. then oscar, skin in vivid color, helmet clutched in the space between his elbow and hip.

(you don't stop to excuse the slick heat ruining your best pair of panties—a mistake, certainly.)

you almost miss the note scrawled onto the top right of the last page:

pictures of me should help w/the porn addiction. make it worse, i mean. xxx lando

you did not get away with it. you do, however, up your game.

you think you’re clever about it. anonymous shipping. no gift receipt, no note, the billing address a throwaway email you haven’t used since college. you order nineteen different protein powders—who even needs that many flavors?—to be shipped right to their door. the perfect play.

you track the order, refresh the delivery status twelve times an hour, and choke imagining oscar drinking the the mango sorbet flavor out of politeness and then sending you a legal notice. (very polite of him.)

the package lands at their door right before noon; by dinnertime, you’re yet again positive you’ve won. (it's unnerving, the way you’re slightly disappointed.)

it doesn't last long.

at first, you think you’re hallucinating a beat, muffled and persistent, seeping through the walls that night, familiar enough for your shoulders to rise and fall with each measure. it's sweet caroline. playing loud enough to set your bathroom mirror twitching with every bass kick.

you don't mind it for the first ten minutes.

but you go from neutral to rage in the time it takes the chorus to repeat for the ninth time. the song loops, as if trying to drill a singular, awful message through your skull. (you were going to kill them. you debate calling the landlord. animal control. the goddamn police.)

instead, you climb onto your kitchen counter and pound your fist against the vent on the ceiling with as much force as you can muster.

the song only gets louder in response. the second hour of it, you're already planning your next move. by the fourth, you're curled up on the couch with your head planted in between the thick leather cushions, unable to hear yourself think.

by the time sweet caroline finally sputters out—an ugly, abrupt end to an ugly, abrupt punishment— you’re asleep, lyrics splintering like a broken record across your eyelids.

your saving grace? boxer briefs. in forest-green, aquamarine, navy blue. two pairs each. the catch? you order the absolute smallest size in stock, the ones that barely look made for humans, let alone someone even slightly well-endowed. you put their address in the shipping box, smirking like you can taste victory. (and god, that’s enough to make your pulse jack up.)

hope these fit right. from, your neighbor.

it's magnificent until your buzzer goes off the next morning, slicing through your kitchen headache-sharp. you ignore it once, twice, but it doesn't stop, impending doom on your doorstep. (bad omen, bad, bad, bad, your brain suggests, before your hands even reach for the doorknob. this isn’t a game anymore.)

when you finally crack the door, the hallway is empty save for a sleek, black box on your doormat—unmarked, glossy, obnoxious in the soft spill of hallway morning light.

your fingers slip on the lid as you hastily carry it inside, paper brushing against your skin like a tease.

a bra. delicate, impossible, nearly see-through. italian lace, if the quality was any indication. baby-pink embroidery, scalloped cups heavy with hand-stitched rosettes—you trace a strap with your fingertip, just to prove it's real. matching panties underneath, same pale pink, nothing left to the imagination except the price tag (obscene, you notice, and in euros, which honestly makes it worse).

it's flushed-after-a-kiss pink. take-it-off-of-me-oh-god-please pink.

the card’s slipped under the elastic, scrawled in a neat hand you recognize now.

hope these fit right, baby. — o.p.

oscar piastri just sent you lingerie. i see you, it said. come here and see me.

♡

they simply don't let up.

the parties multiply. a glitter bomb ends up from in their vent to yours (lando's idea, clearly). oscar smiles, polite as ever, when you mention his new underwear. somewhere, in the midst of rubber-banding their junk mail and replacing their tequila with water, you crack. (because it's valentine's day, and it's been two and a half months of their bullshit, and you're feeling especially, violently, completely single.)

you pick a dress (short). you wear a pair of heels that's been collecting dust since last june. you're halfway out the door (shallow breath, prickling nerves for a stranger) when you see it.

the black box. perched dead-center on your dresser. mocking you in the low lamp light, like it knows you’re full of shit.

you ignore it to fix the strap on your shoe, but your eyes dart back, magnetic as a car crash. god, it’s just underwear. (it’s lingerie. it's gorgeous. it's his. for you, for you, for you.)

you groan. turn away. then turn back. meander over to the dresser. (fuck it.) you snap the band off, peel back tissue—cursing under your breath when you almost tear it. the lace is softer than you remember as you slip it on underneath your dress, light as air. skin-like in all the right places.

you stare at yourself in the mirror, playing with the neckline of the dress. (low. too low. not low enough. you want everyone to see. you want to curl up and die.) you roll your eyes at your reflection—hope these fit right, baby, you can hear oscar saying. my pretty baby.

(nope. nope. nope. not doing this right now.)

the hallway’s already buzzing with weekend chatter as you lock your door behind you, pressing the elevator button at the end of the corridor with a breath that burns. (this is not about them. it isn’t. it’s about needing something easy. a drink, a stranger, the pleasure of knowing you could want and be wanted and go home alone. or not.)

the elevator dings, and you catch his reflection in the mirrored panel inside before your own.

oscar.

(don't look at him. don't look at him. don't look at him.) you catch the flick of his eyes bouncing back and forth in your periphery as the doors close—impassive, as if he's categorizing groceries on a shelf beside you. the floors blink down to your left—thirteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, one—

oscar slams the bright red 'emergency stop', jolting you both forward.

you blink. "oscar. what the fuck."

"don't go."

"i—what?"

"don't. go."

your laugh is brittle, barely-concealed offense. "i have a date."

his mouth sets as you stare at him, ironed-out lines of soft skin. not angry. not anything. "today?" (he still won't look at you.)

"yes, today," you snap. "obviously."

the silence is full, thick and sour. "it's cold out," is all he says. "you don't have a coat."

that stops you for half a second. then—anger, hot and immediate, renders you nearly non-verbal. who the fuck are you to tell me what i have and don't have? you want to yell. who the fuck are you to tell me what i need?

"i don't need a coat," is what comes out. "let me out. god—"

you move for the door, and he steps into your path, not close enough to touch, just... there. close enough to hold your gaze. close enough to catch the hitch in your breath. (come closer, go farther, go away, be here, do nothing, oh, god.)

"don't," he murmurs, and something rotten twists in your chest. "trust me."

"you're—" you inhale, schooling your tone. "you're a real piece of shit."

his expression goes blank. not annoyed. not offended. (flat, you realize.) he reaches past you and presses the emergency stop again, and the elevator sinks to the first floor, a clean dismissal.

you take two steps out then turn on your heels, ready to give him the final piece of your mind, to say something razor-blade sharp and stinging, something to pretend you didn't care what he thought of you, that you've never cared what he thought of you—

when you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel. and with it, the pink lace of your bra beneath the neckline of your dress. (visible. obvious. his gift, on you, like you wanted him to look.)

but he doesn't spare you a glance as the doors slide shut.

oh.

♡

valentine's day comes and goes.

so do your neighbors.

mid-february hits hard and fast, and suddenly the apartment above yours is dark more often than not. no music bleeding through the vents at all hours of the night. no laughter and clinking beer bottles ricocheting down the stairwell. their door stays shut for weeks. their lights stay off so long you wonder if they've moved.

you tell yourself it’s a blessing. a needed vacancy.

(it should be.)

you sleep through the night for the first time in weeks, sans noise-cancelling earbuds and white-noise apps. your mornings are quieter (and you definitely don't spend minutes each morning staring at the vent above your kitchen counter wondering when you'll hear something again). the building settles back into something resembling... normal.

you don’t get any mail that isn’t yours. (which should be a good thing.)

you stop checking the hallway camera on your way home from work. you stop planning your next move at odd hours of the night. (which should be a relief, shouldn't it?)

you catch yourself pausing in the kitchen when a door slams somewhere down the hall, waiting for the tell-tale pair of footsteps, a chance to catch them in the act, to stop holding your breath. but nothing happens.

(you open and re-open the black box nearly a hundred times. you wake up at 3:30 in the morning with your heart in your throat. they're training, you tell yourself. this is their job. you wanted this, you wanted this, you wanted this.)

nothing happens. then everything happens.

1:37 am. monday. keys scrape on the floor above you. a door slams. suitcase wheels stutter across tile, thunk-whine, thunk-whine, the rhythm unmistakable and unwelcome. (welcome home.) you freeze, heart a tight fist in your ribs; irritation hits first. of course they couldn’t be gone for good, they were back to disturb your peace, wreck your life, make you miserable.

then relief. sour, thick, slamming through you. you listen to the subdued laughter stuffed behind walls, and you stay stubbornly in bed, staring at the patch of light bleeding under your door from the hallway. (nope. not going. won’t give them the satisfaction.)

but the pattern returns.

at first, it’s subtle: a stray beat of music, dull and far, seeping through the drywall late tuesday. a clatter of glass bottles. laughter—two, maybe three voices, never more, but always too loud, always right above where your head hits the pillow. you clamber around at midnight searching for your noise-cancelling earbuds, falling asleep to remixes of god-awful pop songs.

but lando and oscar were never subtle.

friday night brings bass so heavy the lamp rattles on your nightstand, voices crashing over each other in slurred crescendo, liquor and something else headier threading the air. and god, you try to be angry. you roll onto your back, curse loud and colorfully at the ceiling. practice the way you'd uppercut both of them if given the opportunity. realize you wouldn't do half the damage you wanted to.

(you'll never admit that you missed the reason to go storming up there.)

you throw back the sheets, pad across the hallway past the elevator, up the echoing stairwell, and the closer you get, the louder it is. you can feel the bass in your teeth, in your collarbones, rattling up through the soles of your feet to your thighs. that familiar flush of nerves, rage rising. (or maybe just excitement. you’ll never admit the difference.)

lando somehow opens the door before you knock—not shirtless, not wasted, just standing there in one of his old karting shirts, collar loose, curls still slightly damp from a midnight shower, eyes much too focused on you. he leans against the doorframe, mouth tilting (never quite a smile). "are y’lost again?"

your jaw sets, resisting the pull of his mouth, the dare in his voice. "you’re throwing another rave."

"could say that," he shrugs, glancing over your shoulder. "missed us?"

"no." (maybe? yes?)

"wanna join?"

you hesitate for a beat too long. "no."

his gaze flickers, obvious. "suit y'rself, then."

the music thrashes through your bones, inside louder than ever, laughter ricocheting from wall to wall. you’re about to turn, to tell him to shut it down, to tell him anything else so he won't leave—when from the living room, clear and bored as anything:

"let her in, lan." (oh, oscar.)

lando shrugs, steps aside. "y'heard him."

you step in, ignoring the heat behind your cheeks, the flush crawling up your neck at the smoke and sugar and sweat and something warm swirling in the air, oscar leaning against the living room window, arms folded, face unreadable in the garish light. a handful of people you don't know gathered around the kitchen counter, backs pressed to the island, yelling over the music, laughing at jokes you don't understand.

oscar doesn't look at you when he cuts the speakers. "party's over."

lando's brows shoot up, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "bit early, mate," he murmurs, but he doesn’t look surprised—that, more than anything, flips your stomach inside out.

oscar's gaze flicks up, across the room, over you, past you, then: "everyone out. now."

lando shepherds the crowd, clapping everyone on the back ("rain check, see y'next time"), dragging footsteps and half-mumbled complaints crossing the threshold, the scrape of coats off hooks, the last pair of heels clacking across the floor. the energy empties out in a seismic wave, and, more suddenly than it feels, it is silent.

the door clicks shut.

lando is standing behind you—close enough that you feel his breath ghosting the back of your neck, more threat than comfort. you don’t move. (won’t give either of them the satisfaction.)

you scoff, voice dry: “i thought that would take a lot more work.”

oscar is already watching you, eyes shadowed against the harsh overhead light. "how was your date?"

(fuck.)

you dig your nails into your palm. "it—fine. it was fine."

lando makes a low, amused sound, somewhere between a snort and a sigh that curls against the curve of your spine. you resist the urge to shiver. "tha's convincing," he chimes in.

"it's true," you snap, turning your head over your shoulder, and that was a mistake, because your breath catches in your throat the second your eyes meet lando’s. his gaze flickers, brows a touch raised, a challenge, a dare, a promise. (come here and see me. come here and see. come here.)

then, his breath just barely brushing your ear, he murmurs, "y’wanna go home?"

your heart stalls. because you should go home. you really should.

lando nudges again, quieter still. just for the two of you. "y'wanna stay?"

and you're not sure if you say yes, or you nod, but lando's mouth finds yours, an explosion of mint-chased cigarettes, and sloppy want, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of the shattered sound echo down your spine.

he's dragging your bottom lip between his teeth like he knows you wanted it (needed it), a thin line of spit stretching between his mouth and yours; heat burns your cheeks as his tongue darts out, licks the strand away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that infuriating too-wide grin.

you've barely caught your breath when there's a hand curling around your stomach to spin you around—oscar. he's got one palm at the base of your spine, and the other anchoring itself at the hinge of lando’s jaw. his thumb traces slow over the mess you made, catching that slick string at the corner of lando’s mouth (cleaning up after you, messy girl, look at what you did).

lando's lashes flutter, running a full-body shudder, and you feel it where his hip is pressed to yours, everywhere you’re tangled together. (you feel it in your goddamn bones.)

oscar's hand slips south just as he kisses lando, almost gentle, except for the way it's not, except for the way watching their mouths share the same breath of air cracks something open deep in your stomach. lando's hands fist in oscar's shirt the same way they had in your hair, wounded need you’ve never seen from him—not on tv, not at the door, not even when he kissed you.

it's reserved for oscar. you understand that now.

you don’t realize you’re staring until oscar breaks the kiss with a soft, low sound—more an exhale than anything else—and shifts to press his mouth to yours.

not hard. not rushed. not sloppy, not hungry. purposeful, controlled. you hate him for it.

he’s correcting the angle, you realize. molding you soft, like you kissed lando all wrong and he’s showing you how it should be, what you should do. the hand at your back tightens, pulling you flush to his chest; the other lingers on lando’s jaw, thumb stroking absent circles there (to kiss both of you at once).

(and you don't hear lando whine—you feel it.)

oscar pulls back just enough for you to see it—the faint shine on his mouth from kissing lando first. it glistens when he drags his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mix of you and him and lando into something you shouldn’t want but do.

and you're getting ready to tell him off for it, but lando's mouth is on you, hot at the column of your throat, two months of restraint branded into a blind, hungry path for skin. (the blind leading the blind, you don't have any more control than he does—)

"easy, mate," oscar warns angling your face toward the wall with a kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "you'll spook her."

lando's exhale punches straight through your stomach. "s-sorry," he says, but he doesn't mean it. (he's been starved off of praise for years, and, fuck, this is what he looks like waiting for someone to give it to him.) his teeth scrape your pulse, forcing a breathy sound of surprise out of you before you can swallow it down. both his hands are frantic—one fisting the fabric at your hip, the other tugging, tugging, tugging until the hem of your sleep shirt slips off your shoulder and pools at the crook of your arm.

(all of a sudden he's higher, fingers grazing the curve of your chest.)

he goes still.

"pretty," lando whispers, the words slurred with want, and you're not exactly sure who he's talking to. he noses at the exposed skin, kissing the skin like he’s thanking it. (thank you, thank you, thank you.) "c-can i take it off?" (he's talking to oscar. about undressing you. like you're not even there.)

oscar steals whatever sound was about to leave you, fondness in the lick he gives your upper row of teeth. it's predatory, but you want it, and you would feel ashamed if you could feel anything at all. "she doesn't seem to mind." he taps the side of your cheek as your eyes roll back, heat lining your cheekbones. "right?"

you barely get out a nod as lando's mouth trails lower, lips closing around the top swell of your breast as he's pulling your shirt down, down, down—"oh—"

oscar's breath brushes your ear when his hand clamps over lando's, halting the motion. (oh, you hate him now, the absolute piece of shit, making you wait, starving you of something he so evidently wants.) "let her take this off." he puppeteers lando's hand where it grips the hem of your shirt. "by the window."

your pulse trips. "the—window?"

both men go still, watching you. assessing. your gaze slams against lando's, his pupils blown black in the half-light, but he doesn’t say a word. he just waits, knuckles white on your hip. (because that's what he does for oscar. waits.)

oscar’s thumb drags slow over your cheek, and you realize you've been quiet for too long. "you heard me. go on."

you want to tell him to fuck off, or at least to pull the blinds, but lando’s teeth are ghosting your skin, and you’re suddenly, unreasonably hot all over. the window’s only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles with your shaky stance. you catch the streetlights flickering beyond, the golden spill of someone else’s kitchen window. it's too early in the morning to catch passerbyes on the street, but the impossibility dwindles.

you half-turn, glancing over your shoulder. oscar’s watching you with that unreadable look from the elevator, a hand lingering alongside lando's hip. you don’t know who you want to impress more. (danger, danger, danger, danger.)

you're curling your fingers under the hem of your shirt when oscar's voice lilts through the room.

"aren't you going to open the window?"

(you're going to kill him.) "oscar."

"yes."

you roll your eyes—try for defiance, but your hands are trembling. "it's—someone could see me."

"so?"

you suddenly find yourself unequipped to handle the english language. "so it's—wrong. and... dirty. and i—"

"—am both of those things." oscar finishes for you, and something hot curls low in your stomach. he nods to where your palm traces over the soft skin of your navel absently, a flash of electricity sparking in his tone. "finish what you started, baby."

"what i started?" you're surprised you've got the breath to spit the words out. still, you reach forward to unlatch the window, beginning to drag the fabric of your shirt over your head, slow enough for them to see, for the world to see, if they cared to look. the air bites at every inch of bare skin you reveal. "y-you put glitter bombs in my vent. and you sent me lingerie."

"which you wore," comes lando's voice as you drop your shirt to the floor. you hear the scrape of his breath catching behind you as you shiver dutifully in the cold february air, nipples pebbling almost immediately under the gaze of the world turning, the pairs of eyes staring fire into your spine.

"only because—" you start to defend, but oscar interrupts, clicking his tongue.

"if you want to talk," he says, barely louder than the wind rattling the glass, "do it while taking off the rest."

you don't talk. but you do keep your eyes pointedly on the window latch, fingers fumbling at the waistband of your shorts.

"go slow" oscar murmurs as you rush, and you hate him for how gentle it sounds. how soft he's being with you. "make it pretty."

your face burns as you peel your shorts down, the fabric catching on your thighs, your underwear following behind it. you kick them away, bare feet against the cold floor, the chill biting up your legs, nowhere left to hide. the february air kisses between your legs, sharp and mean. (oh, that feels nice, doesn't it?)

oscar steps closer, his body a shadow at your back. "look," he says, voice honey-thick and terrible. "how many people can you see?"

you blink, eyes adjusting to the street below. it's a blur of streetlights and shifting shapes, the occasional glimmer of movement. at first, you want to lie—say no one, say it’s empty—but there’s laughter echoing up from the sidewalk, the far-off clatter of heels on wet pavement. you squint, heart pounding.

"n-none," you stammer, but it comes out pathetic.

oscar laughs, low and knowing. "look harder."

lando’s hand ghosts over your hip when your hands twitch by your sides. you swallow. there’s a group spilling out of a taxi, a pair of friends weaving home, someone lighting a cigarette under the yellow haze of a street lamp. oscar’s hand comes to rest at the center of your chest, over your heart, fingers splayed. "how many?" he asks again, mouth at your temple. "how many people could look up and see you right now?"

(honesty burns.) "seven. or—eight."

"fuck," is lando's exhale, palm sliding higher, stomach to sternum, flicking over your peaked nipples. when did they get so close? where did they begin and you end?

"imagine if they looked up," oscar continues, lips brushing your ear. you barely hear him over the sound of your heart. "imagine if they saw you. what would they think, hmm?"

your knees nearly give out. you press your palms to the cold window, the city yawning open below, the air biting at your skin. you bite down on a breath, but it doesn't matter. lando’s hands have found your waist, lips dragging desperate down your shoulder. but then he sinks lower. and lower, and suddenly he's slinking a hand in between your thighs, spreading your legs. (he's on his knees in front of you and staring at your pussy like he wants to pray to it, and oh, god, he better do something about it soon.)

you must jolt forward into lando's hand, because oscar punches out a breath.

"dirty," he grits out, and you can feel the hard press of him behind you, the slow grind of denim against naked skin. "dirty fucking girl." and oh, his thumb reaches through to push ever so slightly at the entrance there, circling the slick gathered from the show you put on. "ever take it back here before?"

shame tangles in your throat. "n-no," you answer honestly, and lando's resounding moan vibrates through your lower half. "guys tried. in the past. but i-i'd let you." (you're saying just about anything to get either of them to do something, aren't you?)

oscar hums, rocking his hips up against you, just once. you nearly choke. "bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?"

"yes," lando responds for you, and you're keenly aware of the way he's tonguing at the inside of your thigh, hot and desperate.

oscar's mouth meets your throat, and you stretch backward, hand stuttering into lando's hair. "would you? hmm?" his palm slides up your spine, curling at the back of your neck. "right here, where anyone could see you? would you let me just—" he pauses, and you hear his belt buckle clink. "—fuck your tight lit—?"

it's lando who doesn’t let him finish.

he moves forward, mouth catching on your cunt, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing short of obscene—half-moan, half-curse, all deep, dark hunger. your forehead hits the cold glass, breath fogging up the view, and you know if anyone looked up they’d see fucking everything, and humiliation courses through your blood.

lando leans his tongue flat, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to taste you, hands digging bruises into your hips, keeping you spread open for him, for oscar, for anyone who might be watching.

"there we go," oscar mutters, prideful. he leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand sliding down, down, down, until his thumb is sliding through the slick mess lando’s making of you, pressing down, not enough to penetrate but just enough to feel your natural resistance give.

"osc—lando—" you gasp when the latter's hands lock around your hips, grinding your body across his open mouth, and you damn near break the window with how hard your hand slams against it.

oscar’s thumb drags lower, circling, teasing, and then—fuck—there’s a second finger joining the first, slick and slow and stretching you open. it’s too much and not enough, and he's not giving you any time to recover, but god, you’re already so close you can taste it. lando groans, tongue somehow dipping inside of you, and you’re a mess down his chin but you know he wants it just as much as you do.

"jesus—y'hear that, baby?" oscar murmurs, clearly pleased, and only then does it occur to you how wet you actually are. you lock up, every muscle straining, right there, so close—

and then he pulls out.

you sob, hips jerking forward, and then you're coming around nothing, white light behind your eyes, knees stuttering against lando's shoulders as he suckles your clit into his mouth then releases it with a slow slip of his tongue, forehead drooping against your thigh. (you're opening your mouth to thank him when he kisses your hip, and you realize he already knows.)

"fuck you," you choke out, hands scrabbling for purchase. "fuck you to hell and fucking back—"

oscar's two steps ahead of you. one second he's lining up, and the next the blunt head of his cock slides easy, too easy, through the mess between your cheeks, hot and heavy, pressed right where you’re aching for it, contracting around nothing.

you shiver when he kisses the back of your neck, smoothing the sweaty hair at your nape. you expect him to scold you, to say something mean back as he gathers your slick in his palm and covers his cock with it. but no.

"perfect girl, sweet girl, fucking takin' it so good, fight me if you want me to stop, put up a fight, pretty—"

and then he's splitting you open so slowly you fold over, hands braced on lando's shoulders.

you squeeze your eyes shut as oscar punches out a choked breath ("tight fuckin' fit—"), a painfully sharp shot of electricity going up your spine. you've barely got your eyes open before you're keening, nails dug deep into the crevices of lando's broad collar. and god, isn't the man himself a sight, jaw slack, cheeks cherry-red, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats.

he shoves them down his thighs just enough to free his cock—flushed dark, leaking in his fist. he doesn’t even bother getting up, just sits back on his heels, hand working himself in time with the way oscar’s fucking you open. his hand tightens when you watch the flush creep up his chest, the way his stomach twitches when you moan.

(he likes the attention just as much as you do.)

oscar's breathing words into your neck, his voice deep, strangled brass, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. "did you miss us? hmm?" (nod.) "gonna let me fuck you like this all the time?" (nod.) "gonna let lando have a turn?" (nod, nod.)

lando whimpers like he can imagine it already, and you feel the sound like a live wire between your legs. you reach for him blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him up, and he goes willingly, cock still in his hand, mouth sealing over yours in a mess of tears and spit.

you kiss him the way oscar taught you—slow, controlled, all tongue and filthy want, and you taste yourself lingering in his mouth, slick and sharp and obscene. lando groans into it, hips rutting into his own fist.

"oh—" he breathes, breaking away to pant against your jaw, "god, 'm gonna come—"

oscar shifts behind you and you yelp, breaking the kiss as he angles your back, pressing your shoulder blades so you lean down, chest nearly touching lando's. his hips are already high into his hand, cock throbbing within reach, and oscar thrusts so deep you see stars as he grits out, "put your mouth on him."

(you almost want to say no. just to see what he'd do. but there's a shine in lando's eyes, oh, god, he's crying for you—)

your lips close around the tip just as his hips shudder up, unintentionally fucking your mouth. his hands fly to your hair, a half-syllable of your name leaving his lips as you close your lips tighter, a soft, possessive kiss in the swirl of your tongue. you barely get any warning before he's going ramrod straight, babbling, "shit, ‘m gonna—" and tumbling off the edge, release flooding your mouth.

you don't swallow. not immediately. not until oscar pulls you upright, presses you flush to his chest, and draws the hinge of your mouth open. "swallow," he says after what feels like hours, and you do, and he's kissing you, and oh, god you've never tasted anything better.

there's an ache in your navel, a desperate, sweet torment that buckles your knees and slackens your spine, and every single nerve ending sings when oscar's hand loops forward, fingers ghosting over your clit, a touch so light it should’ve been too much. it would have been too much, had his cock not sunk in just that inch deeper, had it not been exactly what you needed.

"fuck, 'm gonna—wait—osc—" your eyes roll back, because oh, god, you're going to come, and you can't believe you didn't do this that very first night, you can't believe you let so many months go by without knowing how shallow oscar's thrusts get when he's about to come, how he breathes your name into your spine and hunches forward as warmth splatters along your skin.

(you can't believe you went so long not knowing how it feels to come around his cock.)

you barely catch your breath before lando’s hands meet your hips, strong and sure and steady, catching your weight as you fold forward toward the open window.

oscar pulls out slow, and you wince as he eases away the discomfort, hands moving to the small of your back to trace the warmth of his release there.

"we're not done," he murmurs, enchanted with the way you arch up. "not by a long shot."

♡

you shouldn’t have touched yourself.

you knew better.

but he was gone, and the ache was too much. the kind that sits low and mean in your belly, tight between your thighs, throbbing with every breath. you tried to ignore it, tried to read, to scroll, to sleep. nothing worked.

so now you’re on your back, legs spread wide, two fingers deep inside, clumsy and fast. your other hand working tight circles over your swollen clit. your skin’s flushed, your heart’s racing, and nothing feels right. you’re wet—soaked—but it’s not enough. you need more. harder. deeper. him.

you groan in frustration as the peak subsides, every attempt at the orgasm you were chasing proving to no avail.

“you really that desperate?”

lando’s voice hits you like a slap. you freeze. he’s not supposed to be home so soon. he said a run, some errands… you figured you’d have more time.

your eyes snap to the door. lando stands there, leaning against the frame, his eyes so dark, staring like you belong to him and he’s caught you trying to escape.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out. you scramble, hands flying to cover your pussy, that shameful, incriminating evidence…

“lando—”

“shh.” he’s already crossing the room, slow and dangerous. doesn’t give you time to scramble or cover up properly. you’re frozen anyway, caught red-handed.

he stops at the edge of the bed, dark eyes dragging over you. taking in your burning cheeks, your trembling thighs. the way your hand’s still hovering over your pussy like you want to rub and hide it from him at the same time.

“don’t stop now on my behalf,” he murmurs, a smirk pulling at his lips. “wanna see how you do it.”

“lan—” you whine, a breathy protest. heat floods through your face, god—this was not how this was supposed to go.

“come on, sweetheart. show me.” he says it soft, but there’s no mistaking the command in it.

your hand lowers again—slow, shaking—and the second your fingers brush over your clit, his jaw clenches.

“fuck.”

he kneels, suddenly. right at the edge of the bed, level with where your knees are falling open for him now. he doesn’t touch. not yet.

“this what you do when i’m not here to take care of you?”

 you nod, too embarrassed to speak.

“look at me while you do it.”

and you do. barely. your eyes flick up, glassy and wide, locked to his as you move your fingers slowly, embarrassed.

his eyes drag down your body and he laughs. not warm. not kind. cruel. condescending.

“god,” he mutters. “look at you. soaking the sheets for your own fucking fingers. you that needy, baby?”

yes. you swallow hard. your cunt pulses. you don’t answer.

he smirks. “go on. tell me how long you’ve been touching yourself like a stupid little girl who doesn’t know what she needs.”

“i—i don’t know—”

his hand snaps out, grips your wrist hard, dragging your sticky fingers up between them.

“then let me guess,” he sneers, lifting your hand to your own face. “were you crying already? moaning into your pillow while you fucked yourself on nothing like a dumb whore?”

you tremble.

“answer me.” his voice is quiet now. dangerous.

“…yes,” you whisper, humiliated.

 he grins. “of course you were.”

he brings your hand to your lips. his voice like gravel. “suck.”

your eyes go wide, hesitant. you debate just stripping and begging him to fuck you. you’re sure even that would be less humiliating.

“did i stutter?”

your lips part involuntarily, wrapping them around your own fingers, still coated in slick. sucking them clean while his eyes burn through you.

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, dark and low. “now keep those hands to yourself.”

his hands shove your thighs wider. wide enough it hurts a little, wide enough you can feel the air hit your soaked cunt.

then—he spits.

hot and wet, it lands right on your pussy, slicking over your folds, your clit, everything. you gasp, head falling back.

“you really thought this was gonna work?” he mutters. his fingers slap you right between the legs. not hard. not soft either. just enough to make you flinch. “you’ve been trying to cum on your own like you forgot what this pussy is for.”

another slap. louder. wetter. “you forgot who owns it, baby?”

“no,” you cry, thighs twitching. “i didn’t—i just—”

“you wish you could fuck yourself the way i do.” he slaps your cunt again, harder. “but you can’t, can you?”

“n-no—”

“of course not.”

“lan—”

his fingers shove inside before you can finish. deep. rough. curling immediately against that perfect spot that had your knees shaking last time. you scream.

“god, you’re tight,” he growls, fucking his fingers in deep. “tight and fucking desperate. already clenching around me. you were never gonna get there without me, were you?”

your hips jerk, hands gripping the sheets. your body’s begging now—raw, trembling, all open for him.

his thumb starts working your clit—harsh, fast. perfect. too perfect.

you’re gonna cum. too fast. too much. you can feel it already winding tight.

“gonna cum already?” he mocks. “really makes you wonder what the fuck you were doing.”

“please,” you moan. “please, i—i’m so close—”

he stops.

stops. fucking asshole.

leaves his fingers inside but freezes them. thumb still there, just ghosting.

you sob. hips grinding for more without meaning to.

“you know what i should do?” he murmurs, leaning in. you can feel his breath down your neck, ghosting your collarbone. “should make you admit how stupid you were. how fucking useless your little fingers are. how you can’t cum unless i tell you to.”

your chest heaves. “i can’t,” you gasp. “i need you, lando, i swear—”

“not good enough.” he bites your neck hard. “say you’re just a dumb little girl who can’t cum without her man.”

“i’m—fuck—i’m just a dumb girl—need you to make me cum, please—”

“that’s better.”

he fucks you open again. hard this time. mean. like you’re his toy and he’s punishing you for trying to go without him. thumb back on your clit. fast. relentless.

you can’t hold back—don’t want to.

“cum for me like a needy little slut,” he growls. “show me who this pussy belongs to.”

you fall apart around his fingers, back arching, thighs shaking. a mess of a moan falls from your lips as your pussy clenches around his fingers like it knows who owns it, like it’s begging to keep him there.

you’re wrecked. soaked. everything sticky and hot. he slaps your pussy one more time, wet and mean. heat zings through you. you jerk.

“get on the floor,” he orders, standing up. unbuckling his belt. “time to thank me properly.”

and you drop.

just like that.

no hesitation. no pride left. it's frankly embarrassing how he renders you so quickly to some dumb slut, but it’s a thought for later. you can barely think right now, anyway. your legs are shaking, face flushed, slick still glistening on your thighs—and you get off the bed, kneeling. lips parted. panting. pupils blown wide like you’re high on being told what to do.

“look at you,” he mutters, tone dipped in mockery. he slides the belt out of his jeans slow, lets the sound echo—sharp, mean.

you twitch at it. react to it. he likes that.

your hands start to reach for him—eager, needy, that sweet little desperation back in your eyes.

“no.”  his voice snaps out like a slap.

you freeze, pouting.

“you don’t touch me unless i tell you to.”

your hands fall to your thighs again. obedient. small. he steps in closer. unzips his jeans. pulls his achingly hard cock out of his boxers, flushed at the tip and already leaking pre.

you look at it like it’s the only thing that matters. like you need it in your mouth to feel whole again.

“open.”

your lips part immediately. he watches your tongue roll out, pink and pretty, jaw slack with need.

“that’s it,” he growls, curling one hand into your hair. not gentle. not rough enough to hurt, but firm. possessive. controlling. right. “this is what you’re for, hmm?”

he slides the head of his cock across your tongue—slow, just enough to taste him. you moan. the little slut can’t even pretend she’s not craving it.

“so needy,” he mutters, guiding his cock in slow. “bet you were thinking about this while you had your fingers stuffed inside that pathetic little pussy, weren’t you?”

you whimper around him—nods, eyes fluttering up to meet his. he’s so cocky, yet so, so right.

“fucking knew it.” he thrusts in deeper now. halfway down your throat. you gag but don’t pull back. you just take it. messily, beautifully.

his fingers tighten in your hair, holding you there.

“you wanna be used?” he growls. “wanna make up for being such a dumb little brat?”

you blink up at him, tears already starting to well. mascara smudged, spit leaking out the corners of your mouth. and fuck, are you gorgeous like this.

“good fucking girl.” 

he starts to move. hips snapping forward—sharp, deep. no slow, no build-up. just rough, wet, messy thrusts. your throat flexes around him, trying to take all of it, choking. and it only turns him on more.

“this mouth,” he pants, watching you fall apart, “belongs to me. you hear that?”

he thrusts deep. you gag—eyes watering—but don’t pull away.

his thumb brushes over your cheek, almost sweet. a lie. “don’t need you to talk. just keep your mouth open and take it.”

you do. you’re drooling now—spit and precum sliding down your chin, smearing down tits. his hand moves down to cup them, rub your drool into your skin. he pinches a nipple, hard. you squeal, hands clawing at his thighs like you’re grounding yourself there. like you want to earn this. 

he groans, head tipping back for a second as your throat tightens around him again. “fuck. you take cock like you were built for it.”

his pace stutters, just a second. he pulls out enough for you to breathe, lets you gasp, lets the air drag in ragged through your spit-slick lips. your mouth stays open. tongue out. waiting.

“look at you,” he says, voice low, wrecked. “can’t even breathe without my cock down your throat.”

he slaps it against your tongue. once. twice. hard enough to make you flinch. then slides it back in. this time all the way. your nose against his stomach, throat convulsing around him, eyes blown wide.

he holds you there.

just for a beat. just enough to remind you that he’s in control.

when he pulls out, you’re gasping for air, eyes glassy, covered in spit, ruined.

and he’s not done. not even close.

“get on the bed,” he says, cock still in hand. “hands and knees. now.”

you scramble up without question. shaking. leaking. his.

you crawl onto the bed on shaky limbs, bare skin flushed, thighs slick and trembling. he watches you move like you’re half-drunk on getting used—spit still glistening down your chin, a string of it clinging to your chest.

his mess. his mouth curves at the sight of it.

“hands and knees,” he says again, rougher this time.

you obey instantly. drops down to your elbows, ass up, arching your back up beautifully. spreading for him without thinking.

he steps in behind you, one hand sliding between your thighs. his fingers find your cunt—wet, swollen, soaked. he drags two fingers through it, slow, then pushes them deep.

you gasp. arch. still so fucking sensitive.

“still sloppy from cumming on my hand, huh?” he pulls them out, holds them up. dripping. shining. “this what happens when you touch what doesn’t belong to you?”

you can’t do anything but whimper into the mattress.

“look at this fucking hole,” he growls. “you’re leaking and i haven’t even put my cock in yet.”

you moan, high and breathless, as he lines himself up, grabbing your hip.

he thrusts in hard.

no warning. no easing in.  just a full, deep, punishing stroke that stretches you open and makes you shudder all over.

he groans. “fuck, baby. that pussy’s clenching like it missed me.”

he sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping into you, skin slapping skin. your tits bounce with every thrust, hands clawing at the sheets just to stay upright.

“this what you needed?” he pants. “this cock buried inside you, fucking you like you’re nothing but mine?”

you try to speak. you can’t.

“nah,” he growls. “you don’t get words right now. just let me use you.”

he grabs you by the throat from behind, pulling your back into his chest, his cock still pounding deep inside you.

“this pussy’s so fucking messy,” he mutters in your ear. “i can feel how wet you are. dripping down my balls already. look at yourself.”

he fists your hair, shoving your head forward again, forcing you to look down between your legs, your shaking thighs, your pussy, the slick mess all over you.

“see that?” he fucks into you harder. “such a little whore, baby.”

you’re crying now, speechless save for small whimpers. he feels you tighten around him.

“you gonna cum again?” he slaps your ass. loud. hard. watches your flesh pinken. “you better. i want this cunt milking my cock when i fill you up.”

“lando—i—i’m—”

“do it.” another slap. “fucking cum for me.”

and you do.

you shatter. legs shaking. body convulsing. moaning so loud it bounces off the walls. your pussy clenches down on him like you’re trying to suck the cum out of him.

he groans—deep, ragged.

“you want it?” he pants. “wanna feel me fill you?”

“yes,” you cry. “inside—please—want it inside—”

he loses it.

he grips your hips tight, slams in deep, and stays there—cock buried, tip pressed right up against your cervix—and cums.

hot, thick. pulse after pulse. he fills you.

your cunt’s still fluttering around him, like you’re trying to keep it. hold onto every drop.

“fuck,” he breathes, looking down. “look at that.”

he pulls out slow—watching as his cum leaks out of you, thick and white, tracking down your thighs in messy streaks.

he slaps your ass again. hard. then a soothing hand, rubbing his thumb over the blooming pink. you jerk, moan, dripping.

“stay like that,” he growls. “don’t move.”

he grabs his cock, still wet, still glistening with your slick, then paints your back with it. across your spine. your ass. the back of your thighs.

marking you.

“you see this mess?” he grabs your hair, yanking your head back so you feel the words in your ear. “this is what you get for being greedy. you cum my way or not at all.”

you whimper, utterly ruined. slick and dripping and covered in him. he releases your hair, leans over your back, hand trailing down to your still-twitching cunt.