something wicked this way comes

The first time Lando brings it up, you’re pretty sure he’s gone insane.

“You’re letting the rivalry stuff get to you head, Lan,” you say softly, stroking a stray curl out of his face.

You’re sat back on your living room sofa, watching-but-not-really-watching something on the TV, and Lando’s sprawled across you, legs tangled through yours as his head rests against your chest.

“I’m telling you, I’m right,” he insists, not bothering to look up. “Oscar has a crush on you.”

You laugh, completely unconvinced, but he continues. “I’ve caught him staring at you more than once, and not just in a normal way. Do you remember in the drivers’ room in Bahrain, when you bent down to tie your laces? I’m pretty sure he stopped breathing for a second. And in Austria, when you hugged me after quali he went bright red.”

He says it all in one long rush of words. When he’s done, you shake your head, fighting not to laugh again. “Babe, he was probably just zoned out. You know how boring work stuff can get! I feel like you’re thinking too far into this.”

He tilts his chin up, stubborn as always. “I know what I saw.”

The two of you laugh it off, though, because the thought of Oscar Piastri harbouring a quiet little crush on his teammate’s girlfriend is quite silly.

It’s so silly, that the thought doesn’t cross your mind again for weeks.

Until Silverstone, when Lando wins, and you find yourself screaming at the top of your lungs as he gets up onto the podium.

You’ve giggled at pictures of yourself like this before, looking up at the podium as Lando receives his trophy. You can never manage to hide that adoring look in your eyes, like nothing matters but him, and you can feel it shining through now while you clap and cheer until your voice is hoarse.

There’s something so special about seeing your boy standing where he belongs.

The British national anthem begins, and for just a second your attention flicks to the left, where Oscar stands in his own spot on the podium.

You expect him to be staring straight off into the crowd, or perhaps tilting his head back, shutting his eyes as the anthem plays. What you don’t expect is to find him staring straight at Lando, with a far too familiar look in his eyes. The same look you were giving Lando ten seconds ago.

You blink up at him, like maybe your eyes will focus, and see that Oscar’s not even on the podium and you were just making things up. This does not happen. Oscar remains on the podium, and his eyes remain fixed on your boyfriend.

The national anthem comes to an end, and Oscar finally manages to drag his eyes away from Lando.

When he looks down into the crowd, his gaze collides with yours, and there’s a flicker of awareness in his expression, as his cheeks pink ever so slightly. It’s over in a second, though, because then the champagne is out, and there’s no time to think about anything other than celebrations.

In the garage, Lando finally seeks you out, planting a firm kiss on your lips the second he can reach you.

He pulls away to speak to you, grin spreading across his cheeks, still completely high from his win. Usually, you’d let him yap at you for hours straight after a race, but right now? Something sparked in you, seeing the way Oscar stared up at your boyfriend. Something that certainly won’t be satiated by a peck on the lips.

You wrap a hand around Lando’s neck, pulling him back towards you.

You catch him a little bit off guard, but it doesn’t take him long to melt into you, his big hands firm at your waist, pressing you against him as he lets his tongue explore your mouth. He tastes like champagne and victory, and it’s taking every ounce of restraint in you not to tear all his clothes off and give him a real winner’s reward.

Especially when you can feel the solid outline of chest through his soaked shirt.

You’re actually pretty sure you could, without anyone noticing. It’s so chaotic in the paddock right now that nobody is paying the two of you a lick of attention.

(Plus, it’s not like it would be the first time you and Lando have had sex in public… though maybe his place of work still isn’t the best time to go for a round two..?)

Somehow, you manage to drag yourself away from the kiss moments before it becomes straight up pornographic.

Lando’s cheeks are flushed, and his lips are still parted. He tilts his head, a grin spreading across his cheeks.

“What was that for?” he asks, breath hot against your ear as he leans back in, in close enough for you to hear him.

You bite your lip, not fully sure if you should tell Lando the real answer. But you do.

“I think,” you reply, “Oscar might have a crush on you.”

“Yeah?” mutters Lando.

You nod.

“Because I think,” he replies, tilting his head to the left ever so slightly, “He might have a crush on both of us.”

You follow his eyeline to where Oscar stands across the room, looking away from the two of you. His ears flush pink as both of you stare.

*

It’s not an uncommon sight, to find you, Lando, and Oscar sat around in the McLaren motorhome after a race.

Most friends and family choose to return to their hotels at this point, to avoid hours of sitting around and waiting, but you like the quiet time with the boys, listening to them recapping the race in private before they’re dragged away to do media stuff.

Today is no different. Lando is sat back on the sofa, legs spread comfortably as he explains his mindset through turn one to Oscar. You’re slotted in beside him, one arm around his shoulders, stroking his neck lazily as he speaks.

Oscar listens carefully, clinging on to Lando’s every word—like he always does—but his voice wavers when he replies. Lando asks him a question about his tyres into turn one, and Oscar starts to answer, but you lean in just a little bit closer to Lando as he does, purely to see if he’ll react.

Your hand slips into Lando’s hair, brushing a stray curl from his forehead, and when he turns his head slightly you press a soft kiss right below his ear. It’s completely innocent, of course, but it certainly does something to Oscar, because he trips over his words right away.

You drag your eyes away from Lando, to watch as a flushed pink spreads from Oscar’s neck, kissing up his freckles until it settles at his cheeks.

Lando, cool as a cucumber, pretends not to notice that Oscar has essentially turned to a babbling pile of mush, and stretches his arm along the back of the sofa behind you, brushing his fingers over your shoulder before he responds.

“That’s interesting, mate. Think it’s one we could both work on, but I definitely think you managed it better there.” He says, though it appears to go in one ear and out the other.

The best reply Oscar can conjure up is a small nod paired with a large gulp. He attempts to continue, talking about his best lap time of the race, and the incident with the cars at the back towards the start of the race, but his voice shakes each time one of you shifts in your seat.

You try very hard not to laugh, because it is a little bit cruel, but you can’t help that you’re a bit like cats sometimes, playing with your prey before you pounce.

When a member of the media team appears at the door, clipboard in hand, and announces that it’s ‘Interview O’Clock,’ Lando sighs dramatically, and attempts to cling onto you a little bit longer.

You manage to stand from the sofa despite his attempts, leaning down to kiss him quickly before you go. Then, you turn to Oscar, bending down across the sofa, and press a light kiss to his cheek. It’s a perfectly friendly goodbye.

A perfectly friendly goodbye that manages to turn Oscar an even more neon shade of pink. He freezes for half a second as the blush spreads, before managing to mumble a soft “bye,” under his breath. Lando watches this with a smug grin, and his eyes briefly flick to yours as you walk out the door.

You smile back, pretending not to notice that Oscar still hasn’t managed to recover.

*

There’s two weeks until the next race, and somebody at McLaren decides that this means Monday night is a perfectly acceptable day of the week to go out drinking.

You’d love to be able to say that you weren’t expecting to end up six cocktails deep clinging to Lando’s bicep at the VIP table of a ridiculously exclusive club, but unfortunately you know yourself far too well for that, and you’re not sure you and Lando have ever managed to go for ‘just one casual drink’. What you might not have been able to predict, however, is that Oscar Piastri would decide to join you for the night.

Oscar Piastri, who gags at the smell of vodka and takes an hour to finish half a pint.

It’s that part of the night, where everyone is either drunk or politely excused themself an hour ago, where your skin is warm and sticky and your options are to dance or take a nap.

Most of the remaining team have chosen to take themselves to the dancefloor, but you, Lando, and Oscar remain sprawled out across the plush purple booth.

Lando’s arm is around your shoulders, fingers softly tracing lines up and down your bare skin. You’re a touchy couple on an average day, but a few drinks in? you couldn’t pay Lando to take his hands off you.

Oscar sits opposite you, stirring a deep golden drink as he avoids your gaze. His cheeks are once again flushed, partially from the alcohol, partially from the warmth of the room, and maybe a little bit from simply being around you and Lando. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to expose the sharp rise and fall of his collarbones as he breathes, and you don’t try to hide the way your eyes trace his freckles.

Lando leans in closer to you, his lips brushing against the edge of your jaw. You keep your eyes on Oscar but lean into his touch. The smell of Lando’s cologne always does something to you, and this many drinks in you’re melting like butter for him. When his hand runs up your thigh to rest at your hip, you don’t hesitate to turn to him.

The kiss starts out warm and familiar, almost like you’re whispering that you love each other over the music. It doesn’t stay like that though. Maybe it’s the music, or the drinks, or Oscar’s eyes on you, but something heats up the kiss.

Your hands wander up and down Lando’s arms, his back, his thighs as you kiss, desperate for more contact. You actually moan into his mouth when he grabs a handful of ass, like you’re starved of his touch or something, and didn’t literally fuck him six hours ago.

When you break for air, Lando’s grin is lazy as he looks at you in that way that tells you he’s got about thirty minutes of this left in him before he bends you over the nearest flat surface and makes you cum until you cry.

Part of you considers that this club could use a bit of entertainment, and maybe you should test it out? The rational part of you agrees that you’ll keep it to the bedroom tonight.

But not quite yet.

You glance across the table and catch Oscar’s expression. He’s caught somewhere between fascination and guilt, lips parted in a half gasp as he glances away, eyes never meeting yours.

He tries to act casual, fingers tapping the side of his glass as his eyes dart over to the bar then back to you and Lando. It’s almost endearing.

You tilt your head slightly, and Lando takes it as an invite to trace your jaw with his teeth, drawing a soft whimper—silent against the pounding club music—from your lips.

When his lips meet yours once more, his tongue is greedier as he nips at your bottom lip, hands tangling through your hair as he pulls your head back, granting him further access to your mouth. The burning heat of Oscar’s gaze only spurs you on, rocking your body against Lando’s as you continue to kiss. 

It’s Lando who pulls away this time, with a low murmur of, “It’s time to go.”

As much as you love being a little bit of a brat sometimes, when Lando’s voice sounds like that, and you know exactly what’s waiting for you back at the hotel,you’re certainly not putting up a fight.

You follow Lando out of the booth, pausing to say goodbye before you go.

“Don’t stay out too late, Osc,” he shouts over the pounding music, slapping a hand against Oscar’s shoulder before finding your hand once again.

You run a hand up Oscar’s arm, giving the solid muscle a quick squeeze. “Goodnight, Oscar,” you say, in the sweetest voice you can produce, like you haven’t just sat and tortured the poor guy for an hour.   

And then you leave him, flushed and tipsy, to his own thoughts.

*

When you get back to your hotel room, there’s not much talking.

Not until you’re naked, adjusting yourself above Lando’s dick.

“Fuck,” he whispers, as you grind down onto him him. “So pretty like this, baby.”

You steady your hands against his chest, tracing lines up his tanned skin. He’s still wearing his white shirt, but he’s unbuttoned it completely.

He sits up, trying to shrug off the shirt, but you catch his wrist before he can get it off.

“Leave it on, please?” You ask, words broken into a half-moan as you feel him shift in his seat again, pressing himself deep inside of you.

He raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, breathy, rocking your hips against him, chasing any friction you can find. “Looked so fucking good today, Lan. Couldn’t stop thinking about this all night.”

“Mm,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “Did you see the way Oscar was staring at us?”

You nod. “Couldn’t take his eyes off us.”

Lando thinks before he speaks again, rocking his hips up, forcing another moan out of you. “Do you think he’s picturing us now?”

And suddenly there’s an image in your head, of Oscar, all alone in his hotel room, whimpering as he finds his climax but it’s still not enough to satisfy him, not now that he’s had the thought of the two of you using him like a toy.

“I think he’s fucking his hand,” you reply, voice a soft whisper, “wishing he was here with us.”

And you feel the way Lando’s body responds to that—jaw clenching, hips snapping up into you, as he pictures the two of you having your way with his sweet teammate.

“I bet he’s never had a threesome,” he says once he’s able to form a sentence.

“We’d treat him so well,” you gasp, fully riding him now.

Lando pulls you down against him, his movements becoming far less patient and controlled. “We’d ruin him.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, when you reply, “Maybe we should.”

His response is a soft hum, which he lets out right before lifting you off him like you weigh absolutely nothing. You gasp at the sudden feeling of emptiness, but it doesn’t last long, because then he’s flipping you onto your stomach and lining himself up with your entrance from behind.

“You’d love it, wouldn’t you baby?” He groans, as he pushes himself into you, not giving you that achingly slow moment to adjust this time, fucking in and out, hard.

He grabs a handful of your hair, yanking your head back as he pounds into you, the new angle allowing him to hit an even deeper spot than before.

You can barely find it in you to form the word, “Yes,” but you manage it, and it comes out a desperate, pleading sob. “I’d love it.”

“I know, my love.” He replies, planting a kiss at the base of your neck before dropping a hand to rub slow circles against your now-throbbing clit.

It’s devastating—the combination of Lando thrusting into you, so hard and so unrelenting, paired with his hand, so gentle as it guides you towards your orgasm. You don’t have to tell him when you’re close, because he already knows it, and he is too.

His hand speeds up, pace not faltering until jolts of pleasure are coursing through your veins and you’re seeing stars.

The feeling of you clenching around him as you moan out his name is just enough to push Lando over the edge too.

His thrusts slow to a deep, final stop, and he presses his fingers into your thighs hard as he reaches his climax.

He’s still for a moment, before he pulls out, just taking in the sight of you underneath him. When he does, you roll over, panting heavily, trying to catch your breath. When you lock eyes with Lando, he leans over to kiss you once again, softly this time.

Before his lips meet yours, you whisper, “You’d love it too.”

“Of course I would,” he replies. And that’s that decided.

*

Date night, a week and a half into summer break, you’re just on the verge of being tipsy as you and Lando make your way home—both of you agreeing to walk through the warm streets of Monaco rather than bothering to wait for a driver to pick you up.

Lando’s hand rests on your waist, always a steadying presence by your side. He leads you round a familiar corner, just a few streets away from your apartment.

And that’s when you see him.

Oscar, looking so perfectly sweet, lovely Oscar, in shorts and a dark hoodie, hair flopping down into his eyes as he walks right into you.

He notices you just a second after you notice him, but that second is enough for Lando to give your waist one tight, firm squeeze, a silent agreement between the two of you.

“Oscar!” You call out, arms extended wide for a hug. You relish in the pink tinge that stains his cheeks when you release him.

“Hello, mate,” adds Lando, slapping him on the back. “How’ve you been?”

“Yeah, alright,” he says, “Just resting up, you know how it is.”

“Course, I do, Osc,” Lando replies, and you’re sure Oscar’s blush deepens at the use of that nickname. “So you’re not busy, then?”

“Nah, not particularly.”

“Great!” smiles Lando “So you’ll come back to ours for a drink?”

Oscar blinks. “What, like, now?”

Lando grins. “Like, now.”

“Ah, you know, I should probably be getting home—”

You cut him off, running a hand up his bicep, doe-eyes blinking hard. “Come on, Oscar, it’s just one drink and we’ve missed you so much this week.”

He swallows, hard, then says, “alright. Just one.”

“Just one,” echoes Lando.

*

When you’ve returned your wine glasses to the kitchen, after the one drink Oscar agreed to, you settle back down on the sofa next to Oscar, who’s wedged between you and Lando.

Your short skirt shows off most of your bare legs when you’re sat like this, and Oscar stares straight ahead, blinking at your wall as he avoids looking at all the skin you’ve got on display.

Lando catches your eye, and you nod, one final yes.

“Babe,” he says, faux concern laced through his voice. “You have something on your lip. Come here.”

You lean forward across Oscar, enough so that the neckline of your shirt drops, exposing far more cleavage than before.

Lando leans forward too, and before you can register what he’s doing, he licks the corner of your mouth.

You laugh, head tilting towards Oscar, which leaves your neck exposed. Lando takes that chance to scatter open-mouthed kisses down your neck, pausing to scrape his teeth along your pulse point.

You lock eyes with Oscar, a gasp of pleasure slipping from you, and he holds your gaze for a second, pupils blown wide. When he looks away, he’s blushing, hard.

You let the hand closest to him snake along his back, and he’s burning hot against your touch.

Oscar parts his lips, like he’s right on the cusp of saying something that’s on his mind. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shifts in his seat silently.

Lando stills against you, breath still warm against your neck as his lips curve up into a smile before he pulls away.

“Sorry, Oscar,” he says, sly grin only growing wider, “Are we bothering you?” 

You can’t pull your eyes away from Oscar now, the way the flushed pink of his cheeks spreads right up to the tip of his ears, and right down below the collar of his shirt.

His eyes don’t meet yours or Lando’s when he replies, shakily, “No.”

You let your fingers trace down the curve of his spine, pausing as you find his shirt has ridden up ever so slightly, revealing a sliver of his back.

When your fingers, whisper soft, press against the warm skin, he inhales.

It’s tiny—so quiet—but it’s like music to your ears

“Lan?” You say, as casually as if you were about to ask him to add tomatoes to his shopping list.

“Hmm?” He replies, equally as casually. 

“I think,” you continue, emphasising the I, “Oscar might like it,”

“Do you think so?” Lando asks, though the way he says it tells you it’s not really a question.

He turns his head, so he’s perfectly in line with Oscar’s throat.

“I think you’ve got a crush on my girlfriend, Osc.” He murmurs, breath soft against Oscar’s neck. You watch as his jaw clenches in response, eyes fixed ahead of him, desperately holding onto some shred of control.

Lando brings his hand up to Oscar’s face, cupping his cheek. He keeps his mouth so close to his neck that when he speaks again, voice sure and steady, his teeth graze the sensitive skin.  

“Do you want to kiss my girlfriend?”

And that’s when you see Oscar lose the shred of control he’d been holding onto. His eyes snap down to meet Lando’s, and he nods silently, the movement so subtle you’re sure you would’ve missed it if you weren’t paying such close attention to him.

Lando doesn’t miss it though.

Using the hand cupping Oscar’s cheek, he tilts his head towards you, an invitation you’re more than willing to accept.

Your fingers ghost against his face, finding Lando’s hand and settling over it as your lips meet Oscar’s.

The first thing you notice is how soft Oscar’s lips are. His lips part in a whisper of a gasp as you take his bottom lip between your teeth, nipping just hard enough to sting.

Kissing Oscar feels just like kissing a girl usually does. He’s so pliant, so ready to let you take the lead, which you do, tongue pushing into his mouth, tasting the sweet wine from before.

You almost have to remind yourself not to reach for a handful of tit—though, judging by the way Oscar’s turning to mush at your touch, he’d probably quite like that.

You adjust your weight, knee brushing against Oscar’s leg, and he actually whimpers into your kiss, both of his hands now resting at your waist.

A smile curling at your lips, you pull away ever so slightly and take in the sight of him, cheeks already flushed pink, lips parted as he catches his breath. You lean in again, but don’t quite let him have another kiss yet. 

“The thing is,” you whisper, lips brushing against his. “I think you might have a crush on my boyfriend, too.”

Oscar’s breath catches as you run your fingers through his hair, barely giving him a second to think before you’re gripping it, turning him to face Lando, who hasn’t stopped staring since you got your hands on his teammate.

“Do you want to kiss my boyfriend, Oscar?”

Lando doesn’t hesitate for even a second to take that invitation.

His mouth finds Oscar’s with a determination that flushes your cheeks pink, like he’s been picturing this moment just as much as you have. You bite your lip, not bothering to hide exactly how hot the image of the two of them kissing is to you.

Lando’s hand never leaves Oscar’s cheek, thumb pressing lightly into the hinge of his jaw as he deepens the kiss, and then, with a shift of his body and a firm tug, he’s pulling him closer, guiding him easily until he’s straddling his lap.

It’s so seamless, so natural, if you’d have blinked you might have missed the movement altogether.

You decide you love the way Oscar doesn’t resist at all. His body completely yields to Lando’s, knees resting against Lando’s thighs, hands still clumsily grasping your waist until one finally moves, uncertain, to Lando’s shoulder.

He lets Lando take complete control of the kiss, lets himself be tilted and pulled into exactly the position Lando wants him in; completely melts against him.

Then, a sound slips from Oscar’s throat. It’s small and broken, almost a whimper, and it makes Lando smile against his mouth, letting out a satisfied hum. You recognise that smile, because it’s one you’ve prompted on many occasions. It’s the smile that says, yeah, that’s right, I’m the one who makes you feel good.

And oh, how right he is.

Lando kisses Oscar like he owns him, like he’s known all along that this moment was waiting, and Oscar gives himself over to it so easily it almost makes you dizzy to watch, his body softening against Lando’s touch, knees tightening around his thighs as though he needs an anchor.

He’s probably never been kissed quite like this before. You certainly hadn’t, before Lando.

You’d once told him he ruined other men for you forever. Though you quickly took that back after your first threesome together, as it turned out he was quite capable of making other men very pleasant indeed.

Your gaze wanders down Oscar’s chest to his waist, where Lando’s hands hold him steady. The gasp that escapes you is completely involuntary, when you realise Lando can very nearly touch his fingers together around Oscar’s waist.

The size difference between the two boys is almost as erotic as the sight of them lapping up each other’s tongues. Oscar, so much bigger than Lando, yet looking so unreasonably tiny as he completely hands over control.

You decide you could stay and watch this forever, the two of them locked together, but then Lando finally breaks the kiss, dragging his mouth away just far enough to look at you over Oscar’s shoulder, eyes dark and shining with triumph. His lips curve, breathless but steady, and his voice is low when he says, “Look at us, having all the fun without my beautiful girl… Come here, Baby.”

Lando’s words are a command, not really a question, you know that, so you find yourself moving before your brain has fully processed his words, leaning into their burning space.

Lando’s hand is still firm against Oscar’s jaw, so it’s easy for him to guide the angle when you press closer, tilting Oscar’s face just enough to allow you access to him. The brush of your lips against his is different this time, wetter now from Lando’s kiss, his breath stuttering hot against your mouth as he struggles to process this fantasy of his coming to life.

This time, Lando doesn’t just watch as you kiss Oscar.

No, he drops his hand to your panties, completely exposed under your short skirt and presses hard against you, until the tiniest bit of friction sends a jolt of pleasure through you. At the same time, he grinds his hips up against Oscar, forcing soft whines out of both of you at once.

Lando continues his movements, revelling in the sight of you and Oscar moaning into each other’s mouths.

You’re just about to lose your patience with his barely-there touch, when Lando abruptly pulls Oscar off his lap, separating the two of you completely.

Oscar blinks at Lando dumbly, eyes glassy and hair a mess.

“On your knees,” says Lando.

Oscar follows his instruction obediently, dropping to his knees.

You’re not expecting Lando to drop down with him, so they both kneel at your feet, but you’re certainly not complaining when it happens.

You let Lando be in control here, like he always is, and so does Oscar.

Lando continues, “pull down her skirt.”

Oscar brings his hands up to the tiny thing, and does as he’s told, delicate hands working quickly to pull the tight fabric down your legs.

You lift your hips up to help him, and when they’re off his hands shoot right back up to pull down your little red thong—already soaked through from just kissing the two boys.

You can’t help but laugh at his eagerness, and your eyes lock with Lando’s as his lips quirk upwards.

“Look at you,” He purrs against Oscar’s ear. “So eager. Do you want to make her feel good?”

He nods, and you spread your legs for the two of them, revealing your soaked core.

Lando touches you first, fingers swiping achingly slowly from your entrance up to your clit. He brings the fingers to Oscar’s mouth, where he parts his lips obediently and sucks your wetness off Lando’s fingers.

“Doesn’t she taste perfect?” Lando asks.

Oscar just nods again.

“Go on,” he continues, “You can taste.”

It’s like Oscar is made to serve, like making you feel good is the only thing keeping him ticking, like he needs it more than oxygen.

The way he laps you up, two fingers fucking into you hard and perfectly deep.

You let your head drop back, eyes fluttering shut as he finds a steady pace, fingers curling up into you until he finds that spot that has your hips twitching up into him. He smiles against you at that, but doesn’t slow down, so eager to please.

Lando notices it too, the way he reacts to your pleasure, because a second later you hear his voice, low and calculated, murmuring words of encouragement for him.

“That’s it, Oscar. Good boy,” he says, and Oscar whines against you, the feeling of his stuttering breath almost enough to send you over the edge.

He pumps his fingers in and out again, but when his pace stutters for a moment, another whimper slipping from him, you notice it, and your eyes dart down to where he kneels.

There, you find Lando, palm pressed flat against Oscar’s cock as he continues to mutter words of encouragement for Oscar.

And that, the sight, the feeling of Oscar desperately moaning into you while he squirms under Lando’s touch is far too much for you to handle.

Your head drops back against the sofa once again, and you squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the way Oscar’s tongue flicks against your clit, and your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

And then you’re right there, waves of pleasure crashing over you, your hips pushing up against Oscar’s mouth, as his little noises of pleasure blend together with yours.

You fall back, catching your breath. You don’t open your eyes right away—instead, you give all your energy to your other senses. To the feeling of the two men kneeling at your feet, their shoulders brushing your knees as they move against one another. To the sounds Oscar is making, so perfectly desperate, as Lando strokes his cock.

Dragging an eye open, your gaze finds Lando, peppering open-mouthed kisses along Oscar’s jaw, left hand gripping the back of his neck just hard enough to make him gasp, while his right hand continues to work up and down his length, which is no longer concealed by layers of soft fabric.

You keep your eyes glued to them as Lando’s mouth finds Oscar’s again, licking into his mouth, teeth catching against his flushed lower lip as they kiss hungrily, and messily.

Just as Oscar begins to rock his hips up against Lando’s firm hand, he pulls away—from both the kiss and Oscar’s cock, a grin spreading across his cheeks.

“Desperate for it, aren’t you, Osc?”

If this embarrasses Oscar, he certainly doesn’t show it, simply nodding, wide-eyed, at Lando.

“Been picturing it for a long time?” Lando continues, tracing a finger down Oscar’s pale, exposed neck.

Again, Oscar nods. But this time, he allows a soft shade of pink to tint his cheeks.

“Did you touch yourself, thinking about us?”

Oscar hesitates, then chokes out, “Yes—Fuck. After that night at the club.”

Lando’s eye’s snap up to meet yours, and he drops his hand back down to Oscar’s cock.

“We pictured you, too, Osc. Talked about you while we fucked that night.”

Oscar doesn’t reply, simply drops his head to Lando’s shoulder and whines, melted to a puddle under Lando’s touch.

He pulls away again, to Oscar’s visible disappointment, though this time he guides the Australian to his feet, positioning him next to you on the sofa.

“Come here, baby.” He says, attention back on you now. He gestures for you to join him, kneeling on the floor in front of Oscar.

“How about you show Oscar just how badly you wanted him?” He says once you’re on the floor next to him, gently tucking a stray hair behind your ear.

You nod, taking Oscar’s length in one hand. It rests for a moment at the base of his cock, barely moving. He takes a deep breath, and it’s perfectly shaky.

Lando’s hand snakes across yours, interlocking your fingers, before he drags both of you up and down Oscar’s length.

Oscar’s head drops backwards immediately, a groan spilling from his lips as his hands cling to the edge of the sofa.

“That’s it, beautiful,” says Lando, and you’re not completely sure if he’s talking to you or Oscar, until he pulls his hand away from yours, and whispers, “You want to make Oscar feel good, don’t you?”

You nod, continuing to work Oscar’s cock while Lando stands up, unbuttoning his trousers.

Oscar makes the most perfect sounds when you’re stroking his dick, and you focus in on that while Lando rises to his feet and undresses himself, testing what makes him squirm.

You trace a gentle finger along his tip, gathering the drop of precum that has pooled there. Oscar manages to breathe out a soft, “Please,” at that, which only makes you grin harder.

You still your hand, and look up at him through your lashes. “Is that what you want, Oscar?”

He nods, jaw tense.

“You’re going to have to use your words, baby.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenched, and shakily manages, “right there, please.”

“Good boy,” you reply, letting your fingers caress the soft skin again. His hips buck up as you move, and you settle into a rhythm again.

Lando is fully naked now, and you realise this as he lines his length up with your face.

You look up at him, still grinning.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,”

“Want something to do with that pretty little mouth of yours?”

You nod, because for some reason, despite being able to produce a whole string of commands for Oscar, when it comes to Lando your brain melts back down into putty.

He hums as you stick your tongue out, swirling it against his tip before taking in his whole length.

You know the size of him so well, know exactly what you can handle, so you don’t have to think as you bob your head up and down. You find a steady beat, hand moving up and down Oscar’s length as you take Lando’s.

You continue for a little while, until the three of you are a mess of spit and groans, and you’re pretty sure you could cum at least once from the pure eroticism of making the two drivers feel this good.

Your brain is short-circuiting in that way it often does when Lando’s dick is in your mouth, and you desperately want to just shut your eyes and let him use you.

He must notice the way your eyes flutter closed, hand still steadily working Oscar’s throbbing cock, because he threads his hand through your hair and seconds later is snapping his hips forward into you, finding a steady rhythm.

There’s something so perfect about the way the two men react to your movements—Lando, pushing your head down as far as he knows you can take it, muttering just how good you are for him, while Oscar fists his hand into the sofa, a whining, twitching mess. You feel completely in control of Oscar, yet you couldn’t feel less in charge with Lando.

But that’s what’s so perfect about your relationship with Lando, and why it works so well when you invite someone new to the bedroom. The two of you know each other’s bodies so perfectly, that it gets to be a game of discovering what the new person likes together.

When your jaw is beginning to ache, Lando slows his movements to a stop before he pulls away from you. A string of saliva connects you still, and you try to chase it, not quite ready to be done yet, but Lando stops you with a firm hand, turning you back to Oscar.

“Good girl,” he says, when you speed your hand up again, pumping up and down until Oscar is shaking, jolting with each movement, and you pull your hand away completely, leaving him twitching up against nothing.

Then Lando’s hands are on you, lifting you up onto the sofa, where Oscar sits trying to catch his breath.

“Think he’ll sit there like a good boy while I take care of you for a bit, baby?” Says Lando, voice low and hoarse.

You nod, immediately, and when you look up at Oscar, he’s nodding too.

“That’s right,” Lando continues. “Sit on your hands for me, Osc. No touching yourself for a bit, okay?”

He nods, cheeks flushed a brighter shade of red than you’ve ever seen them. Lando manhandles you into the position he wants you in—ass up, face down, resting on Oscar’s lap.

When you get your hands on Oscar’s thigh, he lets out the tiniest whimper, already tortured by not being able to touch himself. You begin to say something, to praise him, tell him what a good little toy he’s being for you two, but then Lando begins to tease at your entrance, and then you’re the one whimpering pathetically.

You’re not quite sure how you continue to be surprised by the sheer size of Lando, after so many years together, but when he bottoms out in one slow, delicious thrust, it has you crying out, weak at the knees, barely able to steady yourself over Oscar.

Lando gives you a second—just a second—to adjust, before rocking back into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, “So perfect, Lando.”

Lando grunts, hips rolling hard against you, hitting your G-spot once more, forcing another choked half-moan from your lips.

And poor Oscar doesn’t know where to look, eyes darting between you—mouth dropped open into a silent ‘O’, eyes fluttering, barely open, rocking forwards into Oscar’s lap each time Lando’s hips snap against yours—and Lando, all toned, tanned skin, one hand digging bruises into your waist as the other tangles through your hair, fucking you hard and deep at this ridiculous angle that hits exactly the right spot.

Oscar shifts, hands still firmly tucked underneath him, his cock throbbing against his pale chest.

Lando yanks your hair back, ripping a moan out of you. The way Oscar’s dick twitches at the noise has you right there on the verge of another climax.

You clench around Lando, head falling forward to rest on Oscar’s thigh, and you’re not sure which of the two men groans louder.

“That’s it, Baby,” grunts Lando, “So fuckin’ close. You gonna come for me?”

You just about manage to hum in agreement, which is enough for him to drop the hand laced through your hair down to your clit, his skilled, practiced fingers rubbing quick, tiny circles that have you rocking back onto him.

Each brush of pressure sends a jolt of pleasure right up your spine until you’re dizzy and the only thoughts on your mind are Oscar’s strong thigh underneath you, and Lando’s warm, solid body behind you.

It feels like Lando is fucking into you even deeper than before, and it’s almost too much for you to handle, the feeling is too good. A moan threatens to rip from you, but you cut it off, teeth sinking, biting, into Oscar’s leg. And once again, he whimpers, hips bucking up into thin air, cock painfully strained.

Then you’re tumbling over the edge, vision blurring as tiny explosions go off in your stomach, Lando’s own thrusts becoming far more erratic as he brings himself to his climax.

“Gonna come, fuck—course I am, seeing you all over Oscar like this.”

You don’t have the words to tell Lando exactly how fucking hot this is for you, too, watching him play with his teammate like a toy, feeling him so deep inside you that you can barely breathe, but you do manage to turn your head to look at him. To catch a glimpse of him as he loses control, eyes squeezed tightly shut and jaw clenched, hard.

Warmth spreads through you, and that feeling, that fullness you can never get enough of is suddenly the only thing on in your brain, which is foggy and without thoughts once again.

You keep your face pressed into Oscar, as you whine out a pathetic, “Lando,”

“I know,” he says, soft and gentle as he pulls out of you.

You roll onto your back, searching for his face. He pulls you up against him, then slowly, as you catch your breath, tilts your head to look at Oscar.

Oscar, who is squirming, hands shoved underneath him, beautiful brown eyes watery as he tries to maintain control.

And holy fuck, the sight of Oscar like that, so pathetic, clears the fog in your brain. Enough that you think you might quite like to have a little bit more fun with him.

You stare at Oscar, who’s blinking at you dumbly, presumably waiting to be told exactly what he can and can’t do. Lando must interpret it this way too, because he lets out a light chuckle, and pats your shoulder.

“Got him all stupid,” he says.

“Exactly how I want him,” you reply, standing up so you’re towering over him despite your still shaking legs.

“Oscar,” you say sweetly, placing one hand on each of his shoulders, steadying yourself more than anything.

“You gonna sit nicely a little longer, while I get myself off on this big, strong thigh of yours?”

He swallows, hard. And you’re fairly sure you even hear Lando suck in a breath.

Oscar starts to nod, but, like he knows you’re going to tell him to use his words, manages to choke out a strangled, “Yes. Please.”

You let the grin spread across your face again and lower yourself onto his thigh.

And oh, you weren’t exaggerating when you called him big and strong. The muscles of his thigh tense as you settle on it, and it’s close enough to rock solid underneath you.

Oscar groans at the contact, at the feeling of you, so wet against him, still dripping with Lando’s cum.

Lando settles himself on the sofa next to you, and begins to stroke his cock lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.

You rock your hips forward, the tiniest bit of friction enough to spark a moan from your lips.

Oscar’s hands fumble at the hem of your shirt, a silent request to get you just as naked as them, and you nod, letting him pull it up over your head. You have to pause your movements for a second, when your shirt covers your face, but once Oscar has managed to get it off you’re right back to it, hips rolling forward into him.

You use his shoulders to steady yourself, and find your fingers tracing the solid muscle at the base of his neck.

Formula one drivers and their necks.

You bring your lips down to his neck, and run your tongue along it. Oscar hisses in a breath, and you let your teeth nip at his sensitive skin just a little.

Somewhere next to you, Lando laughs.

“Knew you’d be all over his neck, baby.”

In silent agreement, you scatter a few more bruises along Oscar’s jaw.

His hands find your hips, and move you back and forth, speeding up until you’re moaning, loud, in his ear. You’re still so sensitive from your last orgasm, and Oscar is so desperate to make you feel good, you’re sure you’ll be close to another within seconds at this rate.

You toss your head back, unashamedly bucking your hips into him, squeezing your eyes tighter and tighter until the only thing in your brain is your next climax rapidly approaching.

The pads of your fingers press into his shoulders—hard, but you can barely spare a thought for any pain he might be in, and he certainly doesn’t complain as you fuck yourself against his thigh.

You’re sure you see stars, this time, as you come, panting hard, nails digging harsh marks into Oscar’s back.

You stay like that for a moment, heart racing, head tipped back.

As you let your head straighten, eyes still squeezed tightly shut, a pair of hands grips at your waist. They’re too big to be Oscar’s, you think, and far too familiar as they run up and down your bare skin.

“Hey,” comes Lando’s voice—soft, and gentle in that way it always is when you’re coming down from a climax. “Do you want to fuck Oscar like this?”

At that, you manage to pry your eyes open, breath still shallow and uneven.

You take in the way Lando still looks so relaxed, despite his arousal, and the casual sing-song to his voice when he asks you these questions designed to drive you mad.

Then, you shift your eyes across to where Oscar sits patiently underneath you. And the way he looks almost knocks the breath right back out of you.

His cheeks are flushed, the pale pink a stark contrast against the pale of his freckled cheeks, and his eyes are glassy, barely focused on you as you take him in. His lips part ever so slightly, and you think, for a moment, that he might speak.

But he doesn’t. He just continues to stare dumbly at you.

Then, finally, you let your eyes drop down.

Oscar’s cock is painfully hard against his chest, precum leaking from its tip. You trace a gentle line up its base, and he shudders, pleading doe-eyes snapping up to meet yours. 

You feel yourself soften at the edges a little. Lando always loves to play with his food a little bit before he eats it, but you can’t help but take pity on Oscar.

“Is that what you need, baby?” you ask, fingers still feather-light against his tip. “Need me to take control? Ride you properly?”

He buries his face in your shoulder, voice barely a whimper, and nods.

You glance up at Lando, and his grip on your waist tightens, before lifting you. You adjust yourself above Oscar, then sink down onto him, a sharp gasp falling from you as you do.

Oscar bites his lip, humming out a half moan as he fumbles to keep you from moving for a second while he regulates his breathing.

“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper, “we can go slow.”

Oscar nods, fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of your thigh when you grind against him. It’s a gentle, barely there movement, but it has him whining in your ear.

“Fuck,” he pants out, “feels good.”

Lando, sat so close next to him that their whole sides are pressed together, runs a hand down Oscar’s arm.

“Yeah?” he says, letting his thumb rub circles across Oscar’s bicep. “You love it?”

You roll your hips forward again, and Oscar whimpers. “Yes, Lando—” he inhales sharply. “Love it.”

Lando grins, settling himself back into the sofa and running a lazy hand over his cock, which is already getting hard again.

He’s far too comfortable like this – sprawled across his sofa, at his house, watching his girlfriend ride his teammate.

“Thought you would.” He replies, after a long pause. “Pictured how good you’d look under both of us. All needy and pathetic.”

This time it’s Oscar thrusting up into you, the soft moans from both of your mouths blending into one. He finds a steady rhythm—him, fucking up into you as you grind your hips against him, both drawing tiny little noises of pleasure from the other.

Oscar brings a hand up to your tits, eyes fixated on the way they bounce up and down as you ride him, the sight almost pornographic. He rolls a nipple between two fingers, harder than you’re expecting, and the moan it drags from you is a surprise to even you.

“Fuck,” says Lando—still thrusting up into his own hand—as Oscar brings his mouth to join his hand, tongue flat against your nipple, “We might have to keep him.”

“Fuck him in every position,” you reply immediately, voice breathy.

That has Oscar bringing his mouth back to yours, swallowing your moans as he presses his tongue into yours, hands completely unable to decide where to rest as they explore your naked body.

Lando chokes out another moan. When you look at him again, he says, “I want you to make him come.” It’s nearly enough to make you choke on thin air. “Wanna watch him fill you up, too,” he continues, voice hoarse, hand still pumping lazy strokes up and down his flushed cock.

Then he looks at Oscar. He doesn’t meet his eyes. Not until Lando’s hand grabs his jaw and tilts it towards himself.

“Does that turn you on, Osc?” He asks, and you clench around Oscar, forcing a deep groan out of him before he can reply.

“Yes, fuck, please. Gonna—” He interrupts himself with another sharp moan, hips snapping up into you harder, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you feel so good over and over.

Your nails dig into his shoulders again, and you bring your mouth right up to his ear, so your breath warms his cheek when you whisper, “Please, come for me baby.”

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to become uneven, his whimpers becoming louder and far more pathetic, and then he’s lacing his fingers through yours before his final, deep thrust.

There’s something so deeply intimate, about the spreading warmth of Oscar coming inside you, where Lando has already filled you up.

Oscar pants, as his cock throbs, and all you can do in response is press your mouth up against his cheek again and tell him how perfect he was for you.

“Made me feel so good, Oscar. Filled me up so nicely.”

He practically purrs in response, eyes half lidded, brain so clearly dazed and foggy, leaving him completely pliant. You wait a moment, before getting up, letting Oscar ride his high a little longer.

You wince at the emptiness when you do get up, but Oscar’s mouth simply drops open, face blank and seemingly completely devoid of thoughts.

You raise an eyebrow to Lando, who seems perfectly content to sit and fuck his own hand, as he watches you do whatever you want with Oscar.

You look back at his open mouth, and his soft pleading eyes.

Your thumb slips into his mouth far too easily, and when it does, it’s like it ignites something in Oscar’s brain. He sucks your finger, humming as he does.

And it’s a bit like looking in a mirror. You know exactly what he needs, because it’s exactly what you need when you get like this.

“Want something in your mouth?” you ask, voice oh so gentle now.

He nods, and you guide him to his knees in front of Lando, where you join him. Oscar drops his mouth open, blinking up at Lando, who doesn’t hesitate to fuck into it, earning a whine of thanks from Oscar.

Lando laces his fingers through Oscar’s hair and uses his mouth like a fuck toy, the only sounds filling the air the wet, hot grunts of pleasure from both men, and the soft sound of gagging as Oscar desperately tries to fit more of Lando’s impressive length down his throat.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been watching them like this, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, when Lando pulls away from Oscar,

But suddenly he’s fucking into your mouth, and Oscar can’t even bring himself to whine about his mouth being empty, because then Lando’s switching back and forth between the two of you, edging himself closer and closer to a second climax.

You can barely think, once again, so desperate to please Lando when he’s like this, so turned on by the feeling of choking on his cock, but both you and Oscar still far too sensitive to touch yourselves, reduced to existing just to make Lando feel good.

You’re sure Lando’s followed this train of thought too, because he’s not going to last long, muttering jumbled words of praise to both of you as his thrusts become more frantic.

“Gonna play nice?” he asks, breathily. “Gonna share?”

He doesn’t need to ask, not really, because he knows you’d both say yes to just about anything right now, but you’re both whimpering out pleas of yes, Lando, anything anyway as he strokes his cock above your faces.

When he finally fucks himself over the edge, warm come spills across your face, your eager tongue, your chest, and Oscar’s too.

And it’s sticky, and disgusting, and so erotic when Oscar starts to lap at your face like he’ll die if he doesn’t get to taste Lando again, waiting patiently for you to reciprocate. When you do, you let your tongue explore all the way back down his chest, not sparing a drop.

You share another kiss, as Lando watches, and it’s salty and hot. You run your hands along his thighs, and he gropes hungrily at your ass, neither of you quite ready to take your hands off the other yet, all three of you very aware that this won’t be the last time you fuck. Not even close.

*

You’re not quite sure how all three of you manage to fit in the shower, but you do, and whilst you’re in there Lando insists it’s entirely unfair that Oscar’s only had one orgasm, before sinking to his knees and sucking him off until he’s gripping onto you, and the bathroom wall, desperately willing his legs not to give in, even when faced with the totally, stupidly, ridiculously hot sight of Lando swallowing his come.

After that, the three of you, mostly clean and dry, return to the sofa.

“Reckon we’ll let you stay the night,” says Lando, swinging his feet over to rest on Oscar’s lap.

Charles Leclerc | 16 crying aka dacryphilia

Seeing you cry is something he doesn't want to see often

But when he does see it, it just strikes something in him

Maybe his protective side? The urge to make you feel better?

He just loves seeing you be so raw, unguarded, and open to him

Because Charles is a very emotionally stable person, he rarely even cries to anyone

So seeing you grant him that permission to see you so vulerable... he just wants to make you feel better

But he can never say it, he's just not sure how to

So he just does his best to overstimulate you in bed

That way your eyes can water up, maybe earn a cry or two from you

Which is always his end goal

To have you feeling so good that you're squirming

Isack Hadjar | 06 cocky attitude

Being competitive is one of Isacks strong suits

So seeing you be equally as competitive is something that just drives him further

It just makes him excited to see you be so cocky

Hearing you praise yourself, he loves seeing your confidence

And hearing you degrade him? Yeah, he's into that too

If you win, he's going to reward you

Any position you want, he'll give it to you

You won fain and square anyways

If you lose? Oh he's even more turned on

Seeing your ego being crushed or having to make up an excuse as to why you lost

It just makes him want you even more

To shut you up and make you babble more nonsense

He's also really into bragging about his wins

Just to rile you up and get you to tell him how he "cheated" or that you "weren't ready"

And you fell right for his trap

Lando Norris | 04 wearing someone elses merch

Oscar is his teammate and rival, everyone knows that

So seeing you casually walk around the house in Oscars jersey is just insane to him

"Really?" Lando asks as he walks up to you. You simply twirl in the merch you bought

"I gotta support Osc too!" You say with a smile

And instantly he's putting his lips all over you

Just something inside him likes the idea of seeing so obedient under him while following someone else

And it feels so dirty to him

As if he's taking away someone's fan

Makes him fuck you rougher, for longer, and meaner

So you take note and wear other jerseys

Doesn't who, what team, or even the sport

Just loves seeing you in someone elses name

Ollie Bearman | 87 modest clothing

Seeing you be so cute, clean, and modest

It just makes him want to tear it apart

Loves the idea of being so freaky while hiding it

Because look at him? He's some lanky, awkward, British man

No one would ever suspect that he's fingering you till you squirt all over him

Or he's fucked you on every surface in your cute apartment

When you cover your chest, your legs, it just reminds him what he misses seeing

Loves when you wear baggy clothes the most,

He always tugs it back, making your figure become highlighted in it

It's like a surprise, expect he knows exactly what's coming

Oscar Piastri | 81 being alone in a car

Something primal just,,, comes out when Oscar is in a car with you

It truly doesn't matter the scenery, the outfit, the time

Just the idea of being locked in a car with you instantly makes him want to slide his hand up your thigh

Which he always does without fail

"Osc." You always say as a warning to him

But he never cares, and he knows you always want it too

He'll fuck you anywhere in the car

Sitting on his lap in the driver seat, letting you ride him

Using his fingers while you try to squirm away, but he just uses his other free hand to pull your thighs apart

Or moving to the back so he can fuck you missionary

Or maybe doggy, letting you look out the window like a true dog

All the possibilities just drive him insane

Loves that you can't run away from him

You're his, trapped in his cage

Paul Aron | 17 being uninterested in him

Everyone loves Paul, or can at least admit he's attractive

Even his biggest haters can't say he's ugly

Cause that's just a straight lie

He's spoiled in attention, basking in his limelight

So when you rob him of it, ignoring him

He's so intrigued and turned on by the sight of you looking away

If you're cooking and not hearing a word he says?

Instantly, he turns off the stove and begins to lift you onto the counter

If you're working on an important essay with noise cancelling headphones?

He slides your chair out of the desk and will get on his knees to please you

It works in your favor by knowing exactly how to get him going

He loves it even more when you try to ignore him while he's pounding you

Seeing you try to read your book with your mouth open, instantly he's quickening his pace to break you

Or avoiding his eyes and looking off to the side, he'll grab your face and make you look at him, giving him all the attention he deserves

Pepe Marti | 21 paying for you

It's such a minimal thing to you, yet for him it changes everything

You don't even know this is a secret turn on for him

He always pays for your nails, a sweet action that you loved

He would even help design your newest set and pick out the colors, shapes, 3D details

When you come home and show him, he just feels so proud

He doesn't care that your nails cost $200, he just loves providing for you

Or when you get your hair retouched and styled for a date, costing almost $800 just for a simple blowout

He could give less of a shit about the cost

Having you look so good, knowing he paid for it, knowing he's providing for his partner is all he needs

It's like a piece of you is permanently altered by him, claiming you

Loves when you tell others that he helped pick your clothes, buy your makeup, or paid for your expensive Dyson hair tools

Just wants to make you a comfortable princess

And it's the details that drive him crazy

Like when you're giving him a handjob with the nails he designed and paid for

Or when you're riding him and your freshly style hair bounces so nicely alongside your chest

Or when your makeup is smudged against the sheets from him pounding into you

It's so fun making you dolled up, to claim you, provide for you, and ruin you

The paddock was louder than any concert you’d ever played, which was saying something. Engines snarled in the background, fans pressed against barriers, and the sun beat down on the asphalt like it was part of the show. You’d been invited by one of the teams after they’d used one of your songs in a promo, and you’d expected a quick handshake, a photo, maybe a garage tour.

You had not expected to be handed the pole position award and told, casually, “You’ll be giving this to the driver who qualifies first.”

You tried to play it cool. You’d performed in front of tens of thousands, but this was different. This was stepping into someone else’s world.

When Lando Norris stepped onto the stage, helmet under his arm, curls damp with sweat, grin bright enough to blind, you understood why the crowd erupted. He looked like he belonged in the spotlight. He looked like he enjoyed it.

And then he looked at you.

Not past you. Not through you. At you.

His smile faltered for half a second, replaced by something softer, surprised. You felt it like a jolt.

You handed him the award, and he took it with one hand while the other brushed yours. Not an accident. Not quite deliberate. Something in between.

“Hi,” he said, leaning in just enough that only you could hear. “I’m a big fan.”

You laughed, because that was ridiculous. “Pretty sure I’m supposed to say that to you.”

He shook his head, curls bouncing. “No, seriously. I listened to your album on the flight here. Twice.”

You blinked. “Twice?”

He shrugged, cheeks pink. “It’s good.”

The cameras flashed. The crowd roared. But for a moment, it felt like the two of you were standing alone on that stage.

---

Later, after the media frenzy died down, you found yourself lingering near the McLaren garage. You weren’t sure why. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something else.

Lando spotted you before you could decide.

He jogged over, still in his race suit, still glowing with that post-qualifying buzz. “You didn’t leave.”

“Should I have?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Definitely not.”

He leaned against the barrier, arms folded, eyes warm. “So… how’s your first F1 weekend?”

“Loud,” you said. “Fast. Terrifying. Kind of addictive.”

He laughed. “That’s the correct answer.”

You talked. About music. About racing. About travel and pressure and the weirdness of fame. He was easy to talk to — open, funny, a little shy in a way that didn’t match the confident driver you’d seen on track.

At one point, he nudged your shoulder with his. “You know, if you ever want a tour from someone who actually knows what they’re doing…”

You raised a brow. “Are you offering?”

His grin turned boyish. “Maybe.”

You didn’t exchange numbers. You didn’t need to. Something had already settled between you — unspoken, but unmistakable.

---

Race day was chaos. You watched from the garage, headphones on, heart pounding like you were about to go on stage. Every time Lando’s car flashed past, the mechanics tensed, screens flickered, and you found yourself holding your breath.

When he took the lead, the garage erupted. When he crossed the finish line, the place exploded.

You didn’t realize you were smiling until someone nudged you and said, “You should go to parc fermé. He’ll want to see you.”

You didn’t question it.

You made your way through the crowd just as Lando climbed out of the car, helmet off, curls wild, face flushed with victory. He hugged his team, slapped hands, shouted something you couldn’t hear.

Then he saw you.

And everything else stopped.

He walked straight toward you, weaving through people like he’d been looking for you the whole time.

“You came,” he said, breathless.

“You won,” you replied.

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That happened.”

You didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly you were hugging him — tight, warm, his arms around you like he’d been waiting for an excuse. He smelled like sweat and champagne and adrenaline.

When he pulled back, he kept his hands on your waist, eyes bright. “Okay, I’m going to do something really brave right now.”

You raised a brow. “Braver than driving at 200 miles an hour?”

“Much braver,” he said. “I’m going to ask you on a date.”

Your heart stuttered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, nerves flickering across his face. “I know we just met, and this is insane, and I’m probably still high on winning, but… I really like you. And I’d really like to see you again. Properly. Without cameras. Without helmets. Maybe with food.”

You smiled, slow and certain. “I’d like that.”

His relief was instant and adorable. He actually fist-pumped the air before catching himself. “Cool. Cool. Great. Perfect.”

You laughed. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He groaned. “Don’t say that. I’m supposed to be cool right now.”

“You’re not,” you said. “But it’s working for you.”

He grinned, cheeks pink. “Dinner tonight?”

“Dinner tonight.”

He hesitated, then leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek. “Best pole award ever.”

You felt your face heat. “Best race weekend ever.”

And as he was swept away toward the podium, he looked back at you — once, twice, three times — like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You felt the same.

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

“breathe, baby, breathe for me,” he sighs, and you watch his own breath travel through his perfectly toned abdomen ; he’s lightly glistening with sweat and the muscles are incredibly defined even when he’s completely relaxed. you just want to eat him up.

“p-pillow,” you tell him, grabbing the closest one you can find and he slides it under your hips. “oh, fuck,” you both moan, and he’s able to slide in easier, and so much deeper like this. your angel eyes nearly roll back, swallowing hard and grasping your manicured nails into the bedsheets.

but he doesn’t go slow for long. once you can take it, he loses himself, his hands on either side of your hips and his body just takes control, using his full, powerful strength to piston in and out of your perfect, warm, wet pussy. this angle has his fat tip bullying your sweet spot and your back arches, you’re whining and crying for him, pretty nails gripping into his solid forearms until it draws blood. you’re not speaking coherently but you’re definitely not telling him to stop, if anything you’re asking him for more and he’ll happily give it to you.

he’s never felt a woman orgasm before but he knows when it happens, the way you cry his name and your cute cunt squeezes and flutters around him like she doesn’t wanna let go. “oh my god, baby,” he sighs, fucking you through the overstim because he doesn’t understand the concept yet and you just look and sound so beautiful right now. he leans forward to kiss you, draping his big, muscular frame over your small body, drinking up the tears running down your gorgeous face.

he’s even deeper like this, slowing his pace the slightest to make you feel every inch as he grinds his pelvis against your oversensitive clit, trying to let you come down but he’s so selfish that he can’t help but keep you stuffed full.

“k-keep going,” your voice is low and soft in his neck, and you’re maybe fucked just a little bit stupid, but this is what you want, what you need.

“y’sure, angel? you’re okay?”

you nod, slowly playing with your cute little clit just the way you like, which doesn’t go unnoticed by him. “you’re perfect,” he whispers, mostly to himself, and you pout up at him. “n’you’re so fucking handsome, baby, doing so good for your first time, making me feel so good,” your praise goes straight to his dick, and you feel it twitch inside of you before he fucks all the way back into you again, making you keen into him.

“I wanna make you cum again, pretty girl.” he says with hearts in his sparkling eyes, and you run your hand down his muscular abs, just in awe of him.

“yeah? cum inside this time.”

and you’re spent after he’s made you cum twice without even really knowing what he’s doing, but he’s still hard and stroking his big, pretty cock, looking at you like he’s a puppy and already asking if you can teach him how to eat you out properly.

he’s such a good boy, and you want to give him everything. it’s going to be a long night.

notes. im sorry i love virgins

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.

"Like bowls," you confirmed, not looking up from the press notes you were pretending to edit.

"You have never once mentioned wanting to make a bowl."

"People contain multitudes, Kimi."

He'd huffed a laugh through his nose, unconvinced but unwilling to push, and gone back to scrolling through telemetry on his phone with the particular scowl he wore when a sector time displeased him. You'd felt the lie sit in your chest like a swallowed stone, sharp-edged and faintly thrilling, and told yourself it would be worth it. It was supposed to be temporary. Six weeks, maybe eight. Enough time to get the basics down, enough time to string together one perfect, devastating sentence, and then you'd never have to lie to him again.

That had been four months ago.

You were not, it turned out, a natural at Italian. You'd assumed arrogantly, in retrospect  that spending two years listening to Kimi speak it would somehow make the language seep into your brain by osmosis. It hadn't. The occasional phrase muttered under his breath after a bad session or the rapid-fire conversations he had with his mother on the phone were enough to make you fall a little more in love with the sound of it, but not enough to actually teach it to you. Grammar was an entirely different beast, full of rules that seemed invented solely to make you suffer. Still, night after night, you sat in your car outside team hotels with a language app glowing in your lap, stubbornly working through exercises and repeating phrases under your breath. Because you weren't trying to impress a garage full of people. You were trying to impress one stubborn Italian racing driver. 

Ti penso più di quanto dovrei.

I think about you more than I should.

You'd practice it in supermarkets, in airport security lines, in the shower with the water running so the sound wouldn't carry. You practiced it so many times the words stopped meaning anything and became pure muscle memory, the way a swimmer's stroke becomes thoughtless after ten thousand laps until you'd catch yourself mid-sentence and the meaning would come crashing back in, and you'd have to sit very still for a moment and remember how to breathe.

You worked in press and media for Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team, one of the most recognizable names in the paddock, a team built on championship-winning engineering, relentless standards, and an expectation that every detail mattered. You had been there before Kimi arrived as a wide-eyed rookie with a mop of dark curls and a habit of apologizing to the car after a difficult session, as though it could hear him and might forgive him for asking too much of it. You'd watched him grow into the seat over the course of the season, you’ve watched the apologies turn into thoughtful, technical debriefs with his engineers, watched the nervous excitement of a teenager stepping into Formula One settle into something calmer, sharper, and far more dangerous on track. You wrote his quotes. You stood beside him in front of walls of cameras and microphones, feeding him English phrasing under your breath when questions came too quickly or when he searched for the right word, your shoulder a careful two inches from his, close enough that only he could hear you. 

Say "we're optimizing the long-run pace," not "we are still figuring out the tires," it sounds more in control.

He always did exactly what you told him. He trusted you with his image the way he trusted his race engineer with his car, completely, without question, which was its own kind of devastating because you knew with total certainty that if you told him right now, in this parking lot, in passable Italian, that you'd been in love with him since the Hungary weekend eighteen months ago when he'd given his media training translator the day off and asked you, badly, hopefully, if you wanted to get dinner he would believe you. He would believe anything you told him. That was the whole problem.

You had said no to that dinner. You'd told yourself it was unprofessional, a media liaison dating a driver, a mess waiting to happen, and you'd believed it for about four months before you stopped believing it and just felt stupid instead.

So: Italian. A plan. A grand, faintly ridiculous, entirely earnest plan, because if you were going to do this if you were finally, after a year and a half of aggressive denial, going to tell him the truth, you wanted to give him something. You wanted the words to cost you something, the way his trust in you had never seemed to cost him anything at all. You wanted to hand him your feelings in the language his mother sang to him, the language he dreamed in, according to his trainer, who'd heard him talking in his sleep on the team plane once and never let him live it down.

You were going to tell Kimi Antonelli you loved him in Italian, on a night you had not yet chosen, in words you had rehearsed roughly four thousand times, and it was going to be perfect.

You should have known better than to plan anything around a man who never did what you expected.

The accident happened on a Thursday, three days before the Monaco round, in the hospitality unit kitchen, over a stupid argument about coffee.

"It is not coffee," Kimi was saying, with the wounded dignity of a man defending something sacred, to Pieter, the team's Dutch chief mechanic, who had just handed him a paper cup from the catering machine. "This is brown water. You have insulted brown water by comparing it to coffee."

"It's free and it's caffeinated, Antonelli, drink it or don't."

"I don't. I refuse. On principle." Kimi set the cup down with the exaggerated care of a man setting down a small bomb, and you, sitting at the counter with your laptop open to a half-finished press release, didn't look up because you'd learned over two years that Kimi's coffee opinions were a bottomless well and engaging with them only deepened it.

Then he turned to his trainer, Sandro, who'd just walked in, and said something fast and low in Italian, clearly assuming you and Pieter were both out of range of comprehension. Something about Pieter's coffee, something uncharitable, something that ended with a word you knew — insopportabile (unbearable) and a short, sharp laugh.

And you laughed too. Before you could stop yourself. A short, involuntary huff of amusement at exactly the right beat, exactly where a person who'd understood the joke would laugh, and not a half-second later, the way someone catching a delayed translation might.

The kitchen went very quiet.

You felt it before you looked up felt the air change, felt Pieter's attention swing toward you with the slow, delighted dawning of a man who has just witnessed something he intends to never let go of, felt Sandro go still by the doorway. And when you finally made yourself look at Kimi, he was staring at you with an expression you had genuinely never seen on his face before, in two years, through podiums and DNFs and the worst sunburn of his life in Abu Dhabi. His mouth was slightly open. His eyebrows were somewhere up near his hairline.

"You understood that," he said. In English. Flatly. As though testing the words for weight.

"I— " Your mind, usually so reliable under pressure, the same mind that could spin a four-car pileup into a measured, professional statement in under ninety seconds, produced absolutely nothing. A vast, ringing silence. "No."

"You laughed."

"I have a— delayed sense of humor. Yeah. I was laughing at something else. Internally."

"At what."

"A meme," you said, with the specific, doomed confidence of someone who has just realized they are going to keep digging this hole until it swallows them. "I thought of a meme."

Pieter made a sound that was very close to a wheeze and had to turn around and pretend to be extremely interested in the coffee machine.

Kimi did not laugh. Kimi was looking at you the way he looked at telemetry data that didn't match what his hands had felt in the car like there was a discrepancy here, a gap between what he'd been told and what had actually happened, and he was not going to rest until he understood why. "Say something in Italian," he said.

"What? No."

"Say— " He cast around, then said, simply, plainly, watching your face with an intensity that made your skin feel two sizes too small, " —come stai oggi."

How are you today. The easiest sentence in the world. A sentence a phrasebook gives you on page one. And you knew, you knew, with the specific dread of someone watching a car slide toward a wall in slow motion, fully aware of the outcome and entirely unable to stop it that the safest thing to do was to look blank. To shrug. To say I have no idea what that means, Kimi, you're being so weird right now.

You did not do the safest thing.

"Bene," you said, before you could catch it. "Un po' stanca, ma bene." Fine. A little tired, but fine.

The kitchen, somehow, got even quieter.

Kimi set his unbearable, unloved coffee down on the counter with great precision, and the look that spread across his face was not triumph, exactly, though there was some of that in it there was also something more complicated, something that made your chest go tight and your face go hot in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, or not only to do with embarrassment.

"How long," he said.

"Kimi— "

"How long have you been learning Italian."

You looked at Pieter, who had given up all pretense of coffee-machine interest and was now leaning against the counter with the rapt attention of a man watching the best television of his life. You looked at Sandro, who had quietly produced his phone and appeared to be filming, the absolute traitor. You looked anywhere except at Kimi, because you had a horrible suspicion that if you looked at him directly right now, with his hair still damp from the sim and his eyebrows still climbing and that unbearable, searching look on his face, you were simply going to tell him everything, right here, in the hospitality kitchen, with Pieter's ruined coffee going cold on the counter and Sandro's phone recording the whole humiliating spectacle for posterity.

"Four months," you admitted, to the floor.

Another silence. A different kind. You risked a glance up and found Kimi had gone very still, the teasing edge gone out of his expression entirely, replaced by something quieter and more careful.

"Four months," he repeated.

"It's not— it's nothing, it's just a hobby, lots of people learn languages, it's a very normal— "

"Why."

The question landed like a dropped tool, a single clean clattering syllable, and you felt the whole architecture of your careful four-month plan the rehearsed sentence, the chosen-but-not-yet-arrived night, the version of this where you controlled every single variable come apart in your hands like wet paper.

"I have to finish this press release," you said, and closed your laptop, and left the kitchen at a speed that was not quite a run but was making active use of the word quite.

Behind you, you heard Pieter lose it completely, and Sandro say something in rapid Italian that you were fairly sure, despite four months of careful study, you did not want translated.

You did not see Kimi again until media day.

This was, in itself, a small miracle of scheduling and cowardice .you'd buried yourself in logistics work for two days, coordinated three sponsor interviews and a livery reveal and a charity appearance you absolutely did not need to personally oversee, and managed, through sheer force of will, to never once be in a room alone with him. You knew this couldn't last. Media day was your job. You stood beside drivers at media day the way race engineers stood beside pit walls; it was simply where you existed.

He found you at the equipment tent twenty minutes before his first interview slot, while you were untangling a lanyard for the broadcast crew with far more focus than the task required.

"You're avoiding me," he said. Not a question.

"I'm working."

"You're avoiding me while working. It's an impressive skill, actually, I want you to know I'm impressed." He leaned against the equipment table, arms crossed, and you made the mistake of looking up, and found him not laughing at you, not teasing, just watching you with that same quiet, careful attention from the kitchen, like he was trying to read a sector time he didn't trust yet.

"I have your interview schedule," you said, holding up the clipboard like a shield. "Sky Sport at three, then the sponsor— "

"I don't care about the schedule."

"You should, you have four interviews in ninety minutes and the Sky one specifically asked about the gearbox issue from Spa, so I need you to use the line we discussed, the one about the long-term reliability gains, not the— "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You stopped. The lanyard sat tangled and forgotten in your hands.

"It's not a big deal," you said, which was, you understood even as you said it, the single most transparent lie you had told in a month full of transparent lies.

"You learned my language in secret for four months and it is not a big deal." He wasn't angry. That was the strange part you'd braced for something like hurt or affront, the offense of a man who'd been kept out of a joke at his own expense, and instead what was on his face looked almost careful. Hopeful, in a way he seemed to be actively trying to suppress, the way he suppressed his disappointment after a bad qualifying lap, schooling his features into something neutral before the cameras found him. "People don't do that for fun, cara. People do that for a reason."

The endearment landed somewhere under your ribs and stayed there, glowing faintly, radioactive. He'd called you that before, occasionally, carelessly, the way Italians scattered tenderness into ordinary sentences without seeming to notice they'd done it — but it felt different now, deliberate, aimed.

"I had a reason," you said, before you could stop yourself.

"Tell me."

"I have your interview in eighteen minutes."

"Tell me after."

"Kimi — "

"After," he said again, gently, like it wasn't a request, like it was simply a fact about the shape the rest of the day was going to take, and then Pieter was shouting something about a tire pressure check and Kimi was being pulled away toward the garage, and you stood there with the ruined lanyard in your hands and your heart going much too fast for a Thursday afternoon.

You got through the interviews. You fed him the line about long-term reliability gains, and he delivered it word for word, the way he always did, except twice he glanced over at you between questions with a look that had nothing to do with gearboxes, and you had to physically school your own face into something professional, something that did not say I have known I loved you since Hungary and I have spent four months learning your language so I could tell you properly and I have absolutely no idea what I am supposed to do now that you know I've been lying to you about pottery class.

By the time the sun started dropping orange and low over the paddock, you'd run out of interviews to hide behind.

He found you on the terrace behind the hospitality unit, where the team sometimes ate dinner when the weather cooperated, looking out over the darkening circuit toward the grandstands, empty now except for the cleanup crews moving like slow ghosts under the floodlights. You'd come out here to be alone and think of an explanation that wasn't the truth, and had so far produced nothing.

"There you are," Kimi said, like you'd been the one running from something all day, which, fair, you had.

He sat down next to you on the low concrete wall, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours, and for a moment neither of you said anything. Somewhere in the garage behind you, an impact wrench whined and stopped. The smell of rubber and hot tarmac and the particular metallic tang of race weekend hung in the cooling air, the smell you associated, more than any other, with the two years you'd spent standing next to this man and not telling him the truth.

"Sandro deleted the video," Kimi offered, after a while. "I made him. I thought  you looked like you wanted to disappear."

"I did want to disappear."

"I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have in front of everyone, it was not fair, I got excited and I didn't think." He turned to look at you properly then, and the playful armor from earlier in the day had dropped away entirely, leaving something younger and more uncertain underneath, an expression you recognized from the very first season, before he learned to wear confidence like a second skin. "Why Italian?"

You looked out at the empty grandstands instead of at him. It was easier.

"Because," you started, and stopped, and started again. "Because you trust me with everything. My English, my line readings, what to say to the cameras and what not to. You never once question it. And I just I wanted to give you something that wasn't about work. Something that was just  mine to give. Not professional advice. Not a press strategy." Your hands were doing something complicated and nervous in your lap; you made them stop. "I wanted to tell you something important in the language that actually means something to you. Not the language we use for sponsor calls."

"Tell me what."

The wind moved across the terrace, carrying the smell of someone's cigarette from the far end of the paddock, and you thought about four months of late nights with a phone app glowing blue in the dark, four months of online lessons with a tutor every tuesday, four months of rehearsing a sentence so many times it had stopped sounding like words and become something closer to a held breath, finally, now, about to be let out.

You looked at him. Damp curls, dark eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow from a karting crash at fourteen that he'd told you about on a long flight to Singapore, the steady, open way he was watching you now like nothing in the world mattered more than whatever you said next. Eighteen months since Hungary. Four months of Tuesday nights that weren't pottery class. One ruined surprise, and a man waiting, patiently, for the truth he'd already half-guessed.

"Ti penso più di quanto dovrei," you said.

I think about you more than I should.

The words came out steadier than you expected, four months of repetition finally earning their keep, landing clean and whole in the space between you instead of crumbling apart the way you'd feared they might. Kimi went very still. You watched the sentence travel across his face in real time comprehension, then something brighter and more startled underneath it, like watching the lights come up on a grandstand all at once.

"Say it again," he said. Quietly. In Italian this time. "Dimmelo ancora."

"I think about you more than I should," you said again, in English now, because you needed him to have it both ways, needed there to be no possible margin for translation error in a moment this large. "I have for a long time. Since Hungary, honestly, since you asked me to dinner and I said no because I was scared and stupid about the job thing, and I have regretted saying no probably every single day since, and I started learning Italian because I wanted to tell you properly, I wanted to give you something that took real effort, something that proved I meant it, and then you went and ruined the whole plan by being unbearable about coffee in front of Pieter— "

"I ruined it," Kimi said, and there was real laughter in his voice now, breaking through, bright and disbelieving. "I ruined it."

"You laughed at the coffee and I laughed at the joke and everything fell apart."

"Everything did not fall apart." He reached over, slow, like he was giving you every chance to pull away, and took your hand off your lap, turning it over in his like something he wanted to look at properly. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, light, almost disbelieving. "Everything came together. Badly. With Pieter watching. But together."

"This is not how I planned it."

"No?" His mouth was doing something complicated, fighting a smile and losing. "How did you plan it?"

"Candles," you admitted. "Probably candles. A view. Something with actual atmosphere, instead of— " You gestured vaguely at the terrace, the floodlights, the distant whine of someone's impact wrench starting up again. " —this."

"I like this," Kimi said. "I like that it's true. I would rather have you, badly planned, on a wall behind a garage, than candles and a script." He was still holding your hand, and now he laced his fingers properly through yours, deliberate, an answer offered without being asked for. "I have been waiting eighteen months for you to change your mind about Hungary. I was starting to think I had imagined the whole dinner. That maybe I asked wrong."

"You didn't ask wrong. I was wrong. I was so sure it would be a disaster, mixing the job with this. With wanting you the way I wanted you."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent four months memorizing Italian verb conjugations for you, so I think the disaster has already started and I might as well see it through."

He laughed properly, that bright, surprised sound you'd heard maybe a dozen times in two years, usually reserved for podiums and good qualifying laps, and it did something to your chest, hearing it directed at you instead of a stopwatch. "Ti penso più di quanto dovrei," he said again, testing the words now from his own mouth, watching your face as he said them, "is correct, by the way. Your grammar. Very good. A little formal, but good."

"Four months, Kimi."

"I noticed." He brought your hand up, pressed his mouth briefly to your knuckles, an old-fashioned gesture that should have felt theatrical and instead felt exactly, devastatingly right, here on this wall, with the circuit lights coming up gold against the darkening sky behind him. "Anche io," he said, quiet now, no performance left in it at all. Me too.

"Show-off," you said, though your voice had gone thick. "I worked very hard on that sentence."

"I know. I could tell. It was a good sentence." He was closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him in the cooling evening air, close enough that the next thing either of you said wasn't going to be words at all. "Next time," he murmured, "warn me before you confess something. I almost fell off my chair."

"There's not going to be a next time. I only had the one."

"Good," Kimi said. "I only need the one." And then he kissed you careful at first, like he was still checking the data matched what his hands could feel, and then not careful at all, four months and eighteen months and one ruined, perfect surprise collapsing down into the simple, unhurried space between one breath and the next and somewhere behind you, faint and getting fainter, you were fairly sure you heard Pieter, from an open garage door, shout something about finally that you were extremely glad you couldn't quite translate.

Three weeks later, you stood in the same equipment tent, untangling the same kind of lanyard, while Kimi leaned against the table exactly the way he had that first impossible Thursday, except now his hand found the small of your back without either of you remarking on it, an easy, unremarkable fact of how things were.

"Sky Sport at three," you told him, not looking up from the clipboard. "Use the line about long-term reliability."

"Sì, cara," he said, and you felt it land warm under your ribs the way it always did now, no longer radioactive, just true. "Anything else?"

"Don't insult anyone's coffee where Pieter can hear you. We've had enough incidents this season."

"No promises," Kimi said, grinning, and pressed a quick kiss to your temple before Sandro called him toward the garage, and you stood there with the lanyard finally untangled in your hands, watching him go, thinking not for the first time, and not, you suspected, for the lasthat some plans were worth ruining.

To be fair, you're almost certain you have a concussion. The room spins every time you move your head. Your wrist hurts. Your shoulder hurts. Your ego is definitely bruised.

The entire situation is deeply unpleasant.

"Miss?"

You blink. The nurse is still standing there, clipboard in hand.

"Emergency contact?"

Right. That. You frown.

The question seems simple enough. Unfortunately, your brain currently resembles scrambled eggs. Your parents live hours away, your brother never answers his phone, most of your friends are at work. The only number you know by heart appears immediately, without thinking you recite it.

The nurse writes it down.

"Relationship?"

You hesitate. The guy you sleep with? A situationship? The person who somehow knows exactly what mood you're in from a single text message, the person you call when you're happy, the person you call when you're sad, the person you call when you've locked yourself out of your apartment...

"Friend."

The nurse nods then leaves. And you immediately fall asleep.

The next time you wake up, somebody is holding your hand.

For one terrifying second, you think you're dying. Then you recognize the watch, and the hand it's attached to.

"Lando?"

The ridiculous amount of concern on his face dissipates almost immediately, his shoulders drop, eyes close briefly, as though somebody has released a pressure valve.

"Oh, thank God."

Your throat feels dry.

"What are you doing here?"

He stares.

"You called me."

"No, I didn't."

"You literally did."

You try to think, but the concentration comes with pain and you quickly come to regret it.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"You look awful."

His mouth falls open. You smile weekly. The sting is worth it.

A few hours later, you learn what happened. Apparently, you slipped on wet pavement, hit your head and fractured your wrist. Also scared several pedestrians.

The most important part, however, is apparently what happened next. Because according to the nurse, Lando arrived in under twenty minutes. Twenty. Which should not have been possible. You tell him this. He says:

"I drove fast."

"Lando."

"What?"

"You absolutely broke traffic laws."

"Allegedly."

"And you put your life in danger."

"Maybe."

You sigh.

For a moment everything feels normal again, then you notice the dark circles beneath his eyes and how he hasn't left since coming here and how he insists on bringing you snacks and water and fixing your pillows... And suddenly something feels different.

"You were scared."

The words leave your mouth with a slight smile. Lando freezes, briefly, but long enough. You know exactly what his tells look like.

"What?"

"You were scared."

"I'm fine."

"Lando."

"I'm fine."

"You look like you haven't breathed in six hours."

His jaw tightens. Silence settles between you.

"You weren't answering your phone."

Your chest hurts And for once it has nothing to do with the accident.

"I know."

"They told me you hit your head."

You look away.

"They told me you lost consciousness."

The room suddenly feels much quieter.

"I know."

"I thought it was worse."

Your heart breaks a little, because he says it so softly.

"I thought..." His voice falters. "I don't know."

Suddenly everything makes sense, the panic, the speed, the hand he's still holding, the way he looked when you woke up. Friends care, of course they do, but this feels different, like having something to lose.

"Lando."

He looks up. There are a hundred ways to ask. You choose honesty - the thing you've been avoiding for months. 

"Would you have been this worried about anybody else?"

"No."

The air leaves your lungs.

There it is. The thing neither of you has wanted to say. Lando notices your expression, horrified; he has revealed too much.

"You don't have to say anything." 

You laugh, because somehow he's still trying to protect you.

"Lando."

"Seriously."

"You drove across the city because I fell over."

"You got a concussion."

"You looked ready to fight the nurse."

"She wasn't explaining things properly."

The tension cracks, you squeeze his hand - the one still holding yours; the one neither of you has let go of. And finally you say the thing you've both known for far too long.

"I really like you."

For a second, he simply stares. Then:

"Yeah?"

The smile that follows could power entire cities.

"Yeah."

His laugh is half relief, half disbelief.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Good."

You shake your head. 

Lando Norris. The idiot who drove across the city because a hospital called. The idiot who somehow found his way into every important part of your life.

"You're still my emergency contact."

His grin grows.

"That's the romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"You are unbelievable."

"I know."

And for the first time since the accident, everything feels okay.

pin him to the bed even though he is so massive and he knows he could break free in a heartbeat. then you snap his boxers down n use l a single hand (much smaller than his) to guide his girth towards your sluice and dripping entrance now that you’re straddling him.

“w-wait, slow down —!” he’d gasp, choke on a moan because you’re already to warm and wet against him and he can smell your slick in the air whilst you circle your cunt down on the burningly thick circumference of his tip. “baby — oh god — baby, you might … hurt yourself.”

“don’t care,” you huff and you pout and he swears the world starts spinning because you’re suctioning around him and your walls ripple every time that you thrust down. “need to know what it’s like, havin’ you inside.”

he swallows, throat bobbing, eyes on your face because if he looks between your legs — where your bodies meet and your pussy stretches to make room for him — he really might die.

“fuckfuckfuck… you’re so perfect. so, so perfect.”

your hand glides up his chest, pecs that heave beneath the ghost of your touch, pecs that still once you cup the base of kirishima’s throat. he grasps your wrist — desperately hoping it’ll ground him somehow because your cunt makes his thread of sanity run loose.

he can’t believe his luck, that someone like you has made her way through the stars to be with him. eijirou’s face flushes with the same intense kind of heat you get from being under the sun for too long, he bucks and he flinches — afraid that it’ll hurt when a little more of him slips past your quivering hole and practically kisses your cervix with his leaky tip.

but you don’t cry, you don’t back down. instead — your head tilts as though you’re memorised by the way he looks. ruined and wrecked. your lips spread into smile eijirou is sure only angels are capable of and you thrust your own hips to match is tentative rhythm, swallowing more of him. easily.

“i’ll take all of you, i know i can do it, promise,” you lick your lips as you swear. “and the next time you cum, it won’t be in your hand or the shower or some tissue. it’ll be inside me.”

end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!!

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.