urghwhatthehell - Tumblr blog

urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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bad bunny; ln4

summary: Lando is very happy to see you're wearing his Calvin Klein's boxer briefs so he ruins your plan of preparing pancakes for breakfast.

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pairing: lando norris and she/her reader (F/M)

word count: around 4.5K

tw: +18 / smut / mention of lando norris pre-made and probably expired meals

inspired by the thought of Lando Norris having a CK campaign

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The morning sun spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and soft, draping over your skin like a warm embrace. It’s early, way too early, and it coaxes you awake against your will.

But it’s not just the sunlight that has your body stirring—it’s the delicious ache settling deep in your muscles, a languid and familiar soreness stretching from your thighs to your core.

A not so gentle yet quite sweet reminder of last night. Of him. Of the way Lando had touched you, taken you apart, put you back together again with nothing but his hands, his mouth and the deep thrusts of his cock. Three weeks apart had been too long, and he’d made sure you felt just how much he’d missed you, how much he had craved you.

Oh, and fuck, he did.

Over and over, in many ways and many positions, until you couldn’t do anything but moan his name into the sweat-slick sheets, trembling and spent beneath him.

You shift, stretching your limbs, feeling the dull ache between your legs, and bite back a satisfied smile. Beside you, Lando is still dead to the world, his face buried in the pillow, one arm sprawled lazily over where your body had been. His bare back is exposed, golden-brown skin illuminated in the morning light, the lean muscles flexing slightly as he breathes in deep, slow, steady. Peaceful.

He’s beautiful and it’s so rare to see him like this, this unguarded and calm. Even in sleep, a faint furrow rests between his brows, his curls messy and tousled, falling over his forehead. You have the absurd urge to brush them away. And maybe give him a kiss on the forehead.

But Instead, you decide not to disturb him and carefully slip out of bed, moving quietly, your bare feet cool against the wooden floor.

You glance around the room, searching for something to slip into, and your eyes land on the crumpled pile of clothes from last night—Lando’s jeans, your dress, his white Calvin Klein boxers tangled in the sheets. Smirking to yourself, you grab his briefs, stepping into them, the waistband sitting low on your hips, and pull on one of his oversized t-shirts. It drowns you, the fabric soft and worn, smelling exactly like him— the cologne he’s been wearing since you gifted it to him many years ago and that faint musk of his favorite 4 in 1 shampoo.

The apartment is quiet, wrapped in that stillness of the early morning. The only sounds are the soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath your steps, and the distant murmur of traffic outside. You don’t bother checking the time. There’s no rush. You just pull out the pancake mix, reaching for the measuring cups and a bowl, letting your fingers move on autopilot as you hum softly to yourself.

You glance over your shoulder toward the bedroom, half-expecting to hear the telltale rustle of sheets or a sleepy groan. But nothing, the apartment remains silent, save for the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of your whisk against the bowl. Lando is still out cold, and really, you can’t blame him.

You smirk, biting your lip, the ghost of last night’s memories flashing hot behind your eyes. Again. Yeah. You definitely made sure he had a proper welcome home. Thorough. Exhausting. Devastatingly good.

With a shake of your head, you refocus on the task at hand, reaching for the eggs. You crack them into the bowl, one-handed, because you’re just that good, then the flour comes next with that protein powder. You wrinkle your nose at the offending container, rolling your eyes as you scoop a generous spoonful into the mix. Because, of course, Lando’s trainer has him on some "optimized nutrition plan," which apparently means sneaking protein into everything, even pancakes.

But you’re not completely heartless. You both want a nice breakfast after all, right? So, with a glance over your shoulder—just in case the sleeping menace decides to make an unexpected entrance—you reach for the real good stuff.

Chocolate chips.

You sneak a generous handful into the batter, watching as they disappear beneath the creamy mixture. Lando will complain, of course—something about "unnecessary sugars" —but you know damn well he’ll devour them anyway. Because, despite all his nutrition lectures and protein-obsessed nonsense, the man has the self-control of a toddler when it comes to sweets. And when he inevitably tries to argue, you’ll just remind him that if he didn’t want them, he shouldn’t have left you alone in the kitchen.

As simple as that.

You’re pouring the first pancake onto the griddle when you hear a low, raspy voice behind you.

"Stealing my clothes again, are we?"

You startle slightly, whipping around to see Lando leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes hooded with sleep, voice thick and gravelly. He’s shirtless, loose sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his curls still a mess. The sight of him—barefoot, sleepy, thoroughly fucked out—sends a shiver down your spine. Oh, you feel so lucky.

You roll your eyes, flipping the pancake with an exaggerated flick of your wrist. "If you don’t want me stealing them, stop leaving them on the floor."

A slow, lazy grin tugs at Lando’s lips, something teasing and dangerous all at once. He shifts closer, the warmth of his bare skin practically radiating off him as he watches you, blue eyes dark with mischief. "Or," he drawls, his voice thick with sleep, "… you could just wear nothing at all. Saves time."

You scoff, turning your attention back to the stove, pretending the idea doesn’t send a shiver straight through you. "You’re impossible."

"Morning, baby."

Before you can react, his fingers are grabbing your chin, tilting your face up. The movement is smooth, practiced, like he has done it a million times, and then his lips are on yours—warm, slow, deliberate. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s savouring you.

It’s unfair, really.

His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you back into him, fitting against you like he was made to be there. The heat of his bare chest sears through the thin fabric of his shirt that hangs loosely off your frame and his grip on your hip tightens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Lando chuckles against your lips, that deep, lazy sound that makes your stomach tighten in a way you wish it didn’t. He pulls back just enough to murmur, "Mmm, you smell like me." His nose skims along your jaw, his lips grazing just below your ear, his voice thick with satisfaction, smug and pleased in a way that makes you want to shove him away and pull him closer all at once. "I like it."

You scoff, biting back a smirk as you turn around to pour another pancake onto the griddle, the batter sizzling as it meets the hot pan. "I have good taste for men’s fragrances," you say airily, pretending not to notice the way Lando’s grip tightens slightly on your waist once again, his body still warm and firm against your back.

"And for men in general," he adds smoothly, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Because, let’s be honest, me? Spectacular choice."

You snort, shaking your head. "Yeah, and yet, you still can’t cook a decent meal to save your life."

His hands squeeze your hips in mock offence, his chest pressing a little firmer against you. "Oi, that’s slander," he protests, his voice a perfect mixture of indignation and amusement. "I’ll have you know, I made toasts the other day. Perfectly golden. Michel-fucking-star level."

You grin, flipping a pancake with a satisfied little flick of your wrist. "Babe, you literally pay a guy to cook all your meals and put them in order in the fridge."

"That’s different!" He pulls back slightly, crossing his arms in that classic defensive stance, and you can already see the argument forming in his head.

You turn slightly, giving him a pointed look. "Oh yeah? "

“Yeah, I pay a dietitian " he argues, like that makes all the difference in the world. "It’s about, y’know, nutrition. Performance. Optimization. Science, baby." He gestures vaguely, as if that somehow strengthens his point.

You stare at him for a beat before deadpanning, "Right. Because heating up a pre-packed meal and eating it straight out of the container is peak science."

Lando gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just personally attacked his entire existence. "I will not stand for this slander in my own home."

"You mean the home where the microwave does all the heavy lifting?"

"Oi!" Lando lunges forward, hands outstretched, but you’re faster, sidestepping his attack with a triumphant laugh. His fingers graze your waist, but you twist just out of reach, reveling in the playful frustration etched on his face.

"You’re being mean to me," he whines dramatically, but the smirk tugging at his lips and the mischievous glint in his blue eyes tell a different story. He’s enjoying this—every second of your teasing, every playful jab, every time you challenge him like you were made to keep him on his toes. “I thought I treated you good enough last night!”

Lando exhales through his nose like a man defeated, but then his grin turns lazy, calculated. He steps closer behind you, hands bracketing either side of you as he leans in again.

You can’t help it—you snort at his theatrics, full-on laugh bubbling out of you as he stands there like a man betrayed, hands on his hips, chest puffed up in mock indignation. The pout is Oscar-worthy. But the way his eyes are dancing? That mischievous sparkle says it all. He’s playing this role far too well.

"Let’s start again, shall we?" he murmurs, voice lower now, thick with a teasing sweetness that makes your breath hitch. "Morning, my love." His lips brush the shell of your ear, just the faintest ghost of a touch, enough to make you shiver. "I missed you." His hands skim down, fingertips grazing the hem of his t-shirt that you’re wearing, playing with the fabric like he’s resisting the urge to just tug it up and off you.

“You look so fucking good in my clothes," Lando murmurs, his voice low and rough against the shell of your ear. His lips ghost along your neck, a slow, deliberate tease that sends a shiver cascading down your spine.

The spoon slips from your fingers, clattering into the bowl, and you barely register the sound over the pounding of your heartbeat. "Flatterer," you manage, but your voice comes out breathy, betraying you completely.

"Not flattery," he corrects smoothly, his hands already sliding lower, fingertips tracing lazy circles down the curve of your waist before settling over your ass. He palms you through the soft fabric of his briefs, fingers pressing in just enough to make your stomach tighten. "Just facts."

You try not to react, but it’s impossible when he’s so close, when his voice drips with that slow, teasing confidence, when his touch makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

"You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen," he continues, mouth brushing against your skin between words, lips grazing the spot just beneath your ear. "A vision. An angel."

You snort, shoving at his chest, though the heat simmering beneath your skin betrays you. "Oh, please."

Lando grins, catching your hand before you can fully push him away, bringing it up to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, slow and deliberate, then smirks as he presses another to the inside of your wrist, letting his teeth scrape just lightly over your skin. Your breath catches.

And then—

"… Can I have a pancake now?"

You blink. "You’re unbelievable"

He grins wider, all dimples and mischief. "What?"

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “That was the worst attempt at manipulation I’ve ever seen.”

“Was it though?” Lando’s voice drops, teasing and smug, as his fingers trail along the waistband of his boxers on your body. His touch is featherlight, deliberate, before dipping lower, gripping your hips, and pulling you flush against him. Heat blooms in your chest, spreading like wildfire, your breath catching in your throat as he leans in.

His lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into something slow and syrupy. “Because I’m pretty sure…” His fingers skate along your bare thigh, trailing up, grazing the fabric that separates you. “That if I dip my fingers in my underwear right now—” He pauses, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ll find you soaked, won’t I, baby?”

Your stomach clenches, anticipation coiling low as his words settle between you. His confidence is maddening, infuriating, and yet your body betrays you, reacting to him in ways you wish it wouldn’t. You inhale sharply, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as you try—try—to maintain some semblance of control.

“You’re such a menace,” you mutter, but your hands are in his hair now, threading through those curls you pretend not to be obsessed with. “Just admit you have no self-control and wanted an excuse to get handsy before breakfast.”

“Oh, I definitely have self-control,” he says, his voice low and smooth and entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just choosing not to use it. Very different situation.”

“So, should I check?” he murmurs again, lips grazing the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, fingers flexing against your hips.

It's so easy to make him win that you can't help but biting down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer, but your body speaks for you—hips tilting ever so slightly toward him, the barest of movements, but enough for his smirk to widen.

Because he knows he's damn right.

And just like that, you’re both gone—lost in laughter and heat and that deliciously familiar tension that says: round two isn’t just a maybe—it’s already in motion.

Before you can respond—before you can do anything, really—Lando’s hands are on your thighs, gripping, lifting. With effortless ease, he hoists you up onto the counter, sliding between your legs, pressing into you fully now. Your breath stutters at the hard, insistent pressure of him against you, his body slotting between yours like it belongs there—because, really, it does. It always has. His hands slide up your thighs, warm and confident, fingertips just brushing close to where you need him most, but never quite touching.

And then his lips are on you again—no hesitation this time, no teasing delay.

It’s consuming.

A kiss that silences everything else—thoughts, warnings, even the faint sizzle from the stove behind you. You melt into him instantly, a soft, involuntary sound slipping from your lips. It's not quite a moan, not quite a sigh—but something in between.

He deepens the kiss with slow, aching precision. Lando kisses like he’s starving but determined to savor every bite. His mouth moves over yours with a bruising tenderness, full of intention, full of promise, like he’s not just kissing you—he’s memorizing you. Each sweep of his tongue, each nibble at your lower lip, sends waves of warmth spiraling low in your stomach.

And then his hands move. Oh, those hands.

They slide from your waist to your hips, fingers flexing against the thin cotton of his t-shirt—your t-shirt now, apparently. There’s nothing hurried, nothing rushed, just this slow, delicious gravity pulling you into him until there’s not a breath of space between you. You feel him, solid and wanting, the kind of pressure that makes you forget how to stand upright, much less speak.

"Turn off the stove, Lan..." you whisper against his mouth, though it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

He doesn’t even blink.

With one last kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, Lando pulls back just enough to reach behind you. You hear the familiar click of the knobs and the low hiss of the flame dying out, and then the clink of the pan being moved. He does it so effortlessly—one-handed, focused, practiced—as if he’s done this a dozen times before, choosing you over breakfast every single time.

But he’s not gone for long.

In a heartbeat, he’s back, eyes locked onto yours, dark with mischief and something far deeper. “Better?” he murmurs, but the way his gaze drops to your lips—and then lower—makes it clear the question is rhetorical.

Your response never makes it past your lips.

Because in one fluid motion, his hands are under the hem of the shirt. There's a pause, a heartbeat of tension, where he just looks at you—silent permission, a breathless dare—and when you don’t stop him, he pulls the shirt up, slow enough to feel every inch of the fabric dragging over your skin.

The way his eyes darken as more of you is revealed? That look could burn hotter than the stove ever could.

The moment the shirt hits the floor, his mouth is on you again—but lower this time. Kisses scatter down your throat, across your collarbone, and then lower still. His hands are on your waist again, guiding, grounding, claiming. And when he finally mouths at the swell of your breast, reverent and unhurried, you swear you forget your own name for a moment.

He doesn’t rush. Oh no—Lando takes his time.

Every press of lips, every graze of teeth, every deliberate swirl of his tongue is a love letter written straight to your nerves. One hand cups you gently, the other strokes soothing circles on your hip like he’s keeping you calm while slowly unraveling you.

It’s a lost cause, though, when his hands are still on you, roaming with slow, deliberate intent, the heat between you both intensifying with every touch.

He hums against your skin like he’s tasting something decadent—like he can’t believe he gets to have you first thing in the morning, still warm from sleep and wrapped in his clothes, all soft cotton and softer skin underneath.

The kind of view that makes a man forget pancakes ever existed.

His lips trail slowly across your chest, hands guiding you to lean back just slightly against the counter. The cold marble meets the small of your back, but you barely feel it—not when Lando’s mouth is working lower, kissing, sucking, lavishing attention like your body is the only thing worth worshipping.

He doesn’t just touch—he adores.

Each breast gets the full treatment, his tongue teasing lazy circles around your nipple before finally taking it into the warm heat of his mouth. And the way he does it? Like he knows exactly what it does to you. Like he’s been waiting all night just to wake up and do this again. Suckling slow, drawing out those needy little gasps from your lips as his fingers gently knead, thumb brushing against the other peak with just enough pressure to make your thighs instinctively press together.

But Lando notices. Oh, he feels it.

"Still with me?" he murmurs around your skin, voice hoarse, lips glistening, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a mischievous gleam.

Your breath catches when one of his hands slips lower, tracing the path of your body like a man rediscovering a map he’s already memorized. His palm drags over your stomach, dipping lower until it finds the waistband of his boxers—your boxers now. The elastic gives just slightly under his touch, and he grins when he feels what’s underneath.

His fingers flex there, over the heat radiating through the thin fabric. Not inside. Not yet.

Just enough to make you twitch. Just enough to make you want.

Your head falls back against the cabinet with a soft thud, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers move in deliberate, maddeningly slow circles. The fabric adds a friction that’s almost too much, not nearly enough — rubbing perfectly against your clit with each calculated stroke.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows how to play your body like it was made for his hands — and god, maybe it was.

“Oh, I knew it…” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth, a grin audible in every syllable. “You’re already drenched, baby”

He chuckles softly, that deep, smug sound rumbling right against your skin — and then his mouth is on your neck, lips trailing heat down your throat, tongue teasing the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. He knows exactly where to go, where to bite, where to let his breath linger so it sends a shiver racing down your spine.

Your body arches toward him instinctively, the pressure of his hand against you through the thin cotton already driving you toward the edge of reason. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and pulling — not hard, but enough to say don’t stop. Not ever.

His palm stays pressed against your center, the fabric damp and clinging, the friction deliciously cruel. He keeps his movements slow, drawing lazy, purposeful circles that make your legs tremble. And then, without warning, his other hand slips behind your thigh, gripping firmly before he lifts it— strong and smooth — guiding your leg up and onto the edge of the counter.

Now you’re wide open for him, and he leans back just enough to look at you — really look — as if the sight of you, flushed and breathless, is something holy.

And you almost give up, right there.

His hand is still between your legs, his fingers now having more room to tease, to press. He lets them slide just slightly lower — still over the boxers — applying a touch that makes you gasp, your hips rolling into his palm on instinct.

He smirks, eyes flicking down, and then back up to meet yours — hot and teasing, voice thick with hunger.

“Fuck…” he breathes, almost to himself. “You look so goddamn good like this.”

His thumb presses down, slow and perfect, and your breath catches again.

“Wet in my Calvin’s” he whispers, dragging the words out like honey over skin. "Wide open for me"

“Fuck…” you groan, voice already fraying at the edges. Your hands reach blindly behind you, gripping the edge of the counter for balance — or maybe just to look for something to hold to keep you grounded.

His mouth curves into a smirk, and you can feel it, even without looking. “Still sore from last night?” he murmurs, breath hot against your jaw.

You nod, barely, swallowing a moan.

“Good,” he growls, the sound rough and thick, like it’s coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “Means we did a good job, right?”

You nod again.

His fingers press even harder through the soaked cotton now. Pads circling, teasing, tormenting.

“Now…” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, voice soaked in sin, “Do you think i can make you come in my underwear?”

He's a menace. A walking natural hazard, a threat to your self-control.

The words land low in your belly, heat blooming and spreading, curling like smoke through your veins. You let out a breathless laugh — shaky, already undone — but it’s cut short by a moan as he doubles down, fingers moving faster, firmer, his thumb now working cruel circles against your clit.

The kitchen feels like it’s burning — golden light spilling through the windows, catching on the sheen of sweat at your collarbone, painting everything in warmth and want. But you only feel him — his fingers, his breath, his body pressed between your thighs, commanding every inch of your attention.

You turn your face toward him, eyes fluttering open, meeting his gaze — and it’s so much. Not just lust. Not just hunger. But that quiet intensity that says I see you. That says I love you, even when the words aren't spoken.

“Lando…” You writhe under his touch, thighs trembling, the soaked cotton now barely a barrier at all — more like a wet invitation. He watches you fall apart, eyes dark and hungry, and when he speaks again, it’s low and dangerous.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, voice like smoke. His thumb presses down just a little harder, making your body jolt.

“Feels… so good…” you pant, head falling back.

He grins, slow and dangerous.

“Yeah?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Want more?”

You nod. Frantic. Needy. Lost.

That’s all he needs.

His fingers slip past the waistband — finally, finally — into the soaked heat beneath. The contrast of skin-on-skin after all that teasing makes you cry out, head tipping forward as your body arches into him like it’s the only thing it knows how to do.

The second his fingers slide inside you — bare, deep, warm — something in you shatters. Your body arches off the counter, hips rolling into his hand as your breath stutters in your throat. He groans low, drawn out and dark, like the feel of you clenching around him is his own personal high.

“Fuck, baby…” he breathes, watching your face twist with pleasure. “So tight… and still so fucking sensitive, I can feel it”

That word — sensitive— lands somewhere deep, sparking a memory of the night before. The way he stretched you, filled you, took you until you couldn’t stop shaking. And now, he’s back at it — and your body can’t decide whether to cry or beg for more.

His fingers start to move — not gentle, not tentative. Intentional. Purposeful. He’s not here to tease anymore. He’s here to ruin.

He thrusts them deep, curling just right with every motion, dragging across that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll and your thighs clench. His thumb doesn’t leave your clit, circling in sync with the rhythm of his fingers — pressure steady, cruelly perfect.

The soreness flares with every thrust — a tiny spike of pain that sharpens everything else. It’s not enough to stop you. It’s enough to drive you mad.

“Lando—fuck, baby—” you gasp, voice caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. “—oh god—it’s so good.”

He growls, low and pleased, leaning in until his lips brush your ear.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, fingers fucking into you harder now, relentless. “You like that sore? That little ache, don’t you? Knowing I wrecked you last night and you’re still dripping for more.”

Your head lolls back, mouth open, a desperate sound escaping you as your thighs start to tremble.

You’re squirming now, hips lifting off the counter with every thrust, chasing the edge you can feel mounting like a storm behind your ribs.

“Lan…” you whimper, voice trembling like the rest of you as you tilt your chin up.

That small invitation to kiss you that he knows so damn well.

And oh, accepts it. And it’s not just a kiss, no. It’s a kiss that presses you open and holds you there, like he’s pouring heat through your mouth and straight into your bloodstream. And all the while, his fingers don’t stop. No mercy. Just the right kind of torture.

The tempo shifts—subtle, but devastating. He finds that exact rhythm, the one that has your toes curling and your thighs trembling like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and the wind’s about to push you off. He drives you, steady and sure, until your moans melt into each other like honey over heat.

“I can feel you’re close,” he pants on your lips, staring down at the way your body clings to him. “… You gonna make a mess for me, mh?”

And you want to answer — you do — but your body is already deciding for you.

It’s not a fall, not even a crash—it’s a detonation. It hits like a tsunami. Sudden. Violent. Beautiful. A full-body, breath-snatching, soul-lifting kind of high. It doesn’t even feel real, except it so is. A wave so strong, your body just… surrenders.

Your orgasm crashes through you, tearing a scream from your throat as your body spasms, clenching around his fingers so hard it nearly knocks the air out of you.

“Oh fuck…” You cry out against his mouth, a sound that’s pure electricity, your body jerking with the force of it—legs shaking, hands gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth.

But then it doesn’t stop. Oh. No it doesn’t. Suddenly it’s all warm. And wet. And everywhere.

A second wave hits, and your whole body jolts — thighs shaking, toes curling, back arching as the pressure inside you explodes outward.

“Oh—shit—” Lando gasps, eyes going wide as you squirt unexpectedly, the release soaking his fingers, his hand, and absolutely drenching his white boxers.

You collapse against him, trembling, moaning through it, half-laughing through the haze of pleasure and disbelief.

“Holy fuck,” he says, voice low and completely wrecked. “Look what you just did baby…”

And he doesn’t stop. His fingers slow, gentle now, coaxing rather than pushing—like he’s drawing every last ripple from the pond, refusing to let you fall back to Earth without floating you down himself. You tremble against him, boneless and buzzing, while he holds you through the aftershock like you’re something precious.

The two of you just stand there for a moment, breath mingling, hearts still racing in tandem.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down—and yeah, he’s obsessed. His boxers are a masterpiece of chaos now, dark and dripping, so completely see-through and soaked with proof of just how thoroughly he undid you. He gets lost in the sight of your cunt that shines under the drenched cotton and he runs a hand over the fabric, the wet sound making you shiver all over again.

You’re sprawled across the countertop, utterly undone, wearing his Calvins clinging to your hips like they’ve just survived a thunderstorm. Which, in a way… they have.

“I mean,” he says, voice rough but playful, “I was already a fan of these Calvins, but now? I think they deserve their own shrine.”

You chuckle and finally lift your head, blinking slowly like you’re waking up from a really, really good dream. A smile curls at the edges of your mouth—lazy, wicked, drunk on pleasure—and you kiss him again, slow and deep, lips brushing

He kisses you back with the same energy, one hand settling over your ribs like he’s memorizing the rhythm of your breathing. Then, pulling away just an inch, he rests his forehead against yours. Eyes searching. Voice softer now.

“You okay?” he murmurs. There’s a flicker of something real in his tone—tenderness hidden beneath the cheekiness, concern behind the cocky grin.

You nod immediately, smiling wider. “Perfect.”

And you are. You’re melted chocolate and warm honey. You’re a puddle. You’re ruined in the best possible way.

When you finally pull back, you smirk, eyes gleaming.

“You know,” you murmur, “Bad Bunny looks amazing in Calvin Kleins too.”

Lando snorts—like, full-body snort-laughs against your neck, burying his face there for a second as his shoulders shake with it. He chokes on a laugh, pulling back slightly to look at you, one eyebrow shooting up in faux betrayal. “Wow. So I give you the best orgasm of your life and you’re already thinking about other men in underwear?”

“Yeah, well,” you say, laughing with him "he probably doesn’t have pre-made meals labeled by day in his fridge...”

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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first day in the time loop it is not a loop yet. i go about my day and its a pretty good day and when i make my evening cup of tea i wish all days were like this

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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only exception ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

there are things lando doesn’t like to do, but he supposes he can make some exceptions.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.7k. ꔮ includes: tooth-rotting fluff, romance. profanity. established relationship. ꔮ commentary box: first 1-2 finish of the year, babyyy! my co-driver @norrisradio wrote an oscar version of this here ‹𝟹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ the only exception, paramore. more time, alfie jukes. loverboy, young friend. c u girl, steve lacy. white ferrari, frank ocean. everyone adores you (at least i do), matt maltese.

LANDO DOESN’T LIKE WATCHING CARTOONS.

Or, at least, he doesn’t like watching them anymore. He’s in his mid-twenties, he’ll tell everyone. He has no reason to tune into things like The Simpsons or Wallace and Gromit. Lando thinks he has much more refined tastes nowadays, thank you very much.

It’s why he had grumbled and kicked up a fuss the first time you tried to get him to sit down for something. Your yearly rewatch of Avatar: The Last Airbender, you’d said.

He was initially resistant. It didn’t matter how many kisses you promised him, how many hours you vowed to let him game uninterrupted. He just couldn’t bring himself to care about the first couple of episodes, and you let him go with a roll of your eyes.

But then the stupid flying bison went missing, and Lando couldn’t help himself.

You liked to watch in his living room, where you could sprawl out on the couch with a bowl of crisps. That made it so much easier for him to move from one room to the other, his eyes flitting a little too long on the television screen as he refilled his water bottle or came home from a quick jog.

Lando hadn’t really tuned in for the first season— or Book 1, as you so often like to correct him— so he’s a little bit lost, but he picks up the necessary context clues. You’re so invested in it, too, despite this being your nth rewatch of your self-proclaimed comfort series.

Every now and then, Lando will linger by the door. He’ll even throw in a comment or two. A mumbled “that Ba Sing Se shit is creepy” or an offhand “fucking Zuko,” and you would respond with small sounds of approval or dissent.

And then he graduates to standing behind you on the couch, his hand on his hip and his gaze fixed firmly on the episode playing. He’s too stubborn to concede just yet that he’s invested, so you settle with this weird getup where Lando kind of just hovers until you call him out.

By the time the Fire Nation’s prince joins Team Avatar, Lando has given up on feigning disinterest.

“You’re telling me she ends up with baldie?” Lando grunts disapprovingly, his arms tightening around you.

He’s referring to Katara and Aang. You had tried to keep your teasing to the minimum, not wanting to have him revert back to his whole too-cool-for-cartoons shtick. Still, you can’t help the way your lips twitch upward as you lean into Lando’s side.

“She does,” you say absentmindedly. The Ember Island Players episode is playing, depicting some bastardized version of the main characters’ love lives. “There’s a sequel to this one where they talk about their married life a bit.”

“There’s a sequel?” Oh, you love it— Lando’s voice pitching slightly higher with enthusiasm, then his attempt to hide it by clearing his throat and repeating, voice suddenly deeper, “I mean, there’s more?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “We can binge The Legend of Korra after this one.”

Lando doesn’t say anything more. He locks right back into the Avatar episode, but you can feel that excitement thrumming through him like a current.

Alright, so— maybe Lando likes to watch some cartoons.

LANDO DOESN’T SET MORNING ALARMS.

Being jolted awake is the worst feeling in the world for him. His years of conditioning had made it easier for him to adapt his body clock to whatever he needed it to be, without the help of a phone blaring some grating tune.

He knows how to wake up at any given time. It’s one of the things you’ve teased him about, being the heavy sleeper that you are.

Nowadays, though, Lando sets two alarms.

You don’t know about them. How could you? He’s always up before you, hoping to get a run in before the sun has risen, or needing to jet off for work at absurd hours. You’re used to waking up to his empty side of the bed.

When he remembers, he leaves something. A crude doodle on a scrap of paper with a dozen x’s and o’s. A misshapen attempt at a towel animal, inspired by whichever country he had been in last.

For the most part, though, it’s the indent of his body in the mattress and the lingering scent of him in the sheets.

Here’s what you don’t know—

The first alarm is set 15 minutes before he actually has to get up. It’s set on a low vibrate, just enough to rouse Lando to consciousness.

Half-asleep, he’ll reach over to find your sleeping form. The two of you tended to toss and turn in your sleep, making it so that he’d sometimes wake up to you on the far end of the bed or facing away from him.

Whatever it is, Lando holds you. He spends the aftermath of that first alarm cuddling into you, whether it’s his chest to your back or his head buried in the top of your head. Nowadays, it’s become a habit; enough that he sometimes finds himself doing it to hotel room pillows whenever he’s off at races.

Sometimes, he spends the fifteen-minute gap waking up. Most times, he drifts back into sleep, but with the knowledge that his touch is a little more intentional now.

When his second alarm goes off, he’ll press a kiss to your forehead and peel away— facing the morning with the knowledge that he has you for one more day.

LANDO DOESN’T LOSE.

He has spent his entire life competing, so it’s practically instinct at this point. When a challenge is laid out before him, he has to win. No ifs, no buts, no second-place podiums. It’s the kind of thing that bleeds into every aspect of his life— from serious things like his career, to absolutely ridiculous things like who can brush teeth faster in the morning.

“No need to pout, baby. What are you so mad about?” Lando taunts as he leans back against the couch. The Mario Kart results screen is still flashing on the television, bright and damning.

His name in first place; yours, a distant fourth.

“I’m mad because you’re a cheat,” you accuse with a dejected sniffle, your grip tightening on the controller.

Lando gasps and presses a hand to his chest. “I would never.”

“You so did.” As he expected, you’re already slamming buttons to bring the two of you back to the selection screen. “One more round.”

He purses his lips, attempting to hide the shit-eating grin threatening to break on his face. “You sure you wanna lose again?” he asks innocently.

You don’t dignify him with an answer, already selecting your character with newfound determination. Lando, for his part, grins like an absolute menace. He spins his joystick as if he’s warming up for battle, his attention divided between you and the game.

Lando doesn’t lose. But sometimes, he lets you win.

Not in a way that makes it obvious, because his ego is much too big for that. He plays it smart. He’ll take the lead for most of the race, just enough to keep you engaged, to keep your frustration bubbling. Then, right at the last second, he’ll “accidentally” mistime a drift. Maybe he’ll take a turn just a little too wide, letting you zoom past him in a blur of victory.

He does it because he likes the look on your face when you win— the way your eyes light up, the way you throw your hands in the air like you’ve just conquered the world. It’s the same way you look at him after a good race weekend when he’s standing on the podium, champagne dripping from his curls.

It’s a look he wants to keep earning, over and over again.

So when you finally cross the finish line ahead of him, when the words 1st Place appear over your character, Lando groans in exaggerated frustration, dragging a hand down his face.

“Nooo,” he whines. “I had that in the bag.”

He’s not about to earn any Oscars for his performance. He knows that much. You’re gracefully oblivious, though, and you’re grinning like this is some grand prix instead of a lazy Saturday afternoon.

“In your face, loser!” you cry, launching yourself at him in celebration.

Lando lets out an oof as you land half on his lap, half on the couch. Your arms fling around his neck. He laughs, warm and fond, and presses a quick kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t get too cocky,” he warns. “Best two out of three, twerp.”

He’ll actually try this time, he swears. But he’ll keep throwing every other match if it means seeing you smile like the game isn’t the only thing you’ve won.

LANDO DIDN’T REALLY CARE ABOUT THE MUSIC HE LISTENED TO.

His brief stint picking up DJ-ing as a hobby had proved that he cared mostly for house music, the kind of pulsing beats that made for a good night out. Other genres, though? He never really gave them much thought. He was content shuffling through whatever was trending, never attaching any particular emotion to the songs he played.

That is, until you gifted him a Spotify playlist for when he was away.

It had been a simple thing. Just a shared link and a text message that read: For long flights and hotel rooms. So you don’t forget home.

He hadn’t expected much. But then he found himself listening to it across a dozen different countries.

Your playlist became his soundtrack while stretching at the gym in Bahrain, watching the rain streak down his hotel window in Japan, lying awake with jet lag in Miami. The songs you chose weren’t just good; they were you. A mix of things he recognized from car rides with you, songs you’d hum absentmindedly while doing the dishes, melodies that reminded him of mornings tangled in bed.

And so Lando gets an idea.

He’ll make you a playlist, too.

He thinks he’s absolutely rubbish at it, thoughts. He agonizes over every song choice, wondering if it fits, if you’ll like it, if it says enough without saying too much. His Notes app is filled with half-written ideas— Do I put that one song from our first road trip? Too cheesy? What about the song that’d played at the café of our first date? Which one was that, even?

He changes the order a dozen times before finally forcing himself to stop, heart hammering as he prepares to give it to you.

It’s stupid. He’s being stupid. This isn’t some wedding proposal or anything; it’s literally just a collection of songs. He half-expects you to laugh when he presents it to you, shoving his phone into your hands with a muttered, "Made you something. It’s probably shit."

But you don’t laugh.

You scroll through the playlist slowly, taking in each title. Then, to Lando’s surprise, your eyes well up, and you blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

“Hey— hey, what’s wrong?” he panics, immediately regretting everything. “Is it that bad?”

Damn it, he’s thinking. Probably should’ve booted that one Post Malone song.

You shake your head, pressing your lips together to keep them from wobbling. “No, it’s just…” You sniffle, smiling up at him with something so unbearably soft that it makes his chest ache. “You made me a playlist.”

Lando exhales. “Well, yeah. You made me one first.”

“You made me a playlist.” You repeat the words like they mean something more, something bigger. And maybe they do.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dunno. Guess I kinda like music now,” he says, suddenly a bit shy.

You’re on him in the next minute, the force of your kiss sending him reeling. He laughs against your mouth even as you mumble something like shutupshutupshutup. He holds your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away your happy tears, and he resolves to make you a dozen more of these little collections.

Somewhere, his phone screen is still lit, the title of the playlist staring up at the ceiling.

For when I’m home.

LANDO NEVER SAW THE APPEAL IN JOURNALS.

Pen and paper never really meant much to him. He wasn’t the type to jot things down, wasn’t one for sentimental scribbles. Nobody else probably expected it of him, either.

Which is why the media nearly combusts when, during a post-race broadcast, the camera catches Lando hunched over a spiral wirebound in the garage. He’s seen scribbling something with uncharacteristic focus, and then he’s tucking the notebook away like it’d never happened.

People on Twitter are quick to speculate. One viral tweet claims it’s Lando’s Death Note, where he’s listing the names of all the drivers he decimated at the day’s qualifying session.

By the time media obligations roll around, it becomes part of Sky Sports’ list of queries. Once the usual stuff is all ran through, the interviewer pounces on the opportunity for a more lighthearted, humanizing angle. “So, Lando, what’s in the notebook?” the reporter asks, shoving her microphone a little closer to the driver.

The Brit stiffens.

All around the world, people see the open surprise on Lando’s expression. The oh, shit moment where he seems to realize his ‘private’ moment had been put on full blast.

He recovers quickly. Tries to evade by dodging the question with a joke. It’s obvious that the media isn’t going to give in, though, so by the time it’s a beIN SPORTS journalist posing the question, Lando can only sigh in defeat.

“It’s a gratitude journal,” he admits, half-grinning.

There’s a pause. A beat of disbelief before the interviewer laughs. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, inspired by my girlfriend waiting at home.” Lando winks straight at the camera and waves exaggeratedly. “Hi, baby!”

(You don’t find out until much later, when the clip has gone viral on TikTok. The comments are all to be expected— calling Lando a simp, claiming he’s down bad and absolutely gone. It’s equal parts amusing and mortifying.)

The interviewer chuckles. “Well, given today’s pole position, I’m guessing that’s your number one?”

Lando’s eyebrows raise. “No,” he says, his voice tinged with disbelief. As if it’s unimaginable. “I mean, pole’s great and all, but I always have the same thing at the top of my list.”

“Which is?”

“Her name.”

LANDO DOESN’T ‘GO SLOW’.

He’s not built for it.

It’s just not in his nature. Not when he spent his entire life learning how to push the limit, trim down lap times, find milliseconds where nobody else could. He thrives in speed, in the way his pulse thrums when he’s threading a car through corners, the rush of adrenaline when he crosses a finish line. He isn’t known for patience, either, or waiting, or any of those things that require taking his foot off the gas.

And yet.

“Lando,” you say amusedly, glancing at the speedometer. “Are you seriously driving below the speed limit?”

Lando doesn’t look at you. He just shrugs, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “Just being safe, baby.”

Your lips twitch, suspicious. You’re onto him, because of course you are. It’s embarrassing how obvious he’s become. In his defense, he never used to do this. Never used to ease into turns, never used to take the long route home, never used to pray for red lights and stop signs if it meant keeping you in his passenger seat a little longer.

But nowadays, he does.

“Baby,” you sing-song. “You do realize I live with you, right? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

You shake your head, but the look on your face is fond. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

Lando risks a glance at you then. His heart stumbles at the sight.

You’re curled up in the passenger seat, eyes shining, hair mussed from where he’d flicked at it earlier. You look so impossibly soft in the glow of the streetlights, and he’s struck with the kind of certainty that rattles him down to the bone— that this, right here, is his favorite kind of drive.

His hand tightens over your thigh. “Guess you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “I am pretty ridiculous.”

Lando still lingers at the next red light. ⛐

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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Yeah f1 drivers are millionaires who drive death machines but never forget that they are unserious, childish individuals because Max and George refused to spray eachother with champagne, Max made a beeline to the McLaren mechanic and George wandered aimlessly on the podium like no one's ever taught him how to celebrate until Lando joined in

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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i was more at saying more from ‘if it was a woman driver in the sport’ kinda way. trust me i know what women face day in and day out. i am one. my primary focus for this narrative was just the drivers.

"what has impressed you the most about charles?"

lewis: besides his great hair? his eyes... i mean, he's a good looking lad

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urghwhatthehell · 3 months ago

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🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨ 🕯️🙏🏼✨last minute prayer circle for a safe race and a lando norris win🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼✨🕯️🙏🏼

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urghwhatthehell · 4 months ago

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“ooh garlic salt isn’t real” yeah well neither is your MARRIAGE after i’m done FUCKING YOUR HUSBAND and afterwards he eats my delicious cooking that i seasoned with GARLIC SALT. FUCK YOU

i think. you sent this to the wrong person. but im enamoured with your energy. you can have my metaphorical husband you deserve her

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urghwhatthehell · 4 months ago

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give me a reason.

LN x fem!reader

in which… ‘the one where’ lando needs to get his shit together, or lose the love of his life…

hi! it’s me! back again with angst, fluff and filth! i needed to get this the hell away from me bc i worked on it so long that it kinda stopped making sense so i fear this isn’t my best work oopsie! anyways, thanks for being the best bunch ever and pleaseeeeeee let me know what you think - likes, comments and reblogs are so appreciated and make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside soooo you know what to do…

songs to set the vibes: hoax by t swizzle, no i’m not in love by tate mcrae, come over by noah kahan

warnings: 18+!! minors BEGONE! smut, angst!! but also fluff sooo..! friends to something worse to lovers, lando needs to be shot ngl, lando is so messy, max is yet again a victim, r loves wine a lot, alcohol use, swearing, lando has a bitchy gf (we hate her!) for a bit, r is just a girl, p in v, general sex acts, unprotected sex (sigh)

8.2k words

you’re perched at the edge of the booth watching. pietra plies you with drinks, knowing full well that it’s the only way you’re gonna make it through the evening. max sits beside her, an arm wrapped loosely around her shoulder as he glares at his best friend at the bar.

“he’s such an idiot.” max sighs, polishing off the rest of his drink in one. he knows he’s about to have his ear talked off about lando’s latest fling.

“such an idiot.” p scowls. you just laugh, reach for another shot of vodka.

“what do you guys expect?” you sneer, faking a smile as the bitter liquid warms your belly.

“you guys are meant to be together.” max states. p nods quickly, but pauses.

“not sure if he even deserves you though, baby.” she coos, squeezing your arm softly. you thank her with watery, bleary eyes.

lando’s on his way back over now, the pretty blonde he’d been chatting up for the last ten minutes tucked under his arm. that shuts you all up, but the cold air blasting out of the dimly lit booth could give lando and his mystery woman fatal hypothermia.

“guys, this is casey.” lando grins toothily, ushering you to move around in the booth so they can sit with you. you end up sat between pietra and casey, smushed uncomfortably into the sticky pleather. lando makes the introductions.

“my best friend max, his girlfriend pietra, and,” he clears his throat when his eyes fall on you. “and, um, my other friend.”

my other friend.

you didn’t think he could reach a new low.

“wow.” you hiccup, wriggling closer to pietra.

“i thought she was your best friend.” pietra narrows her eyes at lando, keeps her voice light and teasing.

casey is beautifully oblivious, sky blue eyes remaining firm on the racing driver at her side. you want to throttle them both.

“course. yeah.” he laughs it off awkwardly, before placing all of his attention on his latest conquest. it sounds harsh, sure it does, but you know lando and you know how he operates.

“i’m going. thank you,” you say directly and loudly to max and p, who are shuffling from the seats so you can get out of this prison of couples that you’d been so cruelly trapped in. “for a nice evening.”

you don’t bother to say goodbye to lando.

you spend the next morning crying into a cup of coffee, wrapped in three different blankets. deeply, devastatingly hungover.

you spend the afternoon that follows on the phone with max.

“it’ll be over in days, hun, don’t even worry about it. he’s probably trying to get her out of his place right now and can’t even remember her name.” max reassures, and while history would suggest him to be right, something inside of you twists with dread. “i don’t know what he’s playing at.”

“you told me that he… you said he liked me, max.” you groan, hot with embarrassment.

“he did! he does! he thinks you aren’t interested so- “

“i don’t wanna hear it max. i went to abu dhabi, flew in just to surprise him, to finally fucking tell him, and… well you know what happened.”

you’d walked into his hotel room and found him balls deep inside someone else.

needless to say, you weren’t convinced that he was as hopelessly, pathetically in love with you as max claimed him to be; as hopelessly, pathetically in love with you as you were with him.

“i know, i know, but he was hurting. doesn’t excuse the, uh, emotional warfare, but he doesn’t know how you feel.”

“well, at this rate, max, he never will.”

you’re stupid for being excited for the group dinner you’ve planned. everyone’s coming, max and p, martin, some of the boys and some of your girls. and lando. you haven’t seen him for a week, not since caseygate, and if you’re being earnest, you don’t really want to. at least he’ll be alone, you think. he doesn’t bring his hookups to group plans.

you think, and god laughs.

he’s the last to arrive, the same blonde with the same striking blue eyes tucked under the same stupid arm. you sink your glass of wine before they even get to the table, leg bouncing frantically against the chair. you swear you see pietras lips recoil into a snarl.

“did you know he was bringing her?” she hisses quietly to max, looking at you cautiously.

“obviously not!” max defends, nostrils flaring.

“sorry we’re late.” you hear from the head of the table. “everyone, this is casey.”

half an hour later, after having the magical story of their blossoming relationship shoved down your throat, you escape to the bathroom.

you’re fixing your lipgloss when the door swings open. in casey walks, complete with a hair flick and a tacky, expensive handbag.

“oh, i didn’t even realise you were here tonight.” she speaks, sickeningly false. “i thought i’d notice such a good friend of lando’s.”

you suck in a breath.

“i wouldn’t get too used to little old me.” you shrug, meeting her condescending grin with a better, badder one. “or lando, quite frankly. he’ll get bored soon.”

you leave her in the dust, only letting yourself shake with rage when you know she can’t see you. you bypass the table completely, shoot p a quick text that says you’re going home, and wait for the maître d' to hand you your coat. you wait outside the restaurant for your uber, glance back to see if anyone had even noticed you’d gone. by anyone, you mean one person, and one person only.

lando’s looking around the table, something vacant in his eyes. it’s perhaps the first time you’ve properly looked at him all night. there’s something withered and haunted in his eyes, even from so far away you can see it. he seems to be searching for something, something that he can’t place. someone.

you see that same tired face in your dreams that night, joined by a pretentious, condescending smile, taunting you while you toss and turn.

casey becomes such a constant that you’re shocked that lando eventually comes to a party without her. it’s pietra’s birthday, and max is throwing her a party at their apartment.

you’re there early to help max set up when lando walks in, better rested than the last time you’d seen him. he’s wearing a loose white button up and light wash jeans that sit just right, curls a crown atop his head.

“no casey?” max asks subtlety as him and lando hug. you make no move to greet him.

“nah, she had other plans.” he scratches his nose as he says it, and you know it’s a lie. it’s been his tell as long as you’ve known him.

max stares awkwardly between you both, gesturing his head wildly towards you when he knows you’re not looking. lando shrugs, frantic silent conversation transpiring between them until you turn around.

“fuck, forgot candles. silly me! be back in ten.” max doesn’t give you a chance to breathe before he’s darting out the door, jacket slung over his arm. you glare as he disappears out the door.

“you gonna talk to me?” lando questions, hands shoved deep in his pockets. he tries to sound light, nonchalant but it just comes off standoffish, an awkward reminder of just how much distance there is between you now, and how much there has been since he made it his personal mission to sleep with every woman he laid eyes on. except you.

“depends.” you reply flatly.

“on?” you can hear his footsteps against the hardwood floor, inching closer and closer. your hands shake as you untangle the balloons, pouring them out of the packet onto the table. you feel the heat of him before you see him, closing in on you. it’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him that you can anticipate each movement before he even makes it, your senses ultra heightened.

your breath shakes.

“on?” he presses, aware of just how stubborn you can be. “what’s going on with you?”

“nothing, lando. tired, busy, the usual. nothing crazy.” you attempt to shrug him off, but apparently he’s not done with you.

“then why can’t you look at me? did i do something?” he chokes out a laugh, a revelation of how uncomfortable he is.

you brave the sight of him, turning slowly until you’re face to face. he looks beautiful, freshly shaved, curls tamed back but not enough to stop them from hanging over his forehead to frame his face. just the way you like them.

“see? nothing wrong.” you smile tightly, wondering if he can see the effort it takes to make your face move for him, if he can see the tension coursing through your veins like electricity. he seems to scan your face, taking his time, before he sighs, hums like he’s finally satisfied.

“so you’ve been busy?” lando asks, trying to revert to your status quo, but you can’t bare the agony of pretending. “hardly seen you since, uh, abu dhabi.”

“yep.” you quip, disappear into the kitchen just as you hear max’s keys in the front door.

a few hours later everyone’s had too much to drink, and the party is in full swing. lando’s persisted more than you thought he’d bother to, and you’ve managed to exchange sentences made up of more than three words apiece. you’ve left your circle to get a drink, about to slip into the kitchen, but hushed whispers stop you from entering.

your blood runs cold when you realise that one set of frantic whispers belong to lando, the other to max. you feel that you should leave, come back when it’s all clear but something tugs on your heartstrings and ties you to the threshold of the room. maybe it’s the possibility for closure, or worse, hope.

“mate you called me basically crying, telling me how in love with her you are, and when she gets there, you’re fucking someone else! what the fuck do you want from her, man?” max spits.

“how the fuck was i supposed to know she was gonna show up?” lando retorts, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“the real question is: why would you sleep with someone if you feel that way about her? why are you fucking around? why are you with casey?”

“because i was hurt, max! she’s been going on all these dates, talking about guys she’s seeing and, what, i’m supposed to put my life on hold waiting for her to love me back? i can’t do it anymore. i can’t.” lando’s voice cracks at the end and you lean into the wall, unable to feel your legs.

“you could have told her, you idiot.” max is having none of the pity party, it seems, finally ready to knock some sense into your mutual best friend.

“and ruin everything? she clearly didn’t want to be with me.” lando argues. max sighs.

“if you actually think that, then you’re a lost cause, mate.” you hear what you assume is. sympathetic slap on the back.

“i’m doing fine with casey, i’m finally getting somewhere. jesus, i haven’t even slept with her yet.” lando whines. your heart stops on the other side of the door.

“so, it’s serious then? you and casey?” max asks, skeptical.

“it could be.” lando admits.

you put yourself out of your misery, loudly opening the door to the kitchen. you act aloof, surprised to see them, but the crease in your forehead is all max needs to see. he knows you heard at least some of it. fifteen years of friendship with him means he can read you like a book. fifteen years of friendship with lando has done nothing but break your heart.

“sorry, guys, didn’t know you were in here.” you feign nonchalance. “just need a drink.” you slide past lando, watching the way his back ripples with tension at the slight brush of your body against his. you let out a deflated breath, wrapping your hand around a cold can of god knows what. all you know is you need a drink, and you need to get out of this fucking kitchen.

you find pietra on the makeshift dance floor, join her and your friends to spin and twirl and forget about the man who’s stood in the corner doing nothing but watch you.

a week passes. lando’s wine drunk. you’re laying across one of his sofas, sharing with him, and max and p sit on the other sofa. you’re all giggling about nothing in particular, latest gossip, old anecdotes, random shit that no one’s sober enough to not laugh at. it feels like balance is being slowly restored, like the good old days before it all went sour.

“still can’t believe you did a whole lap of the ski lodge naked.” you tease lando, smirking at him from your end of the sofa. you nudge his thigh with your foot, and he grabs your ankle, thumbing over the sensitive skin.

“a dare is a dare.” he replies, grinning back at you, his gaze lingering even when max interjects.

“again, mate, no one fucking dared you to do that.” max shouts, and you all descend into laughter again.

“i did not need to see some of the things i saw that night.” p grimaces playfully, and you can’t help but flush at the memory of lando’s bare ass disappearing into the snow.

“agreed.” you say, drawing lando’s eyes back onto you.

“you know you loved it.” he raises an eyebrow at you, and you stare bashfully into the wine glass in your hand. you feel his hand squeeze, nails ghosting above your ankle, making you shiver.

“got an early morning tomorrow, fuck.” max groans. “better get going.”

you hug him and p goodbye, graciously offering to help lando tidy up a little as the couple leaves the driver’s london apartment for their own.

you’re carrying empty glasses into the kitchen when you spot it, and it stops you dead in your tracks. the same handbag that casey had carried into that bathroom all those weeks ago. your skin tingles, a phantom touch making you burn.

“so you and, uh, casey are getting serious, huh?” you mumble, finally making it into the open plan kitchen.

lando stands on the opposite side of the marble counter, a tea towel slung over his shoulder, disgustingly domestic.

for her, though. never for you.

“not sure.” he responds flippantly.

“must be, can’t remember the last time you kept a girl around this long.” your attempt at a joke falls flat, even though he’s still tipsy, flushed with alcohol.

“s’that supposed to mean?” lando asks, boyish and defensive.

“nothing, just… you haven’t really seemed in a relationship-y place.” you remark, trying to appear casual as you place the glasses on the countertop.

“i wasn’t but i realised i needed to get my shit together. haven’t even-“ he starts, but cuts himself off abruptly.

“haven’t what?” you press, finding a cloth to wipe the marble clean.

“don’t wanna make things weird by telling you that kinda stuff.”

“lando, you called me when you lost your virginity and couldn’t find your way out of her apartment building. commando. you can tell me.” you deadpan.

as much as you could do without a play by play of his newfound relationship and changed ways, he’s your friend first, and he seems like he needs a shoulder. it would be careless, cruel, even, to deny him of that.

“well, we haven’t, uh, you know.” he looks at you intensely.

“oh. still?”

lando looks at you strangely, wondering what on earth you mean by that, but you swoop in with a get out of jail card that stops him from figuring out you’d eavesdropped.

“i mean, haven’t you guys been together for like a month?” you continue.

“yeah but i guess i figured i should take it slower, deviate from my, uh, usual way.” he admits, scratching his neck.

“oh, that’s… nice.”

“not according to casey.” he mutters, slinging the tea towel across the counter, frustrated.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you enquire, avoiding eye contact.

“i don’t know, she’s just… she wants it and, fuck, i was trying to be a good fucking guy for once.” lando sighs, disheartened. his eyes are trained on you but you can’t meet his gaze, it would destroy you. “i spent so much time unhappy, wanting something i can’t have, so now i just… what would,” he inhales sharply, centring himself. “what would you want?”

“huh?” you squeak, daring to look at him. the room fades away in the intensity of his stare, his eyes boring into yours. the counter that separates you grounds you, stops you from dropping to your knees and begging him to love you.

“what would you want? how would you want that to be, your first time with someone?”

you stop breathing, curling your fingers around the cool marble.

“i… i don’t know.” you whisper.

“sorry, i knew this would be weird.” he rushes out.

“no, it’s not! well, yeah it is, but,” you inhale deeply. “if it were me, i guess i’d want you to… catch me off guard.” you murmur, leaning against the counter, the swirled marble cool against the bare sliver of skin that your ridden up t shirt exposes. “you know, with a really good kiss - soft at first, but the kind that… as it gets deeper, you know something so good is about to happen.”

lando stares at you, mouth hanging open as you speak softly, so earnestly, into the empty space between you. it seems like a million miles keeps you apart, and his eyes go wild, hungry, like he wants to crawl over the surface and pin you to it as he hangs on to your every word.

“i don’t really know,” you continue, trying to brush it all off, pretend that your entire body isn’t on fire, like you’re not itching for something that cannot be scratched. “but i suppose you’d pull me close, so i’m pressed up against you, and then it would get kind of sweaty, blurry… and then it’s just happening.”

lando seems to be bracing himself, holding position, a tension running through his body that wasn’t there before. he’s flushed, and if you squint, there’s a bead of sweat slowly dripping down his forehead, giving him away. your nails dig into your palms, a reboot to your system, and you shuffle backwards awkwardly, recoiling from the counter that keeps you from him.

“okay. uh, okay.” he whispers, nodding rapidly. “i’ll keep that it mind.”

“i’ll put the glasses away in the dining room.” you tell him hurriedly, grabbing the stems and hurtling out of the kitchen. when you reach his dining room, where the air seems to be much thinner, normal, you exhale shakily and book an uber.

“thought you would stay here.” lando strains when you tell him, watching you shrug your coat on.

“can’t tonight.” you reply, clipped.

“can we… can we get dinner this week maybe? just us?” lando pleads, doesn’t even try to hide the desperation in his voice.

“lando… i don’t think that’s a good idea.” you finally give up the ghost, looking him right in the eyes.

“why not?”

“you know why.”

he breathes your name, takes a step closer to you as you take a step back.

“no, i really don’t. why have you been so distant? i know what you saw in abu dhabi was weird but-“

“do you know why it was weird, lando? do you know how that made me feel?”

“no, because you haven’t said anything. tonight was the first night in months that you’ve seemed okay and now you’re being off again.”

“imagine finally thinking that the guy you’re in love with finally feels the same, only to walk in on him fucking some random person.” you bellow, tears slipping over your waterline. you breathe heavily, the admission taking tons off of your shoulders.

“what?” he gasps, jaw going slack.

“forget it.” you mumble, backing away towards the door. you can’t believe the relief you feel, exhausted from the pretending. you can’t even bring yourself to care about the repercussions.

“no, i- what the fuck did you just say?” lando’s eyebrows are drawn together tight, confused.

“you heard me.” your words are hushed, shy, laced with a tremble that makes his chest ache.

“i didn’t know.” is all he can say, staring at you with a desperation that makes you want to stay. you know better.

“it doesn’t matter now. you said yourself, you wanna be happy with her. so do it, go be happy with her.” you tell him, your lack of malice astounding.

“why can’t you fight for us?” he whispers, finally dares to go there.

“i did. abu dhabi. that was me fighting for you.” you scoff at his audacity. “why can’t you fight for us?”

“i didn’t know.” he repeats, voice going up an octave with annoyance. “imagine watching the girl you’ve been in love with for years go on dates, listen to her talk about the guys she’s seeing.” he hits back.

“maybe we’ve both made mistakes, lando, but i tried to put myself out there and got hurt. why would i do that to myself again?” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest protectively. your heart pounds in your chest, flustered at his admission, as much as you try and hide it from him. it hits different to hear him say it to your face; it didn’t cut as deep when you’d heard it lingering outside max’s kitchen.

“if i thought for a second that you felt how i felt - how i still feel - none of this would have happened, abu dhabi, casey, none of it.”

“but now you’re with her and, great, that’s fine, i’m just not sure how to be your friend right now.”

“no, no, we’re not throwing that away. even if we can’t be together,” you both visibly deflate at the word. “i know it’s so fucking selfish but i can’t lose you like that too.”

“give me a reason, lando. because right now? you’ve already lost me.”

when you get into the uber, you’re sobbing, and you’re sure the poor man that had the misfortune of picking you up understands when he turns the radio up - taylor swift is playing - and smiles at you sadly.

he’s spinning aimlessly in his gaming chair when max finds him.

“what the actual fuck is wrong with you?” is all max has to say, looming in the doorway to lando’s office.

“what happened to a simple ‘hello’?” lando grumbles.

“you’ll get a simple hello when you stop being a dick.” max replies, matter of fact.

lando laughs bitterly in response.

“just tell me one thing. one thing that makes no fucking sense to me. why are you still with casey?”

“i don’t know if i ever really was.” lando observes, eyes vacant and tired. “she was a distraction and i’m an asshole.”

“well, at least you know.” max mutters under his breath. lando can’t even muster a glare his best friends way.

“i ended it about an hour ago.” lando starts. “she told me that she was gonna go public, call me a cheater, say that i used her as a pawn. don’t even get me started on what she was gonna say about…” lando trails off, can’t even say your name. he feels like he doesn’t deserve to.

“fuck.” max sighs, finally walking into the room. he takes a seat on the small sofa. “what are you gonna do?”

“spoke to my team. they’ll deal with her. told me that they all deserve a pay rise and i don’t disagree.”

“and what about…” max echos his friend, trailing off. he leans forward with anticipation.

“i don’t know, man. i love her but i know i don’t deserve her, not after all this. she deserves to be happy and all i seem to do is make her miserable.”

“mate, she wasn’t miserable because you were just friends. she was miserable because you were ignoring her, choosing randoms over her. you know that, right?” max says, finally something resembling gentle in his tone.

“if i couldn’t even be a good friend, how the fuck am i gonna be a good boyfriend?”

“figure it out, you knob. all this feeling sorry for yourself isn’t working out. be honest with her for once, tell her how you feel. it’s not rocket science, lando. she loves you more than you deserve, so pull yourself together and fucking show her that she is everything to you.”

the next week is spent working far too hard and sleeping far too little.

you don’t hear from him, and he doesn’t hear from you, but it’s how it should be. if there’s no distance, you’d have a whole set of problems on your hands, forced on you by a can of worms that needed to stay sealed. it’s better this way, you relentlessly tell yourself.

max and p bring you dinner the night things change.

“you sure i can’t convince you to come work at quadrant?” max prods, taking in the ridiculous amount of papers and spreadsheets that have taken over your living room. “wouldn’t be as intense as this.”

“for so many reasons: no.” you shoot him a look, one that says leave it alone. he nods, gets the hint, and drops onto the scrap of sofa that isn’t covered in paperwork.

“you’ve been sleeping though, yes?” pietra asks, eyebrows raised with concern. she knows how you get.

you hum in acknowledgment, avoiding eye contact as you plate the food they’ve brought. p sighs.

“have you spoken to him?” max finally asks, and you know it’s taken everything in him to not ask, in the short five minutes he’s been in your flat.

“max!” pietra hisses, and he raises his hands in surrender.

“c’mon, you knew i’d have to ask, especially considering he’s been a little bitch all week.” max defends.

“i haven’t. told him i needed space.” you shrug.

“how’s that working out for you?” max gestures to the mess that engulfs the room, swallows it whole. again, you shrug.

“fine.” you stress, digging in to the chinese food. max scoffs and you snort with a mouthful of noodles when pietra glares at him.

“well, he’s miserable, and you’re behaving like someone who’s gonna end up on a true crime documentary, so sue me for asking.” he scolds sarcastically.

“okay, you want the tea?” you roll your eyes. “he told me they hadn’t had sex. i gave him advice - against the better judgment of literally anyone ever, by the way - tried to leave and he fucking ambushed me. wanted to have dinner with me, as if he hasn’t been pushing me away for months, and then had the fucking audacity, max, to ask me why i won’t fight for us, for him - oh! and he still has a girlfriend! so, you know what, you got me, i’m not doing so great but,” you choke out a laugh, opening the box of prawn toast. “too fucking bad.”

“i promise you, this will pass and casey will be gone and then-“

“and then me and lando can go back to pretending and avoiding and hurting each other. can’t wait.”

max shakes his head in defeat, knows he has to let lando fix this himself. he has no chance of winning this one with you.

“eat your noodles.” is all he has left. pietra disappears into your kitchen, and returns with a bottle of wine.

you eat together, put on netflix, slumped into the sofa as you try and relax. you’re halfway through your first drink when your phone buzzes. assuming it’s your overbearing boss, who apparently doesn’t sleep either, you pick it up and quickly wish you hadn’t.

lando: can you come over

like now

if you can

please. please please please please

we broke up.

“holy shit.”

you sit up suddenly, scan the room for your bag and a jacket. you don’t care that you’re in old sweats, you just feel the need to move, to get to him before common sense kicks in.

“you good?” max asks.

“uh, i need to go, like right now. stay and finish the wine if you want, but i just need to go to-“

“lando?” max and p ask simultaneously, and you burn with embarrassment.

“i can’t even try and lie to you right now. is this pathetic?” you question.

“no! go!” max shouts, exasperated, standing to usher you out of your own apartment.

twenty minutes later, you knock on his door.

when it opens, he’s disheveled in a way that makes you hug him immediately, his touch disturbingly foreign, and you feel him sink into your hold. he pulls you inside, kicks the door shut, and doesn’t let you go.

“sofa?” you murmur into his hoodie. you feel him nod, and you part, pad towards the lounge as you shrug off your jacket.

“hi.” he says tiredly, as soon as you’re both sat.

“hey.” you coo back. your eyebrows are drawn together as you take him in, concern woven through your features. “sorry about casey.” lando scoffs.

“don’t be, don’t even know what i was thinking.”

“well, neither do i,” you retort. “but i’m still sorry. did it happen just before you texted?” you ask.

“no, a week ago.”

“a week ago?” you gasp. “but that would mean…”

“yeah. right after you left here. asked her to come over and ended it. she told me she was gonna go to the media with a whole load of shit, so i’ve been sorting things out.”

“i’m so sorry.” you whisper.

lando laughs.

“you’re sorry? god, you’re way too fucking good for me.” he scoffs, bitter with self deprecation. “i can’t believe you even came, to be honest.”

“course i came. i might be angry at you, but you- you wanted me to, so…”

“i don’t even know where to start. i’m just so sorry about the last few months. i thought i was losing you and it drove me insane, but i should have never, ever taken my shit out on you.”

“what do you mean? losing me?”

“the dates, the guys. god, it was awful of me but it killed me.”

“that was only because i didn’t think i had a chance.”

“well, if it makes you feel any better, i didn’t think i had a chance either.” he laughs. “so what you said about abu dhabi… was that why you came? to tell me?”

“yeah, kinda. after some… encouragement from a mutual friend, i was gonna tell you that i wanted us to be more.”

lando shifts closer, your thighs pressing together. you can feel his body heat, so warm and inviting, drawing you closer.

“more.” lando repeats, tasting it on his tongue, the weight of everything he’s ever wanted since he was sixteen and fell in love for the first time.

“yeah, and then it seemed like you didn’t want that.”

“you must know by now that i also want more.” he murmurs, fingertips brushing your forearm. you keen into the barely there touch that traces over your skin.

“i’d say that’s been implied, yeah.” you joke, searching his eyes. they’re hooded, swirling with an intensity that you never thought you’d experience with another person. “um, i heard you and max. the night of pietra’s birthday.” you admit.

“fuck,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. “i’m so sorry, i swear, i never meant to put you through any of this. ‘m so, so sorry.”

“i know you are.” you whisper, loaded with a sincerity that only you could give him. “but you can never, ever treat me like this lando. i mean it.”

“i need you to know that i never meant to hurt you.” he swallows down a lump in his throat, voice wobbling just enough for you to notice.

“i do, lando.” you grab his hand, squeeze it tight.

“what do you want from me now? anything you want, i promise - i’m yours.”

“i want us to try, to see where this goes. i think we owe it to ourselves to see.”

“i never thought i’d ever get a chance with you.” lando laughs softly, the hand on your arm travelling to ghost over your cheek.

“why?”

“because i don’t think there’s anyone on this planet that’s good enough for you.” he confesses, leaning in until your foreheads touch.

“i don’t think that’s true, at least not where you’re concerned.” you breathe.

“how are you real?” it’s barely a whisper, barely audible, but it hits your ears like an alarm.

“don’t go all existential on me now.”

“then what should i do?”

“kiss me.”

“doesn’t that go against your whole ‘catch me off guard’ philosophy?” he murmurs, one hand reaching up to cup your jaw. your foreheads are still pressed together, eyes roaming each others.

“you’ll have plenty of time to surprise me.” you whisper.

you take a second to admire one another, the proximity mingling your warm breaths. when your lips finally brush, it’s slow, tentative, silent exploration. he tilts your head so that he can kiss you deeper, fingers sliding from your cheek into your hair. you emit a quiet moan, open up for him so he can taste you, and the feeling of him licking into your mouth sends your mind utterly blank.

he’s all consuming, totally intoxicating, a fresh blend of mint and something so blatantly lando that you feel like you’re floating. you find his neck, threading your fingers through the short strands at the nape of his neck. you hear something from deep in his chest, feel the vibrations of the low rumble as he presses you even closer to him.

when you inevitably break apart for air, he looks dazed, grinning like a fool as he smoothes his hand through the loose strands of your hair that fall around your face.

“i’m sorry that took so long.” lando hums, leaning in to peck your lips again. you can’t help but smile into it, in a daze of your own.

“me too.” you manage between smiling dopily up at him.

“you’re so beautiful.” he coos, still entranced. “you wanna stay here tonight?”

you hesitate for a second. he notices, interlacing your fingers with his.

“for the record, um, she never did. i couldn’t have her that close.” he mumbles, looking down at your hands guiltily.

“why?”

“didn’t feel right. she wasn’t,” he inhales shakily and meets your gaze again, piercing you with hazy blue hues. “she wasn’t you. i think that’s the real reason that i couldn’t… you know, with her.”

“i’ll stay.” you whisper, nodding softly. it’s all you can formulate as a response.

“i can make up the guest room.” he says wearily, posing it as more of a question than a statement, putting out the feelers. you scowl, eyes sparkling with a mischievous danger that leaves lando’s mouth bone dry.

“don’t bother.”

the grey linen of his bed sheets are soft against your skin as you sink into his mattress, watching intently as he pads around his room. you can smell him everywhere, a tangy, fresh musk that you want to bottle up and keep forever. lando glows in the dim, warm light of his bedroom and you feel a pang of regret that it’s taken this long to get here, muddled with a sense of relief that finally, you’ve made it.

“‘m gonna take a quick shower, okay? make yourself comfortable.” lando says, pauses for a second to take in the sight of you in his bed.

“okay.” you smile softly, eyes heavy with sleep as you relax further into the cushions. you hear the water running, white noise that allows your thoughts to run wild. the slide of the shower door grabs your attention and you think of him under the spray of water, bronze skin damp, hair slicked back.

when will it be your turn to see him like that, you wonder, musings of him pressed against you, bare and firm, flitting through your wandering mind. you realise, then, that you have him; he’s yours. why delay the inevitable?

slowly, you rise from the mattress, breathing shakily as your shirt comes off. your sweats follow, a trail of your clothes leading to the en-suite door. you can hear him humming to himself, the echo barrelling through your shaking body. you’re frantic with tension, a tinge of embarrassment, but then you consider his beautiful words, his confessions of love, and banish the feeling of shame that threatens to ruin you before you’ve even started. you unhook your bra, shimmy out of your panties, and grip the door handle. it turns slowly, steam spilling out of the room immediately, yet you shiver with anticipation.

“room for one more?” you call, and he jumps, turning suddenly.

you can’t make him out clearly, the fog painted across the shower door concealing his lean frame, and it draws you in closer, anticipation swirling in your belly.

he responds by sliding the door open, and you join him under the hot water. his eyes stay firmly on yours, body opening up to invite you in, hold you close as the spray hits you. the heat loosens your muscles, and you sink into him.

“fuck.” you hear him whisper, more to himself than to you.

“hi.” you breathe.

“am i dreaming?” lando blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face as he not so subtlety rakes his eyes over your frame.

“no,” you purr. “i’m real. this is real.”

his hands find your waist and you loop your arms around his neck, the kiss he pulls you into heated with a slow burning passion that makes you ache.

“you’re so pretty.” he pants into your mouth, firm and desperate - so sincere that it shakes you to your core.

“you’re perfect.” you choke out, mesmerised, alight in his thick hands.

“let me show you,” he starts, pauses briefly to kiss you. “wanna worship you.”

his words make you chase him for a kiss that doesn’t come. instead, he turns you to face away from him, your back to his front. you feel the cool spread of shower gel against your back, calloused hands working it into your skin gently. your hair, heavy with water, is pushed over your shoulder and you turn your head just enough to find his lips. your mouths move with intent as he works the soap down your back and over your waist. it tickles and you keen into him, enough that he holds you tighter, angles your hips away from his.

“careful, baby.” he warns lowly, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

“don’t wanna be careful.” you half moan, but he grips your hips even harder.

“not tonight, yeah? let me look after you. need you to know that i’m serious about this.” lando pants, his self restraint thin as it hits your ears. you smirk.

“you back on your ‘good guy’ bullshit?” you tease, throwing him a look over your shoulder. you catch sight of his lip caught between his teeth, wet curls matted against his forehead, and a wave of pure need washes over your body.

“for you? fuck yeah.” he manages, crouches down to lather soap down your legs. his hands roam your inner thighs, dangerously, painfully close to where you really need him to touch you, and you groan defeatedly.

“you’re horrible.” you sigh when he’s back to his full height, facing you once more. he flashes you a cheeky smile, fingertips smoothing over your arms.

“wanna get this right.” he shrugs.

“we could get it right - right here, right now.” you pout.

“patience.” lando cautions, rubbing over your sternum. he grazes over the underside of your breasts, daring to go even higher. you let out a broken sigh, shuddering at his incessant attention.

“asshole.”

“we already knew that about me, baby.” he winks. he maintains eye contact as he cups your breasts, massages them just enough to leave you wanting. his touch vanishes, then, and the elastic band of tension seems to snap. “rinse off, i’ll leave a towel for you.”

just like that, he’s gone.

you stretch like a cat across the mattress, the low sun sending the early light streaming through a devastating crack in the curtains. it leaves you disoriented - the sun never hits your own bedroom like that.

quickly, you remember you’re not in your own bed, partly because of the heavy arm that sprawls over your tired body, pinning you to the mattress. his breath hits your bare shoulder in heavy puffs that warm your skin, leaving your tingling as your curl further into the curve of his body. your movements nudge his head into the crook of your neck, his nose bumping the sensitive skin there and he stirs slightly, puckers his lips into a gentle kiss at the base of your throat.

you roll over, his arm weighing heavy against the curve of your waist the whole time. when you’re face to face, his eyes are still closed, unfairly long eyelashes dusting his cheekbones, but a smile is painted languidly across his lips. he looks so soft, boyish, perfectly unreal that you snuggle closer to him.

“go back to sleep.” he groans, hardly opening his mouth as if it’s too much work in his cosy state.

“not tired anymore.” you whisper into the slight space still left between you. your lips find his jaw, trailing across it until you find a sensitive spot just below his ear. he shivers, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. you smirk, tracing your tongue carefully over the definition of his jawline. you suck, bite down gently.

“really?” he murmurs, still smiling like a fool, only intensified by your movements. you hum in response.

“go back to sleep, baby.” you coo, sealing the hickey you’ve left with a delicate kiss, one that contradicts the harsh mark you’ve left.

“drives me insane hearing you call me that.” he sighs, almost pained. the newfound friction against your thigh explains why.

“does it, baby?” you murmur, right in his ear.

“roll over, honey. get comfortable for me.” is all he says in return. electricity shoots down your spine as you oblige, resuming your previous position.

“that’s it, c’mere.” lando rasps, sliding impossibly closer. you can feel the full length of his body pressed against yours, heat seeping from his bronze skin onto yours. your eyes flutter shut, a delicious buzz coursing through you as the anticipation grows.

you can feel where he’s hard, solid against the curve of your ass and you keen into him, arched into his front as much as you possibly can be. your thighs clench together, liquid heat pooling between them. your mouth hangs open as his hand grazes the outside of your thigh, smoothing over the thickness of them before he pulls them apart. his hand slots between them - a perfect fit - and he wastes no time grazing his knuckles over the damp cloth of your panties.

“lando.” you sigh, utterly content. it’s been a long time coming, but it already seems like it was worth the wait.

“you’re so wet for me already. you want me?” lando growls against the shell shell of your ear.

“touch me, baby.” you plead, pressing your ass harder against him. he hisses, thumbs hard at your clit in response.

you mewl, squeezing your thighs around his hand but he forces them apart, his arm tensing as he does. you grip it hard, nails digging into his forearm but he doesn’t relent. he rubs firm circles into the bundle of nerves over your panties, fingers dipping down to press into the wet patch quickly pooling in the lace.

“take them off.” you urge.

he quickly complies, fingertips grazing your hips as he slides the material off of your frame. as one hand settles back between your thighs, two deft fingers pinching your clit, his other snakes under the old mclaren t-shirt he’d leant you. he traces the pudges of your belly, scaling up, up, up, tickling across your ribs until he caresses the curve of your breast, his whole hand engulfing it. he plucks a nipple between his fingers at the same time he slides a digit between your folds, spreading your wetness around.

“feeling good for me, honey? do you know how sexy you are for me, making a mess, wearing my shirt?” lando muses, dangerously low. his voice is strained, a side affect of the hold your have on him, of how entranced he is by the way you writhe against him.

“so good.” you choke, rolling your hips to meet his hand. “need more.”

“more? is my girl greedy?” he taunts, circling your entrance with the tip of his finger.

“please?” you’re not above begging him. it does the trick.

you both moan at the way he stretches you around one finger, the single digit sliding deep. he grinds it into you, palm nudging against your clit with every move he makes. one finger becomes two and you gasp out his name, your hand finding his under the shirt, holding it to your chest. he squeezes your flesh, tweaking at your nipple until it’s hard between his fingers and your ass is grinding faster into his crotch. when he moves on to your other breast, you choke out a moan that tears through the both of you, the tension so thick in the room that it’s stifling.

“c’mon baby, i need you inside of me.” you beg, your voice a pathetic garbled whine, one that makes him falter and suck in a harsh breath.

“not sure you can take it, pretty girl. so tight just around my fingers.” lando challenges, slowing his fingers so that you can hear exactly what he’s doing to you. he curls them with every thrust, reaching a spot that temporarily leaves you blinded in the throes of his searing touch. “you’re gonna cum for me like this first, yeah? and then we’ll see if you can take me.”

“can’t- lando please just-“

he shushes you.

“you’re gonna let me give it to you, honey. you’re gonna take it all, because you’re a good girl, right?” his voice is so condescending, so commanding that it makes you throb around him, his fingers flexing harder and faster as he senses your lurking orgasm. “that’s it, honey, i can feel you. come on.” he urges.

your body spasms hard against his as it hits, any semblance of sleep shaken out of you as you fall apart. he holds you close, rides you through it - palm flat on your overstimulated clit while his fingers gently coax you over the edge. he’s hitting every spot, toying with every piece of you he can get his hands on. the hand alternating between your tits roams up to your neck squeezing briefly, just to tease, before he cups your jaw, turning your head enough so he can capture your lips in a feral kiss. it’s needy, full of greed as he swallows your cries of pleasure, keeps them all for himself.

when you go limp against him, the coils of tension finally loosening, he slips his fingers out slowly. you’re panting against his chest, descending back to reality, when you hear the telltale hum, a soft pop - he’s sucking his fingers clean.

“taste so fucking good.” he finally speaks, slick fingers pushing your shirt up your body and you manoeuvre it over your head. it’s tossed away, lost to the shadowy room.

“lando,” you hum. “i’m ready.”

it’s a plea that he can’t ignore, the duvet rustling around you. you feel him kick off his boxers and then he’s pressing his cock against the curve of your ass once more. its big, leaking already, and your mind goes completely and utterly blank.

“you feel so good against me.” he notes, dazed at the sensation of your bare flesh warm against his. “you sure?” he mumbles, pressing a firm kiss against the base of your neck, his hands working to reposition your legs so that he can slip into you.

“never been more sure in my life.” you promise, tingling with the anticipation.

he’s so close that you can feel the pulsing heat of him between your parted thighs. the head of him nudges over your clit and he drags himself up and down, coating his cock with your wetness. you’re frustrated - ready to flip the two of you over, fuck yourself full, but he beats you to it. the stretch of him makes you gasp, knuckles white as you grip the soft bedding. when his hips meet yours, he pauses, teeth sinking into your shoulder, utterly overwhelmed. you’re not doing much better, one hand snaking up behind you to find his curls, tugging softly on the messy strands. he likes it, groaning into the marks he’s leaving on your shoulder, lips trailing messily up your neck.

the sunlight streams harshly through the crack in the curtain, momentarily blinding you. it leaves you with only the feeling of him, a golden haze invading your other senses. he’s gripping your hip so hard that you’re certain that you’ll be able to map out each of his fingerprints after.

“can i move?” he rasps, punctuating his request with a delicate kiss just below your ear. you shiver, clenching around him tight, and he bucks into you inadvertently. it sends sparks shooting up and down your spine, an electric wave of pleasure that has your eyes fluttering shut.

“you better.” you implore.

“you’re fucking perfect around me.” he grunts, beginning to build a rhythm. it’s one that leaves you both breathless, brainless, unable to utter anything besides the relentless chants of each-others names, the needy wanton moans that neither of you can hide.

lando’s hands are everywhere, your hips, your ass, wrapped around your sternum to pull you back into him, plunging himself even deeper into you. you claw blindly at any part of him you can reach, braindead from the way he’s fucking you. you and him are like a tidal wave, surging closer and closer to shore after years of dormancy, of an aching, crushing build up. now, as it peaks, it could destroy you, wash you away and leaves you nothing. you know he won’t. you know by the way he’s holding you, by the soft whimpers he lets you hear, by the way he makes you feel more alive than you have in months.

“i’m so close.” your voice quivers, pleasure bleeding into the edges of your words.

“i’m gonna get you there, pretty girl. you’re so good for me.” he promises, one hand slipping between your thighs. he finds your clit, plays with it between his fingers. messy swirls combined with precise flicks make you shake “i can feel you, honey. can feel you holding back. let it all out for me.”

he sounds wrecked, like he’ll die if he can’t feel you let go around him. you feel the start of your orgasm crawling from the tips of your toes, up your legs, and into the fire pit of your belly.

“that’s it, give it to me.” lando whispers, his voice so far away, even though he’s right there, talking you through it with his lips pressing the shell of your ear.

“i love you, lando.”

with that, you shatter into a million pieces, convulsing around him, against him, trying to get impossibly closer to him as you simultaneously try and squirm away. he holds you close, barrelling into you with fast, deep rolls of his hips. each thrust taps into your special spot, stars clouding your vision, his name the only word on your lips, the only word that has ever existed.

“where do you want it?” he asks quickly, urgently anticipating his own end.

“inside of me.” you pant, delirious, but he’s not in the space to do any critical thinking - you love him! - so he takes your words at face value.

a guttural groan hits your ears like a sonic boom, his body tight and firm against your sweat slick back. he squeezes you tight as he fills you up, submitting totally to the heat of your core, to the intoxicating way you draw him in.

“i love you, too.” he mumbles into your shoulder, kisses the words into your flushed skin. “i always have.”

he flops onto his back, slipping out of you carefully first, a lazy smile on his face. his eyes are shut, angelic once more as if he hadn’t been whispering filth into your ear just a minute prior.

“we gotta do more of that.” lando laughs, blindly reaching out for you. you slip into his welcoming arms, draping yourself over his body.

“think i need a shower. maybe you can make up for leaving me in there last night.” you giggle, agreeing that, yes, you absolutely need to do more of that.

he hugs you closer, a kiss placed atop your forehead.

“you can have anything you want, honey.”

phew.

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