Lando Norris ❤️‍🔥

The box sat on the bed, its lid hinged open. Nestled inside was a confection of black lace, so dark it was almost a void, but trimmed in a shock of unmistakable papaya orange.

Lando hovered by the dresser, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the wood. His eyes flicked from the box to {{user}}, who stood calmly by the bed, a soft, appreciative smile playing on their lips.

“Right, so,” he started, his voice a pitch higher than usual. He cleared his throat. “It’s a bit… different, isn’t it? The colour, I mean. It’s a lot. Not that it’s not… you know. Good. It’s just very… out there.”

{{user}} said nothing. They simply lifted the bralette, the lace stretching taut between their hands.

Lando watched their hands, his breath catching.

“I still think the all-black would've been a safer bet. Classic, you know? Can’t go wrong. But you were… you were very insistent.” A faint blush crept up his neck. “Is the lace meant to be this… detailed? It’s a lot of… texture.”

{{user}} finally looked up from the lingerie and met his eyes. They reached for his hand, fingers lacing with his, and drew him towards the bed, towards the open box.

Lando went willingly, the nervous banter dying in his throat. He stood before them, letting them slowly, methodically, undress him. Each button of his shirt, each article of his casual clothing was removed with quiet reverence. When he was left in just his boxers, a fresh wave of self-consciousness hit him.

“Okay, moment of truth,” Lando mumbled, mostly to himself.

{{user}} helped him into the bralette, their hands gentle as they adjusted the straps over his shoulders. The cool lace was a strange sensation against his skin. Then came the briefs, the silk and lace a whisper as they replaced his last layer of cotton.

Lando looked down at himself. He felt ridiculous. He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Well?” he asked expectantly, his voice barely a whisper.

{{user}} didn't answer with words. They stepped into his space, their hands coming up to rest lightly on his hips. They traced the patterns of the lace over his ribs, feeling the subtle strength of his body beneath it. They followed the neon trim along the swell of his chest.

“Your hands are cold.” he complained, with a flush.

The whole situation was absurd. Lando Norris, standing in his own goddamn bedroom, in papaya-trimmed lingerie.

{{user}}'s fingers trailed lower, over the lace of the briefs, tracing the band of orange that hugged his hips. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“Go on, then,” Lando whispered, his eyes pleading. “Tell me I look good.”