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hamspenalty · 7 months ago

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lando/jenson. non-drivers au; slightly cmbyn inspired; lando’s 18-19. 2.6K words.

The Italian heat is sticky, and stifling. The moment Jenson’s trainers hit the gravel, John and Cisca greet him, smiling warmly and taking his bags. He tries to protest, stop them from taking his suitcase, but they both level him with a stare that stops him in his haste.

“Welcome to Rome,” Cisca says, her eyes twinkling as she gives Jenson a welcome hug. He easily accepts it, and accepts a hug from John next. “Thank you for having me,” he says, sincere.

As he grabs his backpack from the backseat and bids the taxi driver farewell, he looks up to see a tanned boy with moles and curls leaning out the window, staring right at Jenson.

Instead of scurrying off, he holds his gaze. Jenson breaks the tension, heading inside.

“Guys, come down here and greet Mr. Button!” Cisca yells upstairs. “Jenson’s fine,” he says with a grin when they all come downstairs.

He catches the eye of the boy from before, who looks at him, assessing. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Button,” they all say at varying times, manners well instilled into them. “Lando, show Jenson where he’ll be staying.”

The boy — Lando — stands on the last step, waiting with the kind of impatience that only someone of his age could possess. Jenson grabs his suitcase and his backpack, and Lando doesn’t bother to wait for him, heading right upstairs.

When he notices that Jenson isn’t following, he half turns, eyebrows raised. “You coming?” He asks, sounding vaguely snippy. Jenson takes a big breath, holds it, and lets it go, then follows Lando up.

They walk in silence, and Lando opens a heavy, oak door with a golden handle. The room he’s staying in is fairly big; the bed is nice, definitely soft and easy to sink into. There’s a side table with a few drawers, a walk in closet.

“Here it is,” Lando says, waving an arm as he holds the door open. Jenson places his bags down, sits on the bed. “Thanks,” Jenson says, letting himself fall back into the sheets.

The air between them is stilted, filled with tension. He can tell Lando wants to ask him something, but won’t let himself. “What is it?” He asks, leaning up on his elbows.

Lando’s eyes snap up from where they were resting on the exposed flash of skin above Jenson’s jeans, where his happy trail leads into his boxers. He squints, caught out. “What?”

Every word that Lando says seems to be wrapped in barbed wire, ready to bite. “What is it that you want to ask me?”

Lando bites his nails, shifts on his feet a bit. “How do you know I want to ask you something?” He questions, his gray eyes teasing. Jenson flaps a hand, unable to explain himself. He just knows.

“I can tell.”

“Oh, can you now?” Lando ribs him, loosening up marginally. “What is it, Lando?” Something in his tone must make Lando sharpen back up, his once slouched shoulders climbing up to his ears.

Just when he thought they were getting somewhere.

“Nothing. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies easily, turning on his heel and shutting the door behind him.

This kid, Jenson thinks.

Jenson gets woken up from his nap by Lando knocking on his door. “Dinner,” he says, voice muffled. Jenson groans, rubs at his eyes. He looks outside to see that it’s dark out, and wonders just how long he’s been sleeping for.

Jenson gets out of bed, opening the door. Lando’s hand paused in the air, clenched in a fist like he was going to knock again. He purses his lips, his face flushing a bit.

Before Jenson can even speak, he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs. Jesus. He follows him down, sits at the table.

There’s salmon, roasted potatoes and vegetables, and chicken breast, all sitting in the middle of the table, aligned perfectly. Lando wrinkles his nose, sitting at the seat farthest away from the fish. He looks at it like it personally offended him, caused him harm. Jenson stifles a laugh.

“Fish, mom, really?” He complains, unable to help himself. Then his eyes snap over to Jenson’s, and he slams his mouth shut so fast his teeth make an audible clicking sound.

“You don’t have to eat it, Lan,” She sighs, as if they’ve had this conversation a million times before. By the way Lando simply drops it, it seems they probably have.

Everyone sits around the table, unable to stop themselves from immediately digging in, passing bowls around. Lando moves his seat back when the fish comes in front of his face, and his brother shoves it closer to him, making him shriek.

Oliver laughs, and Lando squints at him with disdain. “Shut up,” he says, tucking into his food. “So, Jenson. How’ve you liked Rome so far?” John asks, eyes warm.

“Dad, he just got here,” Oliver says, and Jenson just smiles. “It’s nice. Very warm.” Lando rolls his eyes, and his cheeks flame when he notices that Jenson saw. He pointedly looks down at his food, suddenly enraptured by his chicken and green beans.

“Oh, guys, remember the first time we vacationed here and Lando got heatstroke?” Flo asks, her siblings descending into laughter. Lando groans, covering his face with his hoodie-covered palms. “Oh my god,” He complains.

“We spent our first night here in hospital,” Oliver says, eyes shining as he looks at Jenson. “And Lando complained the whole time, groaning about how hot he was and how badly his head hurt.”

“I could’ve died and this is how you talk about me and my suffering?” Lando questions, eyebrows pulled taut together. “I would’ve been gone if we didn’t go to hospital. In the dirt. Eulogy done by Max Fewtrell. The whole nine yards.”

“Alright, Lando,” John says, trying to reel him back in. “And that didn’t happen, thankfully.”

“Thankfully?” Oliver questions, and it’s obvious that Lando kicked him under the table from the yelp that flies out of his mouth.

Jenson fights a laugh, but seemingly fails, as Lando’s eyes widen when they zero in on his lips, quirked and bitten. Dinner ends quickly after that, with Jenson clearing down, against John and Cisca’s advice to let them do it.

Everyone heads off to do their own thing; John and Cisca head into the study, ready to split a bottle of red between them. They invite Jenson, but he objects, still trying to fight off his jet lag.

When he’s on his way upstairs, Lando stands at the top, biting his nails. “You cleared the table down? Trying to impress, aren’t you?” He asks, eyebrows raised like he’s figured Jenson out.

Jenson snorts, “No. Just being a good guest.” He doesn’t even know why he’s explaining himself right now. Lando huffs, licks his top row of teeth.

He’s about to say something else before Oliver opens his door, controller in hand. “Leave him alone, Lan. Not his fault that you think he’s-”

“Shut up,” Lando squeaks, whips around with his cheeks ablaze. Oliver raises his hands in a surrendering gesture, smirking as he shuts the door.

Whatever Oliver was about to say seems to have been enough to shock Lando into submission. The both of them stand in the hall, staring at each other. “Good night, Lando,” he says. Jenson lets his hand hover over the younger man’s shoulder, wondering whether he should touch it or not.

Don’t do it, the voice inside him says.

He ignores it, pats Lando’s shoulder and squeezes it; gets a real good feel, before letting go, heading into his room.

That night, Jenson wanks with the same hand he touched Lando with.

Jenson comes back from his bike ride with John to see Lando in the kitchen, shirtless with his boxers hanging off his hips. His hair is in disarray, his eyes bleary.

Of course Lando’s the type to wake up at midday; it’s nearing 13:47. Jenson wills himself to look strictly at Lando’s face as he digs into the fridge, grabbing a carton of orange juice and drinking it straight.

When he puts it down and caps it, smacking his lips together, he looks at Jenson like he knows; like he knows he’s stopping himself from letting his eyes venture any further. “Should I say good morning or good afternoon?” Jenson questions as he enters Lando’s space to grab the milk for his tea, listens to Lando’s breath hitch.

“Afternoon, obviously. ‘S 13:50,” He says snippily. Jenson acts completely undeterred by it, pours the milk into his tea and puts it right back into the fridge.

“Doesn’t look like an afternoon to you, does it?” He asks, taking a sip. Perfect. Lando just rolls his eyes with no heat, face scrunched up like an annoyed, wet cat. It’s kind of cute, Jenson thinks.

“I’m young. I’m allowed to sleep in. Old men like you can’t, however,” Lando says, stretching his arms over his head knowingly. The skin of his flat stomach stretches taut, his moles moving with it. Jenson pointedly takes another sip of his tea.

“Doesn’t make me old. Makes me good at time management,” He replies, taking his things with him before Lando can give a proper answer.

The jet lag is slightly better than yesterday; his eyes aren’t as droopy, his limbs no longer as heavy. He kicks his shoes off and gets onto his bed, refusing to get under the sheets, lest he fall asleep like he did the night before.

A knock rings throughout his room, and Cisca peeks her head through, grinning. “Lunch,” she says, then shuts the door. Jenson gets up, heads downstairs and onto the back patio.

Lunch is pasta with vodka sauce; typical, but looks and smells good. It’s just Lando and his parents today. John explains that the rest of the kids are out; with friends, or swimming.

“So, Lando,” John starts, and Lando hums, the edges of his mouth covered in sauce. His mom motions towards him, pats around her mouth. Lando follows suit, swallows his food. “Yes?”

“You should go out with Jenson today. Show him around,” he says, and Lando looks shocked for a second, clears his throat and takes a sip of his water to recalibrate. “Show him where?” Lando asks, taking another bite of his pasta. His jaw muscles bulge as his mouth works, shoveling food in with his fork like he’s absolutely famished.

“Your pick, Lan,” Cisca says, sips her water. “Make him feel at home, yes?”

Lando nods, short.

Lando has his own bike; neon yellow, the wheels and bike handles royal blue. He’s wearing a hoodie in the heat, and Jenson feels hot just looking at him.

“How are you wearing that in this weather?” He questions as they head down the drive, onto the street. “I’m always cold,” Lando says. His bracelets jump and jingle on his wrists.

His hands are quite big, Jenson realizes. The back of his neck flushes hot. “Are you in uni?” He finds himself asking. Lando’s eyes flick over to him, alluring and knowing. “Yes, why?”

Jenson can read between the lines; can feel all the words Lando isn’t saying. You wanna know if I’m legal or not, don’t you?

Jenson shrugs, feigning apathy. “I don’t know anything about you. Just that you got heat stroke within a day of coming here.” Lando groans, pained at the memory, and Jenson snorts. “Enough with that. My siblings won’t let me forget.”

“Alright, so give me something else to remember you by.” They both come to a stop in front of a clearing. The water shimmers, refracting the sun off of it, deep blue and oh so enticing. Jenson shivers with the idea of getting rid of the humidity, sticky and cloying.

Lando’s eyes flick down to Jenson’s lips, his own parting. From this angle, Jenson can see the gap between his front teeth, the blunt edges of it. Wonders what it’d feel like against his cock.

Stop, he admonishes. Their eyes lock, and just as Lando starts to lean in, Jenson gets off his bike, letting it hit the ground. Lando blinks like he’s been slapped, as if no one’s ever denied him. With the money his parents seem to have, and his ever-present nose scrunch, that much is probably true.

He takes his shirt off, and knows Lando’s watching the muscles in his back move, shifting under tan skin. He takes his pants off too, and gets into the water.

He turns towards Lando, who looks like he’s two seconds away from popping off in his pants. “You gonna get in?” Jenson asks, and Lando seemingly snaps out of whatever haze he was in.

“Yeah,” he sighs, letting his bike hit the ground.

In the water, Lando finally breaks. He surges forward, kissing Jenson with enthusiasm. Jenson’s teeth knock against Lando’s, and he smooths a hand down his back, trying to calm him down like an overexcited puppy.

When they break apart, Lando’s heaving, lips red and sore. “Why’d I have to kiss you first?” He asks, seemingly peeved by it. “It’s good to make someone want things, Lando. Can’t give you everything you want off the bat, now can I? Make you more spoiled than you already are.”

Lando scrunches his face up, nose wrinkling. ‘’M not spoiled,” He says, which is exactly what someone who’s spoiled would say.

“Alright.”

Lando squints at him, crosses his arms. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” Jenson says, smoothing a hand down his side. It has the intended effect; Lando’s shoulders climb down a fraction, arms uncrossing, his eyes softening slightly. “I wanna suck you off.”

Jenson twitches traitorously in his boxers. “Jesus, Lando.” He smiles, happy to get the upper hand for once. And how could Jenson deny him, when his cock is straining against his boxers, tented and obvious from a mile away?

They make do on the rocks next to the water. When Jenson tugs his boxers down, Lando’s perpetually curious eyes seem to be blown wide all of a sudden, zeroed in on the flushed, leaking head of Jenson’s cock.

Lando sucks Jenson off the same way he kisses him. Rushed, inexperienced. He’s eager to please, though; he takes as much as he can down his throat after a few gags, tears spilling down his face. Jenson wipes them away with his thumbs, cradles the back of Lando’s head like something precious, something he doesn’t want to lose. When Jenson comes between the gap of Lando's front teeth, he notices the untamed flick of Lando’s wrist in his boxers as he works himself over, shivering when he comes. The fat of his bottom lip is flushed an angry red when he pulls off of Jenson.

He spits his come out with a grimace. “Disgusting,” Lando grumbles, without much heat. Where there should be a flicker of irritation, the feeling of fondness is overpowering, hard to ignore. God, reel it in, he thinks.

They get redressed in silence, the beautiful expanse of the orange sky their only audience, the only person aware of the sins they’ve committed. When they get back on their bikes, Lando seems to finally break out of his anxiety stupor.

“You’re not gonna start being a dick to me because of this?” He asks, words sharp. His eyes are too soft; too scared to hide what he’s feeling. Jenson wants to snort and take him in his arms, reassure him. He grips his handlebars instead.

“No, Lando.”

Lando hums, seemingly satisfied as they get close to the drive of the Norris home. “Good.”

#jendo #my ficlet #😬😬#idk if i like this tbh 😭

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