#florida bats | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nico-di-genova · 25 days

Text

A Lesson in Braking

AKA: Strollonso College AU, this time with a name! Warnings: Smut, at the very end, so if you don't want to read that bit it's literally the very end bit, just skip that altogether.

Chapter 1

The problem with street racing, Lance thinks, is that it is entirely reliant on the people around you being aware of their surroundings. Which, in a state full of retirees who can barely see past their steering wheels, much less their side mirrors, is an impossibility. So Lance shouldn’t be surprised that he’s almost sideswiped when he’s doing 130 in a 65 by a white Honda Civic with a geriatric behind the wheel. He shouldn’t be, and yet when he swerves back over into the far side of the left lane to avoid being flattened, the bike still nearly goes out from under him anyway.

He fights every instinct not to brake and lock up, to lose it and go sliding across the pavement with only his padded jacket and jeans to protect him.

"Jesus Christ!” comes the panicked, staticky voice through his helmet from the Bluetooth connected to his phone, along with the worried yells of everyone else inside the car.

The red Dodge Charger that was chasing Lance seconds before slows in the lane behind him, gives him enough space that if he does fall he won’t be run over like road kill – he can hear the tires of the muscle car screeching on the pavement, the horns from the traffic behind them. Pato, thankfully, is not an eighty year old with failing eyesight. He is, however, the reason that Lance had been swerving through traffic in the first place.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Pato laughs, deliriously.

Lance’s fingers are shaking around the handlebars of the bike, leather-gloved hands so tight around them that he can feel the tension in his body. He tries to breathe out, and an equally insane laugh escapes him.

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck,” Lance sighs, laughs again, thinks his heart might be beating so fast it’s on the verge of failing, “Y-yeah. I think so.”

“What the fuck?” Pato repeats again.

Welcome to Florida, Lance thinks, flashes a shaky thumbs up to Pato behind him just to ensure the man, and his car full of people, know he’s okay – even if he doesn’t quite feel it yet. He didn’t lose the bike, which he figures counts for something.

“That was insane,” Pato continues.

“That was stupid!” Esteban corrects.

Lance eases the bike back up to speed in response, shoots past the Honda Civic that nearly killed him, and flicks the old man hunched behind the wheel off as he goes.

----------

Fort Myers, Lance quickly learns within his first semester at school, is fucking boring. FGCU, pitched to him as an idyllic campus set along the Gulf Coast, is actually in a swamp. And technically, he’s not even in the city of Fort Myers at all, but Estero – a town no one’s heard of but has somehow managed to house some of the wealthiest people Lance has ever encountered, himself included. He feels he can hardly be blamed for racing his motorcycle through the streets during rush hour traffic just to feel something other than the monotony of flat land and the oppressive heat he’s been stuck in for the majority of the past three years, and getting pulled over in the process. His father, who pays for each ticket with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, does not seem to agree.

Which is exactly why he has no plans of telling the man about his near-death experience. Lawrence didn’t even want him to get the bike in the first place, still threatens to seize it with the steady growing pile of tickets. Lance endures the lectures over the phone with the patience bestowed upon him by being a good son, and then hangs up to do burnouts with Pato in the parking lot of their apartment complex. He’s unbothered by near-death at the hands of the old man, but Esteban, when he climbs out the backseat of Pato’s cramped charger, is not.

“You’re insane,” he says, thwacking Lance on the side of his helmet.

Lance, working the strap through the clasp so he can ease the thing off his head, winces, “Ow.”

“Idiot!”

“I was in my lane!” Lance justifies, even if he was nearing 160 km/h in that lane and was definitely exceeding a safe level of speeding. He hates to lose though, especially to Pato, who would hold it over his head at the next mixer. Lance has endured enough ridicule from his frat brothers for all the races he’s lost, he doesn’t want to add Pato’s fraternity to the mix.

Esteban wouldn’t get it, he’s not in a frat at all.

“You were barely in the lane!”

“Close enough.”

“You shouldn’t have a license,” Esteban grumbles, eyes Lance’s bike like it is a sentient being that willfully chose to do twice the speed limit, and not Lance himself that controlled it. Lance can still smell the burning rubber coming off the tires, feel the heat from the engine. It’s familiar to him in the way the sweaty leather smell from his hands when he slides the gloves off is.

He shrugs, “Neither should half the people in this state.”

“It’s true,” Pato chimes in, coming up behind Lance to pat him on the back. His hand thunks against the padding of Lance’s jacket, sends him rocking forward against the bike. “Glad you’re okay, güero.”

“You two especially though,” Esteban grumbles. Lance just thinks he’s still upset he doesn’t have a car of his own to race, despite the fact that Lance has offered his own on multiple occasions. It hardly gets used, because he hates sitting in traffic, and Esteban would probably be doing him a favor by taking it. But money has been a thing between them since freshman year, since it was established that Lance had a lot of it, and Esteban little, and the dorm room they shared became a space where discussions of finances were forbidden – a sentiment that soon reached through their entire friendship. Esteban still lives in the apartment style dorms on campus, Lance now has a luxury one-bedroom in the newest off-campus unit. His car sits in the parking lot more often than it runs and Esteban walks to class.

“If dumbass here keeps getting tickets he might not have to worry about a license at all,” Pato teases, smirks at Lance as Lance runs a hand through his hair to try to dissuade the helmet hair from setting in and pointedly ignores him. He busies himself with unzipping his jacket, rolling his shoulders and stretching enough to ease the lingering tension from his joints. His shirt rides up with the movement.

Esteban looks away, Pato stares, and the freshman he’s let tag along, David, stands awkwardly beside them because he isn’t sure what else to do. Lance smiles at him, tight, forced, equally as unsure. The kid’s lanky, blonde, curly hair nearly gold in the sunset. One of the new pledges, or someone Pato is trying to recruit, because in their small circle Pato is the only one social enough to actually want the job of recruitment chairman.

“Sorry for almost dying in front of you,” he apologizes to the kid.

David shrugs, “It’s cool. You’re not hot in that thing?” He points at Lance’s jacket with a cast wrapped wrist, the black fabric with grey and white accents.

It’s late August now, summer still working its way into fall. Lance was not raised in the heat, returns to Canada during the break between semesters so he doesn’t have to bear the worst of it, so he is distinctly uncomfortable. His shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat, and he can feel tendrils of it working in steady drops down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, but he’d rather wear the heavy jacket than have to cart it around for the entire time they’re standing ogling at cars. Or rather, Pato ogling, he and Esteban hanging back to talk about dinner plans. He likes cars in that they can get him from one destination to the next, doesn’t care to talk about them outside of that.

“It’s manageable,” he shrugs, tucks his helmet under one arm and starts walking toward the closed off section of the outlets, where cars are already parked and lined-up.

Pato doesn’t suggest Lance leave the gear in his car, despite it being an easy solution, he knows Lance likes the looks it draws. Lance had drunkenly admitted as much one night, when Pato was straddling his lap and kiss his neck because there were no other options. They had grown accustom with becoming each other’s last resort, hooking up in bedrooms of stranger’s houses or in the back of Pato’s car because the number of girls at parties they frequented far outweighed the available, and interested, men. He smirks at Lance over the top of David’s head as they walk toward the row of cars with popped open hoods – a glint of knowing in his far too mischievous eyes.

They’ll probably hook-up later. Unless Esteban finally feels like kissing him, or the freshman stops being a freshman, both of which are likely to happen when hell freezes over.

“Looks heavy,” David says.

“It is.”

Pato’s smirk widens, “He’s used to it.”

“Go look at your stupid cars, man,” Lance rolls his eyes, shoots Pato a warning look.

It’s the Aston Martin that draws Pato’s attention first. Silver, brown leather interior, the type of car Lance’s dad would own – if he doesn’t already. Lance lost track of the collection long ago, lost interest too, much to his dad’s disappointment. Lawrence wanted him to get into racing professionally, which Lance entertained for all of two seconds before he realized just how far his dad wanted him to go. Then it all felt like too much too fast, and Lance realized he was maybe more content hiding in the Florida swamp land for four years instead. Time he is rapidly running out of.

“You didn’t want to race on a track, but you’ll do it in the street,” he can hear his father’s voice chiding. Lance doesn’t know how to explain there’s more freedom in the street racing, less control, and substantially more danger but a higher reward. No one knows him under the helmet either, not in the way they would if his name was tied to a team and a car and all the responsibility that came with it.

David goes with Pato, both of them studying the engine of the car. The owner, thankfully, isn’t around. Lance doubts they’d like the way Pato goes to duck his head in through the driver’s side door.

Lance shoots Esteban a look, “I feel like you should be more into this,” he says, leans over enough to poke the man in the side with an elbow. Esteban is one of the few people in his friend group who is the same height as him. Which was the first thing they’d bonded over, the second was the fact that they both spoke French. Esteban more fluently, but Lance enough that most their conversations were shared in the language.

“Why?” Esteban asks, eyeing the Aston the same way he had Lance’s bike, like it is likely to reach out and bite him. “Do not say because of the engineering.”

“A little because of the engineering?”

“No.” Esteban is the smartest of them, which Lance has known since he first met him and Esteban introduced himself with a handshake which was quickly followed by, ‘majoring in mechanical engineering.’ His golf management major had sounded silly in comparison, had seemed even sillier once Esteban pulled all-nighters to complete homework for math classes that far exceeded Lance’s skill level while Lance was learning the best techniques for watering grass.

Lance failed a class his freshman year, Esteban passed all of his with what appeared to be ease. Then they both got shitfaced on their last night together and snuck onto the trail that ran from the freshman housing to the upperclassman apartments to share a joint. It had been close to midnight, and every sound that came from the surrounding wilderness had them jumping, but it was maybe the thing that had cemented their friendship.

“You know what you want to do with that yet?” Lance asks, because they’re starting their junior year now. Because the future is becoming something tangible, and so discussing what the fuck they’re supposed to do next seems like the correct thing. Lance still has no idea what he wants to do and thinking of it makes the sweat on the back of his neck run cold, makes the jacket he’s sweltering in seem even hotter.

"Not a clue,” Esteban says, which makes Lance feel a little better, “You?”

“Golf, I guess.” Not much else he can do with his degree, and his business minor had only been something added on at his dad’s request. Lance isn’t passionate about either of those things, isn’t sure he’s passionate about anything. He likes racing, likes his bike, likes spending lazy Saturday mornings on the course, or weekday mornings practicing tennis with his coach, and he’s decently good at all of those things but none of them really seem like a passion.

He is becoming increasingly aware that he is running out of time.

“Professional golfer, Lance Stroll,” Esteban says, draws out Lance’s name to really test the sound of it against PGA pro.

Both of them grimace.

“Maybe not,” Lance amends.

“Could work, maybe.”

“Probably wouldn’t,” Lance isn’t good enough, not for going pro, and he doesn’t plan on putting in the effort to get there for something he cares so little about. “Maybe I’ll just wait for you to secure your fancy engineering job, marry you and live off your paycheck.”

Esteban shoots him a look that reads ‘fuck no’ clear as day.

----------

The sun sets fully somewhere around eight, Lance starts cooling off at the nine p.m. marker. At some point they lose Pato and David, and then Esteban runs into a group from his major, and then it’s just Lance standing in a sea of American sports cars wondering if he should maybe just go home. He’s feigning interest in a Camaro, lime green with black racing stripes, ugly and gaudy, when someone behind him clears their throat.

“You ride?” the person asks, accented and deep and Lance turns to come face to face with a man who looks right at home amidst the crowd of mid-forties dads showing off their hardly impressive rides. Polo, cargo shorts, and a cap sporting some car brand, Lance thinks he looks a lot like the tourists he’d spotted on his brief visit to Orlando last year. He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who would know anything about motorcycles.

“Uh, yeah.” Lance says, shifts the helmet in his hands so he’s got a tighter grip on it. The guy follows the movement, watches Lance’s hand flex, follows the line of his vein up his arm until he reaches Lance’s eyes again.

“What bike?”

Lance swallows, feels a bit like he’s being interrogated with how the guys brown eyes are staring into his.

“Suzuki 650.”

“Your first?”

“Yeah,” the same one he’s had since his freshman year, stored in storage while he’s gone for the summer and then taken back out when he comes back down. It’s reliable, and Lance has other bikes back home, but he likes this one, likes that it feels like he’s worn it in. “It’s custom,” he adds, defensively, can feel this guy sizing him up.

“Yes?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a moment where Lance thinks that might be the end, the guy will decide there’s no further conversation to be had and then be on his way. He isn’t sure if that would be a bad thing or not, is still trying to maintain eye contact and try not to step back any further against the Camaro behind him.

When the guy offers his hand to shake Lance is afraid to take it, knows his free palm is clammy, doesn’t want to give himself away.

“I’m Fernando.”

“Lance,” he shakes, hopes the guy will assume it’s the heat, not the nerves setting Lance on edge. This is the most eye contact he’s had to maintain since his plane landed back in Florida two weeks ago. It’s unyielding too, like the guy is trying to win a contest Lance hadn’t realized he’d entered.

“Lance,” Fernando says, testing it, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Do you- do you ride?” Fernando seems to have some understanding, looked decently impressed when Lance mentioned his custom ride. And he wasn’t asking about the cars on display, but instead the bike that Lance wasn’t even near.

Finally he looks away, back to the helmet, back to the way Lance is gripping it with a tightening hold. His mouth, which had before been slanted upward into something close to a smile slips a little. Lance watches the movement, categorizes it the way he does every micro expression, because he’s gotten good at reading people over the years and knows hurt when he sees it.

“I used to.”

“Not anymore?”

“Bad knee,” Fernando explains, motions at his right leg. Lance looks down at where the shorts stop just above the joint, can see the faint white lines of scarring amongst leg hair. Surgical incisions, clean and even.

“Oh.”

Fernando doesn’t look that old, not old enough for knee surgery. There’s lines on his face and grey in his beard, but still plenty of color left alongside it. Dark brown stubble and brown hair curling in the humidity beneath his cap. Lance wouldn’t place him above fifty.

“I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of anything better, and because Fernando keeps glancing at Lance’s helmet with something like envy.

“Is okay,” Fernando says with a shrug, smiles sadly.

And maybe it’s because Lance is feeling lonely, abandoned by his friends, or maybe it’s because something in Fernando’s expression is familiar, he offers, “Do you- do you want to see it? My bike?”

----------

“What happened here?” Fernando asks, pointing at the scuffed paint along the right side of the gas tank, finger tracing the slightly dented spot where matte black has given way to exposed metal.

Lance could have gotten it fixed, but he liked that the bike had character, liked that it was a little imperfect. At least he thought he did, now he just feels like a teenager with their first beat-up car driven off the used car lot.

He laughs, embarrassed, palms at the back of his neck as his cheeks warm, “I, uh, I dumped it freshman year.”

Fernando looks up at him, arches an eyebrow, smiles like he knows the feeling. And then he waits for Lance to continue.

“Yeah, it, uh, it was stupid. Or I was stupid. I was driving around the loop on campus, at school, hit a patch of dirt, it just slid out from under me.” It was his first time falling off the bike, only a week after he had gotten it. And because he’d only been going from the main campus to his dorm he hadn’t bothered to wear gloves, or his jacket, ended up with road burn and an arm ran raw and bloody for his stupidity. He still had some scarring, faint, but there.

"Ouch,” Fernando says, still tracing the damaged spot with an index finger.

Lance watches him, swallows, takes the moment where Fernando isn’t looking at him to study the muscles of his arms straining against the cuff of his polo. And then Fernando shoots him a quick glance and he’s darting to look away like he’s been caught. He maybe has been, if the way Fernando smirks is any indication.

Lance blames Pato, the empty spot in the parking lot where his car was a few hours ago, taking the promise of a blowjob in the backseat with him. And leaving Lance standing in the shadows cast by the street lamps and palm trees dotting the lot, beside a man whose name he knows and little else. When Fernando shifts closer, until his weight is pressing against the side of Lance’s right arm, Lance doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets Fernando get close enough that the smell of him is almost overwhelming, sharp cologne invading his senses.

“So what’s custom?” Fernando asks, snapping Lance back enough that he can focus on the asphalt beneath him and the bike in front of him, enough that he remembers they’re two doors down from a still open Best Buy.

In his mind he is drafting a strongly worded text to Pato, outwardly, he is pointing at all the pieces of the bike that his father had spent a small fortune on and watching Fernando’s impressed expression grow. Fernando doesn’t pull away, Lance doesn’t make space, and when Fernando mentions the Aston Pato had been ogling earlier in the night is his, Lance follows him to it with blatant interest. He pretends to care about the car, up until Fernando asks him if he wants to go for a ride, and he knows he can drop the act.

----------

They end up on the other side of the outlets, tucked beside a dumpster near the Barnes and Noble and an abandoned Asian restaurant. Lance isn’t picky, doesn’t need to be wined and dined, is perfectly okay with grinding against a guy in the backseat of his Aston Martin and letting his sweat soak into the leather. His jacket and helmet have been dumped in the passenger’s seat, his t-shirt pulled over his head and lost somewhere on the floorboard.

Lance is straddling Fernando’s lap, his head bent against the roof of the car, his neck angled just enough that Fernando can get better access to the junction where his jaw meets his carotid. In terms of hook-ups, it’s not his craziest, though Fernando may be the oldest. He didn’t ask for an age, was content enough with Fernando still having color in his hair. And it didn’t much matter once the man got a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants, grinding down on Fernando’s growing length beneath him before thrusting back up into the warm grip of his hand. His head thunks against the roof with the movement, causing Fernando to laugh, breathy and warm against his neck.

“Come here,” He instructs, pulls down Lance until he’s resting his head against Fernando’s shoulder and curled over. The position severely limits his ability to grind against Fernando, makes it so that he’s the only one deriving any real pleasure from this scenario.

“Is okay,” Fernando says when he tries to voice that, continues to stroke the length of his cock without pause.

Lance bites his bottom lip to muffle a whine. His jeans are the only thing still on him, and just barely, pulled down and pooled around one ankle. Fernando is still fully clothed, obvious bulge in his shorts. Lance feels exposed, raw, so close that he can feel the orgasm building in his stomach.

“I’m close,” he pants, cries almost. It is better than he and Pato’s backseat escapades, better because Fernando smells likes sharp clean cologne and there’s no exercise equipment digging into his back from being pressed into the seats. Better because Fernando twists his wrist a certain way and Lance can’t stop the cry from escaping him.

“Please,” he begs, leans back enough that he can look at Fernando, only to be pulled back in by the nape of his neck – into a bruising kiss that makes him realize he’s maybe never been really kissed before. Fernando tastes how he smells, sharp. When Lance opens his mouth to pant Fernando’s name, it’s the man’s tongue that silences him, licks behind his teeth and explores him like he’s trying to learn the shape of his mouth. Lance lets him, finds he is eager to do so.

Pato doesn’t kiss him, it’s a rule they have, a fragile divide that maintains their friendship. Lance didn’t realize how much he had been missing.

When Fernando pulls away a trail a spit connects them, until it breaks and lands cool and wet against his chin. Lance doesn’t wipe it away, lets it stay there as his eyes flutter open and he’s staring into steady brown, turned dark in the shadows.

“You’re beautiful,” Fernando praises, lips slick with spit and eyes shining with praise, and Lance cums like that. His spine arching, his body tensing, Fernando coaxing him through it until he goes boneless and slack, cum streaked across his stomach and trailing down Fernando’s hand, his arm, dripping onto the leather seats beneath them.

“’m sorry,” he pants, eyes darting to the pearly mess dotting the brown leather, “Your seat.”

Fernando glances at it, uncaring, quickly looks back at Lance and trails a hand down the front of his chest, tracing along the skin as Lance’s chest heaves with the breath he’s trying to regain.

“Don’t worry,” he says, smiles, the same smile he’d shot Lance’s way back by his bike, the smile that told Lance this would be where they ended up. He trails a hand back up Lance’s chest, his neck, settles against his jaw and traces a thumb along his cheekbone. Lance leans into the touch, finds he doesn’t mind it, finds he maybe wants it to stay for longer than a backseat hookup should. Fernando indulges him, lets him catch his breath before he suggests moving.

Lance slides off of him, falls back onto the seat, tries to maneuver in the cramped space to slide his boxers and jeans back on. Fernando passes him his shirt, pulled from the depths of the floorboard, rumpled and dirty from their shoes catching on the fabric. There’s still cum on his stomach, drying cool, he glances at it, at Fernando.

He’s about to ask if Fernando has a napkin, an old receipt, anything, but all words quickly leave him when Fernando leans down and licks the mess away. His tongue, warm and wet against Lance’s stomach.

“Oh,” Lance chokes, feels Fernando laugh against him.

“Better?” he asks when he’s done, sits up and eyes Lance like he’s asking for a five star review on an uber ride.

Lance nods, mouth slightly agape, eyes wider than he means for them to be. Like a shocked cow, he can hear Pato teasing in his head, his big brown eyes and dumbfounded expression matching that of the creature. He swallows, tries to regain some composure.

“Do you- do you want me to-“ he motions at Fernando’s cock, the bulge still there.

Fernando shakes his head, “No, you will get me next time, yes?”

Lance chokes again, “Next time?”

“Unless no?”

Back propped against the door, handle digging into his back, legs spread out before him like he’s forgotten how to make them work, Lance shakes his head.

“No! No, I mean, yes. Yes. Yes to next time,” his hands fumble for his phone in his pocket, and then he’s holding it out to Fernando like a demand. Fuck Pato. Fuck his backseat. Fuck shitty blowjobs when they’re both too drunk to swallow properly. He’s beginning to see the appeal of this Aston Martin now.

Fernando laughs again, warm, endeared. It’s slow and drawn out and all the things that Lance isn’t. It’s easy in all the ways Lance isn’t.

Lance kisses him when Fernando drops him back off at his bike, leaned over the console, and tastes himself on Fernando’s tongue.

“Drive safe,” Fernando says.

Lance does the speed limit the whole way home.

#it's here!#it's queer!#it's got smut right off the bat!#and i'm maybe very scared to post it but it is what it is and now I got to bed #pls love south florida lance #i put so much into him :))))#strollonso #formula 1 #strollonso fic #lance stroll #fernando alonso #a lesson in braking

103 notes · View notes