LOVE BITES; ln1
pairing: omega!lando norris x alpha!reader.
summary: in Abu Dhabi, before the decisive race, Lando Norris, an Omega, calms his anxiety with a sweater belonging to his rival, an Alpha from Williams. The secret object, imbued with the driver's scent, gives him focus and strength. [I swear it's better than it looks, I didn't know how to sum it up.]
wc: 2.5k
The Abu Dhabi paddock was too quiet for someone like Lando Norris.
The sky still held that golden hue of late afternoon, and yet his chest felt tight, as if the air wouldn't go in properly. Omegas feel differently, he'd always known, and on race days it became even more intense. The distant noise of the mechanics, the smell of fuel, the anticipation… it all swirled inside him.
Lando runs a hand through his hair, restless, pacing back and forth in the motorhome. It wasn't fear of racing. Never was. It was that strange, almost electric feeling that always came whenever you were nearby.
Williams driver.
Alpha.
And, strangely, you were the only thing that could calm him.
He looks around, making sure he's truly alone, before opening his backpack. Inside, folded carelessly, is the dark blue Williams sweater with light details. It wasn't his. Never was. Still, he'd taken it without thinking, remembering the last time you'd met in secret, those quick, stolen moments, heavy with silence, with held breaths and promises that never needed to be spoken aloud.
Lando brings the fabric to his face.
The scent is almost immediate.
Familiar. Safe. You.
It's as if the world's volume is turned down. His heart slows, his shoulders relax, and he melts. He closes his eyes for a second, breathing deeply, as if anchoring himself to something no one else could see. He didn't need words, or explanations. This alone was enough.
"Idiot…" he murmurs to himself, with a small, almost goofy smile.
But it works.
By the time Lando puts on his race suit and returns the sweater to the backpack, he's not the same person from minutes ago. The nervousness becomes focus. The anxiety becomes fuel. On the way to the car, he catches a glimpse of you from a distance, a quick look, a near-smile, nothing that would give away what exists there. Just enough to remember that you both know.
While adjusting the steering wheel, Lando thinks about it.
About the scent, the secret, about you.
Lap after lap, he keeps the pace. He doesn't push where he doesn't need to, he doesn't make mistakes where he can't afford to. Every decision is calculated, every corner taken with almost surgical precision. Over the radio, the team updates the positions, the points, the possibilities, and Lando understands exactly what's at stake.
Max crosses the finish line first.
But that doesn't matter.
Because when Lando gets the final confirmation, the voice on the radio cracking, choked with emotion, he is the world champion.
The world seems to stop.
The helmet feels heavier than ever. His heart races, but not from nerves, it's disbelief, relief, pure joy. Lando slows down, grips the wheel tightly, breathing deeply as if he needed to anchor himself there to keep from crying.
World champion.
When he gets out of the car, the paddock erupts in applause, flashes, and shouts. The team runs toward him, lifts him in the air, celebrating as if time had finally made things right. Lando smiles wide, his eyes shining with tears, still trying to process everything.
And amidst the chaos, he searches for you.
Maybe just a glimpse. A quick look between different race suits, rival colors, opposite worlds. Nothing that would give away what exists there. Just that silent understanding that had always been yours.
Later, alone for a few seconds, Lando opens the backpack again. The sweater is still there. He touches the fabric carefully, a small smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.
He knows.
The calm came before the race.
The strength came from the secret.
And, in some strange and silent way, you were with him on every lap.
He didn't win the race.
But he won the world.
The nightclub bathroom was pulsing with the music that bled through the walls, a deep bass that seemed to vibrate within the tiles. Inside, the air was hot, heavy, thick with champagne and euphoria.
That was where Lando had dragged himself, seeking a second of air, a moment of silence. The weight of the trophy was still in his arms, the sweet-and-sour taste of sparkling wine still on his lips. He leaned his hands on the sink, breathing deeply, watching his reflection in the fogged mirrors, his face marked by happiness and pure exhaustion.
The door made no sound when it opened, It was you.
You entered, and the outside world, the shouts, the music, the celebration, disappeared with the soft click of the lock engaging. There were no smiles, only an electric tension that cut through the air between you. You looked at each other through the mirror, and everything that had gone unsaid in months of stolen glances and disguised touches exploded in that tiny space.
You moved.
One step and you closed the distance. Lando backed away, retreating until the cold marble of the sink was against his back. There was nowhere to go. And he didn't want to.
The first thing he felt were your hands. Cold. Your palms, chilled by the glass you had been holding outside, met the feverish skin of his face, framing it with a firmness that allowed no movement. Your thumbs brushed over his parted lips, erasing the empty smile, replacing it with a trembling expectation. And then your hands moved up, one gripping the damp hair at the nape of his neck, the other firm on his hip, pulling him close until there was no space for light, air, or reason.
The kiss was a collision of mixed flavors, champagne, sweat, something inherently yours, of relief, of a wild and long-delayed affirmation. Lando groaned low in the back of his throat, his hands finding your waist, then your back, pulling you with a force that would leave a scratch on delicate skin. The celebration outside was a distant roar; the only real thing was the pressure of lips, the tongue, the claw of nails on his scalp.
He broke the kiss, panting, resting his forehead against yours. "I felt you on every lap," he whispered, his voice hoarse, nearly broken. "Every damn lap.”
You didn't answer with words. Instead, your lips found the line of his jaw, then the sensitive curve of his neck. Lando tilted his head back, offering himself, eyes closed, fingers tightening on the fabric of your clothes. His breath was a hot, quick puff; you kissed, licked, and explored the racing pulse beneath his skin. And then, your mouth settled on a specific spot, where the shoulder meets the neck, a hidden place that the white shirt covered, that no one would see unless they looked for it.
A firm, deliberate clamp of teeth into flesh, until he caught his breath and a tremor ran through his entire body, not of pain, but of a surrender so deep it bordered on vertigo. It was a seal, a mark, a promise written on the skin.
The sound that came from Lando, a hoarse and deep whimper, echoed in the silent bathroom after you released him from the bite. The air was heavy, thick as honey, and their scents mingled now in an unmistakable way: the sweet euphoria of Lando's victory, and your unique perfume, intensified by heat and desire.
His eyes were dark, fixed on yours as your fingers explored the throbbing mark. The smile that touched his lips was one of pure adoration, but there was a thread of desperate need behind it. The Omega instinct, suppressed by the noise of the race and the celebration, now surged to the surface, raw and needy, fueled by your claim as his Alpha.
When you ran your thumb over the mark, the contact was like a switch. The whimper that escaped Lando was sharper, more pleading. He leaned forward, his lips seeking yours again in a kiss of surrender, an instinctive movement of an Omega offering submission. His hands, trembling, rose to your face.
"Please," he whispered, broken, against your lips.
You captured his lips again, the kiss now slower, more exploratory, yet still intense. Your hands descended, finding the hem of his white shirt. With a firm movement, you pulled the fabric up, exposing his pale, defined torso.
He helped, pulling the shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor. His hands returned to you immediately, grabbing your shoulders.
It was then that his instinct took a deeper turn. His lips separated from yours and descended in a frantic path. He kissed your chin, the line of your neck, until he found the base of your throat where your pulse beat strong. There, he stopped, a tremor racking his body. He gasped deeply, lungs filling with your most concentrated scent, and then, with an almost animal sound of necessity, he opened his mouth and licked.
It was an intimate gesture, primitive, of absolute reverence. He was bathing himself in your aroma. But it wasn't enough. The tongue licked, and then the teeth, thin and sharp, found the skin. It wasn't a bite of defiance, but a tiny nibble, a nervous and repeated pinch, like a cub testing, marking back in the only way an Omega dared. A cry, a lament mixed into the act.
"You smell like you," he moaned, the words distorted against your skin between one small bite and another. "Everything... it always smells like you. In my head."
Encouraged by the low, guttural sound of approval that came from you, Lando moved down. His lips and small, wandering bites traced a path to your collarbone. He was shaking, driven by a wave of submissive need. His hands moved to the front of your body, trembling fingers finding the fastening of your dress.
With a quick, pleading look at your face, seeking permission, he pulled the zipper down. The fabric fell, and your lace bra was exposed. Lando caught his breath.
The reverence transformed into pure devotion. With trembling hands and a husky sigh, he brought his mouth to one of your breasts, first covering it with a wide, warm kiss through the lace fabric. The moisture of the kiss stained the material. He whimpered, a sound of sweet frustration, and then used his teeth to delicately pull the bra strap aside, exposing the already hardened nipple.
He looked at it for a second, with fascination, and then his mouth enveloped it.
It wasn't an experienced suction. It was a nervous, insistent suckle, full of small pauses to lick and to deposit those tiny bites of anxiety on the soft skin around it. Every tug of his lips was accompanied by a muffled groan; every lick was a plea for forgiveness and a search for comfort. He nestled there, between your breasts, as if that were the only place in the universe where the world couldn't reach him. Here, he was only yours. Your Omega. Your champion, broken and rebuilt by your hands.
One of your hands gripped the back of his neck, feeling the tremors. Your other hand slid down his back, feeling the tense muscles.
"That's it," you whispered, your voice a low growl of approval that made him shiver and suck harder, another whimper escaping. "Show me what you need."
He released your breast with a wet, panting sound, his face flushed, eyes glazed and unfocused, and immediately moved to the other, repeating the devout ritual of suckling, licking, and tearful little bites. He was losing himself entirely, using his mouth on you as an Omega would use a security blanket, seeking to drown in you to escape everything. The mark on his neck throbbed in a vivid purple, a stark contrast to the total submission of his body arched over yours. The world champion was there, serving his Alpha, and on his face was a peace deeper than any podium could offer.
That was when the knocking on the door began.
There were three firm raps, followed by a muffled, excited voice from outside. "Lando! Hey, champ, you in there? Everyone’s looking for you!"
The sound cut through the heavy air like a blade.
Lando froze, his mouth still around your nipple, his body suddenly rigid. His eyes, previously glazed with ecstasy, widened in instant panic. He pulled away from you with a wet, abrupt sound, gasping, looking at the door like a cornered animal.
You didn't move with the same speed. Your hand on the back of his neck pressed gently, a calm and firm touch, before letting go. Your eyes met his. You didn't seem alarmed, only intensely present. With a deliberate and silent movement, you pulled your bra straps back over your shoulders and took the dress, covering yourself quickly.
"Lando? Everything alright in there, mate?" Max's voice was more insistent now.
Lando swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He closed his eyes for a second, trying to catch his breath, trying to erase the expression of pure desperation from his face. When he opened them again, there was a visible effort to reconstruct the persona of the champion. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it on with jerky movements, hiding his torso and the marks of your hands.
"I'm fine!" he called out, and his voice sounded incredibly normal, just a little raspy. "Just a minute! I'm... washing my face!"
He looked at you, his eyes pleading for guidance, lost in the brutal transition between complete submission and the public facade.
You stepped closer, straightening the collar of his shirt to better cover the purple mark on his neck. Your fingers were firm, decisive. You then ran your thumb over his lips, wiping away their sheen. Your touch was the anchor he needed.
"Go," you whispered, your breath warm in his ear. The authority was back, but it was soft, guiding. "Your celebration is out there. Smile for your fans, champion."
He nodded, a small and submissive movement. The exhausted peace was still in his eyes, beneath the layer of receding panic.
You took a step back, tidying yourself completely; your reflection in the mirror was already that of an impeccable professional, only your slightly swollen lips and the glint in your eyes betrayed what had happened.
Lando took one more deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.
The roar of the party, the flashing lights, and the smiling face of a McLaren team member filled the gap. "There you are! Come on, there's a line of people wanting to see you and champagne waiting!"
Lando gave one last look back, at you still standing near the sink. A look loaded with a secret, with gratitude, with the promise of a continuation.
He had the world out there. But here, in the stillness, he had made it clear to whom he truly belonged.
Then, he smiled, the wide, photogenic smile of the World Champion, and let himself be swept away by the whirlwind.
The bathroom door closed slowly, silencing the chaos once more.
You were left alone in the sudden silence, the only sound being the distant beat of the music. Your fingers touched your breasts over the fabric of the dress, feeling the sensitive skin, the small marks of his teeth. An intimate, satisfied smile curled your lips.