requests are open, but please make sure you read the rules before submitting! <3
about me !
i’m abbie! i’m 23, sun in gemini and libra rising!! i don’t know what does that say about me, but my friends argue that i’m a walking red flag!
i just got my BA degree in journalism and media communication, now i’m doing my masters in Media and ICT and while i struggle with that, i like to read a bunch of smut about f1 pilots, band members and spencer reid from criminal minds. because that’s just my personality basically.
i have a tendency to spend my money on concerts. lots of them. in particular 5SOS ones, so my wallet is not extremely happy about that and this might be the reason i’ve never been to a GP. (sad story!! but !! we’re working on that, hopefully i’ll be attending one soon!)
my other tendency is to sometimes forget i have a tumblr account (yikes!), i’m currently living a particular busy phase of my life between college, work and my volunteering job so i’m so sorry, bare with me! i will go MIA sometimes :( !
last but not least english is not!! my first language, i’m esl so i apologize in advance for any grammar, syntax, vocabulary or phrasing mistakes! i consider my english level to be pretty high but im not a native speaker so yeah, don’t bully me! please ! (i also have a huge problem with punctuation lol. sorry about that too!)
and that’s it!!
(feel free to just pop a message in the request box if you wanna chat or become friends, i promise i’m friendly !!)
writing info !
I’m taking a moment to list my general writing info and rules that you must check before sending your request and ideas.
IM CURRENTLY ONLY WRITING FOR LANDO NORRIS
First things first, my blog is NOT FOR MINORS. Must be +18 to read and interact.
!!!! CHECK FREQUENTLY CAUSE THERE MIGHT BE FURTHER UPDATES
I write female reader insert fanfictions and i do my best to make the reader as inclusive as possible. Every exception will be written in the info of the story/os/ff beforehand
I tend to write primarily for F1 but i’m also open to other fandoms ( especially MCU characters, some actors and bands/singers)
I love discussing my fics, give insights and even spoilers so feel free to ask or comment if you're curious. I HIGHLY value feedback as I find it stimulating and inspiring!
happily accept gifs, photos, videos, moodboards, edits etc., anything that reminds you of one of my fics or characters
I do NOT give consent to have my work posted, translated or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere but here it’s because it was published and shared without my permission so please report that.
IM NOT WRITING !!!
Bigotism. Racism. Disrespect towards others. Omophobia, transphobia, sexism, misogyny, gender and children violence, war.
I am also not writing about Mafia in any way. I am italian and not only i feel deeply disrespected to be associated with that scum and disgusting lifestyle but i assure you that If you feel fascinated about the romanticization of it, it means you are not educated enough. Mafia is not something you should feel attracted to in a romantic way. On this subject i am adding a link for you to educate yourself about what mafia really is, and not the 365days movie version of it. Cause that’s disgusting if you really learn about the matter.
This is your chance to educate yourself HERE and HERE
my cup of tea !
I am okay with writing fluff, angst, head canon, light to graphical smut, alternative universes and imaginary circumstances
about angst
I’m fine with writing about sad situations and even mental health issues as long as it’s to raise awareness and make readers feel less alone, unless it’s too heavy or dark to bare. I will not write about d3ath, su1cide, selfharm, torture, severe psychiatric diagnosis and eating disorders.
about smut - MUST BE +18 to read and interact
I will be writing about sex, foreplay and steamy situations. Including teasing, cockwarming, overstimulations and edging. i am also keen to write about choking, spanking, blindfolding, tying situations, size and breeding kinks. Sex can have infinte possibilities and scenarios but please be reasonable with what you’re asking. I WILL NOT WRITE: anything without consent, underage and big age gap, heavy bondage, pedophilia, necrophilia, real couples cheating, orgies, heavy degradation kinks and heavy daddy kinks ( not my cup of tea but i can compromise). No piss, poop, sweat or puking. I’m serious, seek help if you’re into that.
so hi. i know i’ve been missing for some while but coming back just to state that ive been to the first two dates of the Everyone’s A Star Tour and IM NOT NORMAL about black hair Luke Hemmings. HES SOOOO!! AAAAARGH! legs are divorced.
sorry for coming to my ted talk, if anyone out there is also a 5sos fan pls hit me up cause i have so many things to say !!!
summary: Wimbledon and Silverstone happen during the same weeks in the same country. What a coincidence!
Part 2 of Tiebreak
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !! (prob bad english soz)
word count: around 10k
➽───────────────❥
“Welcome to the London Waldorf Hotel by Hilton,” the receptionist that welcomed you was smiling brightly, fingers already flying across the keyboard as you stepped up to the desk, passport in hand.
Weeks blurred together after that night, collapsing into a relentless rhythm of early mornings, punishing training blocks, recovery sessions that left your body aching in quiet, specific ways, and a calendar that refused to slow down no matter how loudly your muscles protested.
By the time Wimbledon week arrived, it felt less like an event and more like a reckoning.
Wimbledon was different. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t just another Slam; it was the Slam.
The lawns, the white, the ghosts of champions that seemed to linger in every corridor and press box. Win there, and your name didn’t just sit on a trophy, it stitched itself into history. Lose there, and people still remembered how you lost, how far you went, how close you came. Forever.
This year, the attention followed you more closely than ever.
Top ten. For the first time. No Slam title yet. Too good to ignore, too unproven to fully trust. You could feel the eyes on you already, weighing you, measuring whether you were finally ready to justify your ranking or if you’d buckle under the particular pressure Wimbledon loved to apply.
After Monaco, after that night with Lando, you hadn’t seen him again. Not really. Training had turned brutal and it left little room for distractions, and his schedule had carried him across the Atlantic to Canada first, then back to Europe, Austria, commitments stacking neatly one after the other.
You knew he was in England now, of course. Silverstone loomed on his calendar the same way Wimbledon loomed on yours.
You were halfway through confirming your reservation when the receptionist’s expression shifted, brightening even further as she glanced past your shoulder.
“And welcome back, Mr. Norris,” she said, already reaching for a second keycard with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.
You didn’t even need to turn around to know.
Of course you’re both staying at the same hotel. What were the fucking odds?
The receptionist handed you your key with a “Have a nice Wimbledon Week Miss”, and then turned her attention fully to him. You stepped aside, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to see him like this again after weeks of nothing but blurred Instagram posts and a few texts.
He approached the counter and handed over his passport as you watched the exchange from a step away: the way she smiled a fraction wider, the way Lando answered her questions with polite charm, not quite flirting but not not flirting either.
“What are you doing here?” you said, straight to the point, pretending this was all entirely normal.
“Silverstone week,” he replied easily, as if that explained everything. “Hi, by the way, good to see you too!”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Completely ignoring the second part of his sentence. “Silverstone is two hours away,” you said, the confusion slipping into your voice before you could polish it away.
He turned fully toward you then, grin spreading slowly, deliberately. “Oh, really?” he said, mock surprise dripping from every syllable. “Did you check?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “I’m serious,” you said before repeating “What are you doing here?”
He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if he were about to let you in on some great secret. “This place,” he began, ticking points off on his fingers, “has an amazing gym, genuinely life-changing breakfast, and—” he paused, glancing briefly toward the receptionist before continuing, “—some rooms have jacuzzis.”
You stared at him, unimpressed and thoroughly baffled. You were so confused. “What?”
“The reason why I’m here,” he answered. “It’s my favourite hotel when I’m in England.
The receptionist cleared her throat politely, handing him his keycard with a bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Norris. Enjoy your stay.”
“Always do, thank you” he said, offering her a grateful nod before turning back to you.
You shook your head, still trying to reconcile the logic of a Formula One driver willingly committing to four hours of daily commuting during one of the most intense weeks of the season.
You followed him toward the elevators without quite deciding to, waving a porter over and murmuring your room number so he could take your bags. The lobby buzzed softly around you, a hum of accents and rolling suitcases and muted laughter, but somehow it all faded into background noise as you walked side by side, close enough that your arm brushed his every now and then.
“Why are you really here?” you tried again as he reached the elevator bank, pressing the call button with an absentminded tap. “In London, I mean. I’m sure Silverstone has plenty of luxurious hotels with amazing gyms and jacuzzis”
He glanced down at you, expression softer now, less teasing. “Media stuff,” he said. “I got some filming here before heading there for the weekend”
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. You stepped inside together, the space suddenly smaller, quieter. He leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands folded loosely in front of him, watching your reflection more than you.
“And you?” he asked, casually, though his eyes lingered. “Wimbledon week as a top ten. That’s huge.”
You felt the weight of it then, the unspoken pressure settling into your shoulders the way it had every morning since you’d landed.
It was huge. It was pretty fucking huge. That’s why you needed to stay focused. No distractions. No temptations. No hanging around with an F1 british hottie.
“Yeah,” you said, exhaling slowly. “It is.”
The elevator began its ascent, a gentle hum beneath your feet. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence filled with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t since that night weeks ago.
Then, the doors slid open onto your floor, and for a second, neither of you moved, suspended in that soft, unremarkable moment that somehow felt like the start of something else entirely.
Lando broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”
You glanced at him, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest. “Guess so.”
You didn’t see a lot of eachtother.
It wasn’t that you were avoiding Lando, not deliberately, not in the way people avoided things they didn’t want to face. If anything, the opposite was true. But your schedule left very little room for anything beyond training sessions that began too early, matches that demanded every scrap of focus you possessed, recovery routines that blurred together, and the quiet mental preparation that followed you back to your hotel room each night like a shadow.
His world wasn’t any less chaotic, from what you gathered in passing. You’d see him occasionally in the lobby, always in motion, phone pressed to his ear, or laughing with someone from his team as he headed out the door, sunglasses on no matter the weather. Sometimes your paths crossed by accident at breakfast, a shared glance over coffee cups, a quick smile exchanged like a promise left there to pick up.
Once, you ended up in the gym at the same time, both of you pretending it was a coincidence while silently acknowledging that it wasn’t entirely.
He’d offered you a grin from across the room, lifting a hand in greeting mid-rep, and you’d felt something warm curl in your chest before reminding yourself, firmly, that this week was not about him.
The first match in qualifying rounds came and went in a blur of nerves and adrenaline, your body stiff at the start before memory took over, muscle and instinct guiding you where your mind hesitated. The grass felt fast beneath your shoes, the ball skidding low in a way that demanded precision and punished hesitation, but by the end of it, you walked off court with a win and a quiet sense of relief that settled somewhere deep in your bones.
The second round followed quickly, then the third, each match stacking on top of the last until they blurred together in flashes of green and white and applause that washed over you like waves. You stopped counting days and started counting routines instead.
Wake up. Stretch. Eat. Warm up. Play. Recover. Sleep. Repeat.
Occasionally, in the margins of it all, your phone would buzz with a message from Lando, something simple and stupid and unnecessarily dirty, like Your ass was phenomenal in that outfit today and you’d find yourself smiling at your screen before slipping it face-down onto the bedside table.
The quarterfinals arrived with a kind of hushed gravity, the air thicker, the crowd more deliberate in its attention. You told yourself it was just another match, just another opponent, but your body knew better, your pulse quickening as you stepped onto court, your breath shallow until the first rally forced you back into yourself. It wasn’t perfect tennis, not then, but it was resilient, stubborn, and when the final point was yours, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, racket hanging loose in your hand as the realization crept in.
Semifinalist. At Wimbledon.
The word felt unreal, like something borrowed from someone else’s career, something you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to claim.
Back in the locker room, you sat on the bench and stared at your shoes while your phone filled with messages, congratulations piling up faster than you could respond to them.
The day of the semifinal dawned bright and impossibly green, the kind of English summer day that felt curated for television, for history. You woke early, nerves humming beneath your skin, but there was a calm there too, a sense of rightness that surprised you. As you pulled on your all-white outfit, smoothing the fabric over your hips, tying your hair back with practiced precision, it hit you suddenly how far you’d come, how many early mornings and lonely flights and silent doubts had led to this exact moment.
Walking onto Centre Court felt different than anything before it. The stands rose around you like a living thing, steep and full and expectant, the royal box gleaming in your peripheral vision, the grass impossibly pristine beneath your feet. You took a breath, deep and slow, and for a brief, fleeting second, you thought of Lando, probably somewhere not too far away, wrapped up in his own version of this madness, pressure dressed up as opportunity.
Then the match began, and everything else fell away.
From the first serve, something clicked into place with an ease that almost scared you.
Your toss was perfect, your timing precise, the ball snapping off your strings with a satisfying bite that echoed across the court. The rallies unfolded exactly as you’d imagined them in training, your feet light, your movements instinctive, each decision made without hesitation. You weren’t thinking about rankings or history or what this match meant. You were simply playing, fully and completely, present in a way that felt almost transcendent.
Your opponent, number three in the world, tried to disrupt your rhythm, throwing pace and spin at you, testing angles, but you met her shot for shot, unflinching. Somewhere along the way, you even realized you weren’t just surviving the moment. You were owning it.
You barely noticed the clock ticking, barely registered the shifting light as clouds passed overhead. Everything narrowed to the sound of the ball, the feel of the grass, the steady cadence of your breath.
When match point arrived, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt inevitable.
You stood there, frozen, racket slipping slightly in your grip, as the reality finally caught up with you.
You had just beaten the world number three. In straight sets. In under two hours. At Wimbledon.
A laugh bubbled up before it turned into something dangerously close to tears as you brought a hand to your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.
The handshake at the net felt surreal, your opponent gracious and composed, the moment passing in a blur of congratulations and flashes from the stands. As you turned to acknowledge the crowd, you lifted your arms instinctively, not in triumph exactly, but in gratitude, as if to say, I know. I can’t believe it either.
You didn’t know what would happen next, whether this run would end in heartbreak again or history, but for now, that didn’t matter.
You were a Wimbledon finalist. And just that was a victory.
Screw your sponsors if they thought it wasn’t.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, the day had finally begun to settle into your body. The lobby was louder than usual, buzzing with a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, laughter, camera shutters clicking in irregular bursts. Someone recognized you almost immediately, then another, then another, and suddenly you were smiling on instinct, posing beside strangers who held their phones out with shaking hands, signing tennis balls, programs, scraps of paper pulled hastily from bags.
You let it happen, because this was part of it, because you knew how fleeting this version of the moment could be, because some small, younger part of you was watching from somewhere deep inside, wide-eyed and breathless.
You thanked the last fan, waved off a well-meaning hotel staff member who offered congratulations with a grin, and finally, mercifully, your team shepherded you toward the lifts with gentle insistence, reminding you of the early session planned for the next morning, of recovery, of ice baths and stretching and sleep.
You hugged them all goodbye in quick succession, and then you were alone again, the lift doors sliding shut with a soft, decisive sound.
The ride up felt longer than usual, your reflection staring back at you from the polished steel walls, tired but luminous, like something inside you had been switched on and forgotten. When the doors opened onto your floor, the quiet was almost startling, the thick hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps as you stepped out into the corridor.
And you were halfway through it when you saw him.
He was leaning against the wall near the end of the hallway, looking down at his phone, one foot crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized instantly, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been running his fingers through it too often.
You stopped short, your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
He looked up at the sound, eyes finding you immediately, and for a split second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, the familiar blue of his gaze.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, a laugh threatening to escape without permission.
“What—” you started, then shook your head, blinking hard. “What are you doing here?” It came out somewhere between disbelief and accusation.
He pushed off the wall slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, soft grin that always made it feel like he was in on a joke.
“Hi, to you too,” he said lightly pointing out that again, you didn’t greet him first. His eyes flicking briefly to the tennis bag on your shoulder, then back to your face. “Congrats, by the way, Wimbledon finalist!”
You stared at him, still not moving, your brain racing through the logistics with a kind of frantic precision. Silverstone Race was on Sunday. Two hours away, at least. Media duties or not, this didn’t make sense, not now, not tonight.
“You have a race,” you said, finally, as if stating it plainly might make him disappear. “In, like, forty-eight hours. And it’s not exactly around the corner. Didn’t you just finished qualifying or something?”
He hummed thoughtfully, taking a step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes that mirrored your own. “Yeah,” he said. “No, qualifying is tomorrow.”
“Then why are you—” You gestured vaguely at the corridor, at him, at the very obvious fact of his presence. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer right away, and something in the pause made your chest tighten, made the quiet of the hallway feel suddenly louder, heavier. Then he shrugged, a small, almost sheepish motion that didn’t quite match the confidence he usually carried.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “I figured I’d come by.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head slowly as a laugh finally escaped you, low and incredulous. “You figured you’d come by,” you repeated. “Still not telling me why, tho”
“Well,” he said, smile widening just a touch, “It seemed like today was kind of a big deal.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how raw and open everything felt, the day still clinging to you like static. “What did you say to your team?” you said, though there was no real bite behind it, more a reflex than a warning.
He didn’t answer your question and you tried to study his expression then, you tried to study the way he stood there like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, like he hadn’t second-guessed the decision a thousand times before knocking on some invisible door in his head. And something about that, about his quiet certainty, made your throat tighten.
“I watched you” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.
Your heart stuttered. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Whole thing, luckily was in between session.”
The image of it flashed through your mind without warning, him somewhere not far from here, phone or screen in front of him, watching you move across Centre Court in white, watching you do the thing you’d dreamed of since you were a kid sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to grainy footage of the Williams sisters, imagining yourself there someday.
“This is insane ,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if you were still trying to confirm he was actually standing there, “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. In a garage somewhere. Surrounded by engineers. Doing very important car things, preparing for your race.”
He laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly down the empty corridor. “So what? I already did all those things.”
You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying. It’s Silverstone week. You should be fully in race mode, focused, concentrated, avoiding distractions.”
His eyes flicked back to yours, something playful sparking there. “Are you calling yourself a distraction?”
You opened your mouth to answer, then paused, the weight of the day, the adrenaline still humming through your veins, the sheer improbability of this moment all colliding at once.
You were exhausted, yes, but it was the good kind, the kind that left you feeling light and buzzy, like sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. Your body still felt alive with motion, with victory, with disbelief.
“I—” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Me too,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t really feel like I should be anywhere else.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to close the gap, how little energy it would take compared to everything else you’d done today.
The question slipped out before you’d fully decided to ask it, carried on a lilt that surprised you as much as it did him.
“Do you… want to come in?”
There it was. Hanging between you. Casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, loaded enough that neither of you believed that for a second.
His grin was immediate, bright and unguarded, like he’d been waiting for it. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping past him toward your door before he could say anything else smug.
You pressed the keycard to the reader, the soft green light blinking on as the lock clicked open, and pushed the door inward. The suite opened up in front of you, spacious and understated, all warm lighting and clean lines, the kind of room designed to feel calm and luxurious without demanding attention. You barely registered any of it.
You took two steps inside, just long enough to drop your tennis bag by the wall, the dull thud echoing faintly, and then his hand was on your wrist, gentle but insistent, turning you back toward him.
“Hey,” you started, breath hitching slightly, but whatever you’d been about to say dissolved the moment his mouth found yours.
The kiss was immediate and certain. It felt like something snapping into place, like the end of a long-held breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.
His other hand came up to your waist, steadying you as he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click of it closing sounding oddly final in the quiet room.
His mouth was warm and sure against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he must have chewed on the drive over, a clean, sharp contrast to the lingering adrenaline-salt on your own lips.
You laughed softly into it, the sound muffled, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, and he smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip in a gentle tug before soothing it with his tongue, the gesture so familiarly him that it made something ache pleasantly behind your ribs.
“What?” he murmured, the word a vibration against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your waist, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your post-match polo.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“I should be resting and relaxing” you said but you were already tilting your head, inviting him back in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
His eyes lit up with that trademark mischief, the one that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline. “I can help with that. Can make you feel very much relaxed.”
You snorted, pulling back just enough to give him a mock-stern look, though your fingers betrayed you by twisting into the hem of his shirt. “That was so corny as hell.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his laugh low as he ducked his head in mock shame, but then his hands were sliding up your sides, warm and insistent, and you were both laughing into the space between your mouths before the sound dissolved into another kiss, this one hungrier and messier.
He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands grew bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass through your skirt while the other ventured under the hem of your polo, fingertips skimming the warm skin of your lower back.
You arched into the touch, a quiet hum escaping you, and he took it as encouragement, his palm flattening to pull you flush against him, letting you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your hip.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against your lips, not pulling away far enough to break the connection, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a beat as his eyes flicked open to meet yours, dark and intent. “Missed you. These past few weeks have been hell without these little… incentives.”
“What?” you teased, your voice laced with mock accusation as you pulled back just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t get off without me?”
He squeezed your ass in retaliation, firm enough to make you gasp, but his grin was all boyish charm and tease. “Oh, I managed just fine, don’t worry” he said, his tone dropping to that husky drawl that always made your pulse stutter.
“Let’s just say that having you right here is leagues beyond whatever I was picturing in my head everytime I wanked in the shower”
“Oh, is the shower your place?” you shot back, your lips curving into a wicked smile.
“It is, don’t have to clean after” he replied, his hand flexing on your ass again, pulling you in even tighter.
You burst out laughing at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing softly inside the room.
And it hit you then just how effortlessly everything was with him: no performance required, no careful curation of witty banter, just this seamless slide into dirty talk and domestic absurdity that felt as natural as breathing.
The laughter faded into a shared grin, but the heat didn’t dissipate; if anything, it simmered hotter, pulling you back into the kiss with a renewed hunger that made your hands clutch at his shoulders. His mouth claimed yours fiercely again, tongues dueling in wet, open slides, breaths coming faster as his hands roamed with bold intent.
One delving under your polo to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide to press you impossibly closer, the other hiking your skirt up your thighs until cool air kissed the newly exposed flesh. You moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively, chasing the friction of his hardness against your core, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your chest, his teeth nipping your lower lip before soothing it with a slow lick.
“We should be resting” you whispered against his mouth, but your fingers were already fisting his t-shirt, tugging it upward in silent demand.
“We are” he rasped, breaking just long enough to yank the shirt off himself, tossing it through the door where it landed with a soft thud on the suite’s entry rug, right beside your tennis bag.
He hit the sofa first, dropping onto the wide cushions with a surprised oof, legs splaying open invitingly as he looked up at you from between his thighs, curls tousled, chest heaving. “C’mere” he said, voice thick with approval, reaching for the hem of your polo.
You stepped between his spread legs, the carpet soft under your feet, and lifted your arms to let him strip the polo away, the fabric peeling off with a whisper to join his shirt on the floor.
His hands were immediate, deftly unhooking your sports bra and easing it down your arms, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze and the room’s gentle lighting that cast flattering shadows across your skin.
He didn’t rush, though, his palms cupped you reverently, thumbs circling your nipples into tight peaks before he leaned forward, mouth descending to kiss the swell of one breast, tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles that made you gasp and thread your fingers into his hair.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower to press open-mouthed kisses along the plane of your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel as his hands worked your skirt’s zipper, the sound a sharp zzzzip in the quiet.
The garment slid down your legs in a pool of fabric, and you stepped free, now standing in just your simple black underwear, heart pounding as his kisses continued their descent, soft, heated presses to the flare of your hips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you shiver and grip his shoulders for balance.
He looked up at you then, eyes dark and intent, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to hook into the waistband of your panties. “Jeez, I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he promised, voice a low rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Every fucking inch”
Before you could respond, he tugged the cotton down your thighs, slow and deliberate, letting it catch on the curve of your ass before guiding it lower, past your knees, until you could step out and kick it aside. It landed near the coffee table, tangled with a coaster and the remote for the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall.
Naked now, you felt exposed yet powerful, his hands steadying you as he pulled you closer, breath ghosting hot over your mound.
Then his mouth was there, lips brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh first, teasing higher with featherlight kisses that made your legs tremble, before he nuzzled into you fully, nose nudging your clit as his tongue extended in a flat, languid lick from entrance to peak.
You cried out softly, hands fisting in his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure sparked sharp and bright. He hummed approval against you, the vibration intensifying everything, and latched on gently, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressureg, his strong hands gripping your ass to hold you steady.
“Fuck, Lando,” you gasped, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling’s. He didn’t let up, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to tease your entrance with a single finger, pressing in shallowly, curling just so, while his tongue worked relentless magic on your clit.
He acted as if he was starved. As if you’d be the only nourishing after years of drought.
With you standing and him seated on the plush leather couch, his face buried between your thighs, he nudged his head deeper with each languid stroke of his tongue, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you even closer.
Physio was definitely gonna ask you why your hamstrings are so tight tomorrow.
“Open up a little more for me, baby,” he murmured against you, “Let me get in there properly”
Properly. As if up until now he was just tasting the entree.
A weak, gasping sound was all you could manage in reply, but your body obeyed instinctively, hips canting forward, thighs parting wider around his head as you surrendered to the delicious invasion.
He hummed his approval, and then his fingers joined the party: one, then two, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling upward to find that spot inside that made your vision blur at the edges.
Insane. If he drove two hours from Silverstone just to eat you out like this. Fucking hurray. No complaints.
You were possessed at this point, a creature of pure sensation, capable only of ragged moans and breathy whines that shaped his name into a broken mantra.
“Lando… fuck… right there, please…”
He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers twisting, and you felt the coil inside you wind impossibly tight, teetering on the precipice of a shattering release.
But just as the first tremors began to seize your muscles, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and empty, hovering on the agonizing edge.
You whimpered in protest, your grip tightening in his hair, but he was already leaning back, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you from between your thighs.
Your legs shook violently, barely holding you up, and you knew you must have looked a complete wreck like that: chest heaving, skin flushed, utterly undone.
“Easy there,” he said, his voice rough but laced with amusement as he placed steadying hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your trembling skin.
He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lower stomach, then another just above your pubic bone, his lips trailing upwards over your abdomen in a tender counterpoint to the filth of moments before. He watched you from there, his gaze dark and heated, taking in your disheveled state with evident pride. “Legs giving out?”
“You’re an asshole,” you managed to pant, but there was no heat in it, only the raw, exposed need he’d carved into you.
“Am I? ,” he counter asked easily, grinning wider before his expression softened into something more serious, more intimate. He guided you gently, his hands firm on your waist. “C’mere. Sit.”
You didn’t need telling twice, your body moving on autopilot, but as you shifted to lower yourself onto his lap, you registered that his jeans and boxers were gone, kicked off sometime during his dedicated attention below. He was fully naked now, his erection jutting thick and eager against his stomach, the tip glistening.
“Just so you know… I haven’t been with anyone else. Since Monaco. And I got tested last week. All clear.” He swallowed, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “But we can use condoms, no problem”
The admission, delivered so straightforwardly in the midst of such carnality, struck you with a force that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. It was trust, laid bare amidst the scattered clothes and the city lights.
You let out a slow breath, your own hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble against your palms and the soft cute creek of his dimple.
“Me neither,” you whispered. “And I also got tested the other day, before the tournament started. Also clear.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a soft, reassuring kiss. “We can go bare, if you want” you murmured against his mouth, your voice low but steady.
One hand left his cheek, sliding down your own side until your fingers found the small, almost invisible square of adhesive high on your hip, just inside the crease of your thigh. Contraceptive patch. Mainly for hormonal imbalance. You guided his hand there, pressing his fingertips against it. “Had it for a few weeks now.”
He blinked, his fingers exploring the edges of the patch with a kind of dazed curiosity, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “How did I miss that?”
“Probably distracted by the main attractions,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
His expression sobered, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more searching. “You’re sure?” he asked, his hands returning to your hips, his grip firm but questioning.
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring your certainty into it, your tongue sweeping against his in a promise that needed no words. When you pulled back, you were breathless, but your eyes never wavered from his. “I’m sure. Please.”
His hands returned to your hips, guiding you down as you reached between your bodies to take him in hand, aligning him with your slick entrance.
The broad head nudged against you, and you both gasped at the contact. “Easy,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours, his usual bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. “Take your time.”
You sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness that made your head fall forward onto his shoulder with a choked cry.
He filled you completely, his hands spanning your back to hold you close as you adjusted, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the invasion.
For a long moment, neither of you moved,
“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.
In answer, you began to move, moaning and lifting your hips slowly before sinking back down, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm that drew a deep groan from his chest.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he helped you rise and fall, meeting each downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own that drove him even deeper. The angle was intense, intimate, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of your hips, and soon the slow burn ignited into a fierce, consuming fire.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice strained, his own control fraying as you rode him with a building desperation that matched the fire in his eyes. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight… taking me so well.”
His words were a low, ragged mantra against your skin.
Each syllable vibrating through your chest where he’d latched onto one breast, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked your nipple deep, tongue flicking the hardened peak in time with the upward thrust of his hips.
And the truth was: you could have anyone. Players. Sportsmen. Celebrities. Your DMs flooded with fellow amazing athletes with their sculpted bodies and empty compliments, or billionaires who'd sent champagne and gifts with their numbers scrawled on the card.
But none of them, not a single one, would ever fuck you like this. With this specific, learned intensity, this care masquerading as carnality. Lando wasn't just hitting a spot for pleasure; he was reading your body, adjusting his inputs in real-time based on your gasps and hitches.
And he wasn't even your boyfriend. That was the delicious, complicated irony of it.
There were no labels, no Instagram posts, no meet-the-parents weekends.
Just this: these amazing hotel rooms and stolen nights between Grands Prix and tournaments, a secret kept from the paddock and the press.
Yet he knew you, perhaps better than any official partner ever had.
He knew, for instance, that when your movements became frantic and shallow, you needed the direct pressure on your clit, and his thumb slid between your joined bodies now, finding the swollen bud and rubbing firm, tight circles that made you cry out, your rhythm stuttering.
He knew your nipples were a direct line to your pleasure, so he switched his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, sucking attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch violently.
He knew you liked it when his hand left your ass for a moment to deliver a soft, stinging spank, not hard, just enough to surprise your system and make your inner muscles clamp and clench down on him, which drew a guttural "Fuck yes," from his lips.
He knew you loved dirty talk, that the filthier his praise got, the wetter you became, and he could feel the evidence of it now, the slick, effortless glide as he pistoned into you.
"Look at you," he growled, lifting his head from your breast, his eyes black with want, lips swollen and glistening. "Riding my cock so well, baby. You love this, don't you? Love it so much you make me go raw"
You could only nod frantically, your whines turning into choked sobs of affirmation, because he was right, and the truth of it, spoken aloud in his wrecked voice, pushed you higher.
He knew you had the stamina for rounds, that you'd recover quickly and be ready for more, so he didn't hold back, his thrusts becoming punishing, driving up into you with a force that rocked your entire body, the sofa creaking in protest beneath you.
He knew you were flexible, had bent you over beds and bathroom counters and in the backseat of a rental Porche once, and you'd never complained, only begged for more.
And he knew, most intimately of all, the final clue. As the coil in your belly wound to an unbearable tightness, as the world narrowed to the slap of skin and the smell of sex and sweat, your hands flew from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle of his back, scoring red trails down his skin. It was involuntary, primal, your body's telegraph that you were seconds from the edge.
“I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Wimbledon champion,” he growled while his hips kept driving up to meet your frantic downward strokes with a force that stole your breath
A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled out of you even as you clenched around him, your inner muscles fluttering in response to the declaration. You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, meeting his fevered gaze with a smirk as you continued to ride him, taking him deep with every roll of your hips. “Oh yeah? Irina Sabalenka?”
He surged up with a grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to crush you against his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Shut up,” he commanded, but his eyes were dancing, a smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I mean”
You gasped, the laughter dying into a whimper as he resumed his rhythm, his grip on you iron-tight. Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial, husky whisper that was all for him. “Well then… I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Silverstone champion.”
It was the match to the gasoline.
He saw it, felt it. His breath caught, and his rhythm became erratic, brutal at the sound of your words.
"That's it, baby," he panted, his own release imminent, his grip on you turning bruising. "I know you’re there, let me feel it. Come on my cock."
The command, paired with the exquisite torture of his thumb on your clit and the relentless drive of his hips, shattered you.
Your orgasm ripped through you with a silent scream that finally found voice in a raw, tearing cry of his name, your body convulsing around him, milking him violently as your nails bit deeper into his skin.
The sensation of your tightening and pulling at him was his undoing; with a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the root and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. That had him collapsing back against the cushions and he pulled you down with him in a trembling, sweaty heap of spent limbs and shared breaths.
His hand was still splayed possessively on your lower back and his heartbeat became a steady, slowing drum against your cheek where it rested on his chest.
“My physio would definitely murder me if she knew I had all this extra physical activity after a match”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He even tilted his head to press a kiss to your sweaty temple. “So, does that mean no round two on the bed?”
No. No round two on the bed. You had the most important match of your life in less than 48 hours, and he had his race. You needed rest. Both.
That’s should have been your answer.
But you lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous challenge in the dim light.
And so round two happened. Just like that.
He fucked you from behind with a focused intensity that had you screaming muffled moans against the pillows of your king sized bed.
Then he murmured “Just one more” and round three followed.
Missionary, slower, softer. He kissed you through it, intertwining your fingers and caressing your face, and it felt more tender and devastatingly intimate.
You came together that time, a slow wave of pleasure that left you both breathless and staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on the bedside table blinked to 1:47 AM.
But the peace was short-lived. And apparently sex fairytales don’t last forever.
Cause at almost exactly 2 AM sharp, you felt the mattress shift as he carefully extracted his arm from beneath you and sat up, running a hand through his disastrous curls with a quiet sigh.
“You’re going? It’s past 2,” you mumbled into the pillow, your hand reaching out blindly to find the warm space he’d left.
“I have to,” he said, his voice soft but firm. You heard the rustle of fabric as he began gathering his clothes from the various corners of the room where they’d been abandoned.
Sitting up, you pulled the sheet around yourself, watching him in the sliver of light from the ensuite bathroom. He moved with a quiet efficiency, stepping into his boxers, pulling on his jeans.
“You could stay,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended, laced with a vulnerability that the darkness allowed.
He paused, buttoning his jeans, and looked at you. In the faint glow, his expression was unreadable for a moment. “I have to be at the track at half-eight tomorrow. I can’t stay and risk hitting traffic on the highway or anything else that could make me miss briefings or even worse practice session” He offered a tired, crooked smile. “It’s safer if I drive back now.”
You hugged your knees to your chest, the post-coital glow rapidly cooling into a vague, hollow feeling. “I just feel bad,” you admitted, your chin resting on your knees.
“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric momentarily obscuring his face.
“Because you have to drive two hours to get back and you’ll going to get, what, three hours of sleep?”
He finished tugging the shirt down and leaned over, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I chose to come here, okay? And I chose to stay here until now, I’m not regretting it, so don’t worry about it” He gestured vaguely between you, at the wrecked room. “And I barely get any sleep on race weekends anyway so, it’s nothing, really.”
He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye. You melted into it, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists, wanting to anchor him there longer. But he pulled back, standing up to find his socks and shoes.
You watched him dress fully, the act felt strangely intimate after everything you’d just shared. He laced up his trainers, checked his phone with a slight frown, secured his Richard Millie on his wrist and pocketed his wallet and keys. He looked less like the man who’d just driven you to three earth-shattering orgasms and more like a slightly rumpled, very tired racing driver about to face his day. The duality of it squeezed your heart.
Finally, he came back to the bedside, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of your head. “Good luck tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “Go win that thing and make it look easy.”
You smiled, reaching up to touch his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, you too!”
He kissed you one last time, a quick, hard press of his lips to yours. “I’ll text you.”
And then he was gone, the door to the suite clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
Saturday unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.
Disciplined and controlled, following the schedule to the minute. Recovery breakfast with the team, then some miles on the treadmill, followed by an ice baths and a physio session.
“How are the legs?” your physio asked, pressing into your calf.
“All good, still attached,” you murmured, face pressed into the towel to avoid giving away the fact that those legs had been bent and spread for amazing sex session until 2 am.
Later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of the team room, laptop balanced on your knees, rewinding points, studying patterns, noting tendencies. Your opponent’s backhand under pressure. Her preference for the wide serve on big points. The way she hesitated for half a second when pulled forward unexpectedly. You scribbled notes you might never look at again, the act itself more grounding than the information.
In the gym, someone had the television on, volume low, the familiar hum of Formula One commentary filling the space as background noise. You pretended not to care, but your eyes flicked up at the screen anyway, caught the flash of papaya orange, the on-screen graphic settling into place.
P3.
You didn’t hear from him again that day. Just got a 4am text saying he got to his hotel in Silverstone safe and sound but that was it. No follow-up. No casual check-in. It was fine. It made sense.
You both had jobs that demanded absolute presence, the kind that punished distraction without mercy. Still, somewhere between stretching sessions and an early dinner eaten more out of obligation than hunger, you found yourself checking your phone more often than strictly necessary.
Sunday arrived without ceremony, far too soon, for your liking.
And Centre Court looked different on final day, heavier somehow, the air thick with anticipation, with history pressing in from all sides. You moved through the corridors with your team around you, the familiar routine grounding you, anchoring you in muscle memory when your mind threatened to wander.
In the locker room, you sat on the bench and laced up your shoes slowly, deliberately, pulling each lace tight with the same care you’d given to every preparation step since you were a kid.
For a fleeting second, you considered your phone, then dismissed the thought with a quiet huff of air that escaped you before you could stop it. Of course not. If he was anything like you imagined, he was already strapped into the car by now, helmet on, visor down, his world reduced to steering wheel, tarmac, and milliseconds that decided everything.
Two people. Two arenas. Same kind of day.
“Alright,” your coach said gently. “Five minutes.”
This was it. Now or never.
Your gaze snagged briefly on the poster across the room, Serena mid-roar, frozen forever in dominance and defiance, her eyes fierce even in print. It felt absurdly personal in that moment, like she was looking straight at you, daring you to rise to it.
As you stepped out onto Centre Court, the light hit you all at once, bright and unforgiving, the roar of the crowd washing over you in a single, overwhelming wave.
You took your place at the baseline, bounced the ball once, twice, the sound sharp and clean against the grass, and drew a slow breath in through your nose.
And then it started. Your Wimbledon final.
It began without drama, without ceremony, just the clean crack of the first serve slicing through the air.
The opening games were tight, every point contested, every rally a small battle of wills. Your opponent moved with confidence, her shots deep and precise, testing you early, probing for weakness. You answered back in kind, legs burning, mind sharp, chasing down balls you had no right to reach and placing returns that drew murmurs from the crowd.
When you missed a shot by inches, you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset and be patient. And then, when you won a brutal point at the net, you felt a flash of heat rush through you, the sharp reminder that you belonged here.
Long games stretched on, deuce after deuce, each point feeling heavier than the last. Your legs screamed. Your lungs burned. You welcomed it. Pain meant presence.
And you needed to be present to win this match.
The rallies grew longer. The stakes grew higher. One point here. One mistake there. The crowd rose to its feet and fell back into their seats in waves, gasps and cheers punctuating the silence.
One second you were on the court, grass beneath your shoes, the world narrowed to lines, a small yellow ball and racket in your hand, and the next everything dissolved into noise, into movement, into hands on your shoulders and voices calling your name from every direction at once.
Match was over and you remember walking off Centre Court with the applause following you down the tunnel, echoing against the walls, stretching longer than you thought it would, long enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
Fans pressed in behind barriers, a tide of faces and outstretched hands and phones held aloft, all of them hungry for something tangible to take home, a wave or a smile or a fragment of you caught mid-breath.
You signed where you could, smiled when it felt natural, nodded when you didn’t quite trust your voice to behave properly. Journalists hovered at the edges, sharper, more deliberate, eyes scanning you for cracks, for emotion that might spill into something quotable.
“A few words about the match!” someone called. “What was going through your mind out there?” “How difficult was it?”
You thought, not for the first time that day, that it was a strange profession that demanded eloquence precisely when you were least capable of it.
Eventually, mercifully, you were ushered into a car, the door closing with a solid, blessedly ordinary thunk that shut the world out.
And by the time you reached the hotel, you felt oddly hollowed out, like the echo after a loud noise.
The lobby was still crowded but you moved through quickly, guided by someone who seemed to know exactly when to place a hand at your elbow and when to let you walk on your own.
At some point you became aware of how late it must be, not by checking your phone, which you hadn’t looked at in hours, but by the way your body had shifted into that peculiar end-of-night mode, heavy and slow and faintly unreal.
Your floor greeted you with soft carpet and dim lighting, the hallway stretching out in both directions and for a second, you thought you were imagining it.
The scene was almost identical to two nights ago.
He was there, in the hallway, only this time he wasn’t leaning against the wall, phone in hand, waiting. He was moving, rolling a suitcase beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers.
Lando.
It took you a heartbeat to process it properly, your tired brain lagging behind the simple fact of him, here, now.
He spotted you at the same moment, his steps slowing, then stopping altogether. For a fraction of a second, you both just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the hallway.
“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hey”
He gestured vaguely with the keys in his hand, then the suitcase, as if to explain himself before you could ask. “I’m, uh. I’m heading out. Gonna get back to Monaco tonight”
You nodded, a small, automatic movement, your gaze flicking briefly to the suitcase and back to his face. “Right”
There was a pause then, one of those delicate, hovering silences that seemed to swell rather than settle.
He shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the suitcase. “I just won Silverstone.”
The way he said that, made it feel like he was out of breath.
“I know,” you said. “They just told me… was about to text you, congrats!”
His eyes lingered on you, searching your face for something, maybe that tensed confirmation, maybe shared disbelief.
Did he know?
Silence stretched again, comfortable this time, threaded with something almost giddy beneath the exhaustion.
summary: Wimbledon and Silverstone happen during the same weeks in the same country. What a coincidence!
Part 2 of Tiebreak
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !! (prob bad english soz)
word count: around 10k
➽───────────────❥
“Welcome to the London Waldorf Hotel by Hilton,” the receptionist that welcomed you was smiling brightly, fingers already flying across the keyboard as you stepped up to the desk, passport in hand.
Weeks blurred together after that night, collapsing into a relentless rhythm of early mornings, punishing training blocks, recovery sessions that left your body aching in quiet, specific ways, and a calendar that refused to slow down no matter how loudly your muscles protested.
By the time Wimbledon week arrived, it felt less like an event and more like a reckoning.
Wimbledon was different. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t just another Slam; it was the Slam.
The lawns, the white, the ghosts of champions that seemed to linger in every corridor and press box. Win there, and your name didn’t just sit on a trophy, it stitched itself into history. Lose there, and people still remembered how you lost, how far you went, how close you came. Forever.
This year, the attention followed you more closely than ever.
Top ten. For the first time. No Slam title yet. Too good to ignore, too unproven to fully trust. You could feel the eyes on you already, weighing you, measuring whether you were finally ready to justify your ranking or if you’d buckle under the particular pressure Wimbledon loved to apply.
After Monaco, after that night with Lando, you hadn’t seen him again. Not really. Training had turned brutal and it left little room for distractions, and his schedule had carried him across the Atlantic to Canada first, then back to Europe, Austria, commitments stacking neatly one after the other.
You knew he was in England now, of course. Silverstone loomed on his calendar the same way Wimbledon loomed on yours.
You were halfway through confirming your reservation when the receptionist’s expression shifted, brightening even further as she glanced past your shoulder.
“And welcome back, Mr. Norris,” she said, already reaching for a second keycard with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.
You didn’t even need to turn around to know.
Of course you’re both staying at the same hotel. What were the fucking odds?
The receptionist handed you your key with a “Have a nice Wimbledon Week Miss”, and then turned her attention fully to him. You stepped aside, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to see him like this again after weeks of nothing but blurred Instagram posts and a few texts.
He approached the counter and handed over his passport as you watched the exchange from a step away: the way she smiled a fraction wider, the way Lando answered her questions with polite charm, not quite flirting but not not flirting either.
“What are you doing here?” you said, straight to the point, pretending this was all entirely normal.
“Silverstone week,” he replied easily, as if that explained everything. “Hi, by the way, good to see you too!”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Completely ignoring the second part of his sentence. “Silverstone is two hours away,” you said, the confusion slipping into your voice before you could polish it away.
He turned fully toward you then, grin spreading slowly, deliberately. “Oh, really?” he said, mock surprise dripping from every syllable. “Did you check?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “I’m serious,” you said before repeating “What are you doing here?”
He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if he were about to let you in on some great secret. “This place,” he began, ticking points off on his fingers, “has an amazing gym, genuinely life-changing breakfast, and—” he paused, glancing briefly toward the receptionist before continuing, “—some rooms have jacuzzis.”
You stared at him, unimpressed and thoroughly baffled. You were so confused. “What?”
“The reason why I’m here,” he answered. “It’s my favourite hotel when I’m in England.
The receptionist cleared her throat politely, handing him his keycard with a bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Norris. Enjoy your stay.”
“Always do, thank you” he said, offering her a grateful nod before turning back to you.
You shook your head, still trying to reconcile the logic of a Formula One driver willingly committing to four hours of daily commuting during one of the most intense weeks of the season.
You followed him toward the elevators without quite deciding to, waving a porter over and murmuring your room number so he could take your bags. The lobby buzzed softly around you, a hum of accents and rolling suitcases and muted laughter, but somehow it all faded into background noise as you walked side by side, close enough that your arm brushed his every now and then.
“Why are you really here?” you tried again as he reached the elevator bank, pressing the call button with an absentminded tap. “In London, I mean. I’m sure Silverstone has plenty of luxurious hotels with amazing gyms and jacuzzis”
He glanced down at you, expression softer now, less teasing. “Media stuff,” he said. “I got some filming here before heading there for the weekend”
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. You stepped inside together, the space suddenly smaller, quieter. He leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands folded loosely in front of him, watching your reflection more than you.
“And you?” he asked, casually, though his eyes lingered. “Wimbledon week as a top ten. That’s huge.”
You felt the weight of it then, the unspoken pressure settling into your shoulders the way it had every morning since you’d landed.
It was huge. It was pretty fucking huge. That’s why you needed to stay focused. No distractions. No temptations. No hanging around with an F1 british hottie.
“Yeah,” you said, exhaling slowly. “It is.”
The elevator began its ascent, a gentle hum beneath your feet. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence filled with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t since that night weeks ago.
Then, the doors slid open onto your floor, and for a second, neither of you moved, suspended in that soft, unremarkable moment that somehow felt like the start of something else entirely.
Lando broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”
You glanced at him, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest. “Guess so.”
You didn’t see a lot of eachtother.
It wasn’t that you were avoiding Lando, not deliberately, not in the way people avoided things they didn’t want to face. If anything, the opposite was true. But your schedule left very little room for anything beyond training sessions that began too early, matches that demanded every scrap of focus you possessed, recovery routines that blurred together, and the quiet mental preparation that followed you back to your hotel room each night like a shadow.
His world wasn’t any less chaotic, from what you gathered in passing. You’d see him occasionally in the lobby, always in motion, phone pressed to his ear, or laughing with someone from his team as he headed out the door, sunglasses on no matter the weather. Sometimes your paths crossed by accident at breakfast, a shared glance over coffee cups, a quick smile exchanged like a promise left there to pick up.
Once, you ended up in the gym at the same time, both of you pretending it was a coincidence while silently acknowledging that it wasn’t entirely.
He’d offered you a grin from across the room, lifting a hand in greeting mid-rep, and you’d felt something warm curl in your chest before reminding yourself, firmly, that this week was not about him.
The first match in qualifying rounds came and went in a blur of nerves and adrenaline, your body stiff at the start before memory took over, muscle and instinct guiding you where your mind hesitated. The grass felt fast beneath your shoes, the ball skidding low in a way that demanded precision and punished hesitation, but by the end of it, you walked off court with a win and a quiet sense of relief that settled somewhere deep in your bones.
The second round followed quickly, then the third, each match stacking on top of the last until they blurred together in flashes of green and white and applause that washed over you like waves. You stopped counting days and started counting routines instead.
Wake up. Stretch. Eat. Warm up. Play. Recover. Sleep. Repeat.
Occasionally, in the margins of it all, your phone would buzz with a message from Lando, something simple and stupid and unnecessarily dirty, like Your ass was phenomenal in that outfit today and you’d find yourself smiling at your screen before slipping it face-down onto the bedside table.
The quarterfinals arrived with a kind of hushed gravity, the air thicker, the crowd more deliberate in its attention. You told yourself it was just another match, just another opponent, but your body knew better, your pulse quickening as you stepped onto court, your breath shallow until the first rally forced you back into yourself. It wasn’t perfect tennis, not then, but it was resilient, stubborn, and when the final point was yours, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, racket hanging loose in your hand as the realization crept in.
Semifinalist. At Wimbledon.
The word felt unreal, like something borrowed from someone else’s career, something you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to claim.
Back in the locker room, you sat on the bench and stared at your shoes while your phone filled with messages, congratulations piling up faster than you could respond to them.
The day of the semifinal dawned bright and impossibly green, the kind of English summer day that felt curated for television, for history. You woke early, nerves humming beneath your skin, but there was a calm there too, a sense of rightness that surprised you. As you pulled on your all-white outfit, smoothing the fabric over your hips, tying your hair back with practiced precision, it hit you suddenly how far you’d come, how many early mornings and lonely flights and silent doubts had led to this exact moment.
Walking onto Centre Court felt different than anything before it. The stands rose around you like a living thing, steep and full and expectant, the royal box gleaming in your peripheral vision, the grass impossibly pristine beneath your feet. You took a breath, deep and slow, and for a brief, fleeting second, you thought of Lando, probably somewhere not too far away, wrapped up in his own version of this madness, pressure dressed up as opportunity.
Then the match began, and everything else fell away.
From the first serve, something clicked into place with an ease that almost scared you.
Your toss was perfect, your timing precise, the ball snapping off your strings with a satisfying bite that echoed across the court. The rallies unfolded exactly as you’d imagined them in training, your feet light, your movements instinctive, each decision made without hesitation. You weren’t thinking about rankings or history or what this match meant. You were simply playing, fully and completely, present in a way that felt almost transcendent.
Your opponent, number three in the world, tried to disrupt your rhythm, throwing pace and spin at you, testing angles, but you met her shot for shot, unflinching. Somewhere along the way, you even realized you weren’t just surviving the moment. You were owning it.
You barely noticed the clock ticking, barely registered the shifting light as clouds passed overhead. Everything narrowed to the sound of the ball, the feel of the grass, the steady cadence of your breath.
When match point arrived, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt inevitable.
You stood there, frozen, racket slipping slightly in your grip, as the reality finally caught up with you.
You had just beaten the world number three. In straight sets. In under two hours. At Wimbledon.
A laugh bubbled up before it turned into something dangerously close to tears as you brought a hand to your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.
The handshake at the net felt surreal, your opponent gracious and composed, the moment passing in a blur of congratulations and flashes from the stands. As you turned to acknowledge the crowd, you lifted your arms instinctively, not in triumph exactly, but in gratitude, as if to say, I know. I can’t believe it either.
You didn’t know what would happen next, whether this run would end in heartbreak again or history, but for now, that didn’t matter.
You were a Wimbledon finalist. And just that was a victory.
Screw your sponsors if they thought it wasn’t.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, the day had finally begun to settle into your body. The lobby was louder than usual, buzzing with a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, laughter, camera shutters clicking in irregular bursts. Someone recognized you almost immediately, then another, then another, and suddenly you were smiling on instinct, posing beside strangers who held their phones out with shaking hands, signing tennis balls, programs, scraps of paper pulled hastily from bags.
You let it happen, because this was part of it, because you knew how fleeting this version of the moment could be, because some small, younger part of you was watching from somewhere deep inside, wide-eyed and breathless.
You thanked the last fan, waved off a well-meaning hotel staff member who offered congratulations with a grin, and finally, mercifully, your team shepherded you toward the lifts with gentle insistence, reminding you of the early session planned for the next morning, of recovery, of ice baths and stretching and sleep.
You hugged them all goodbye in quick succession, and then you were alone again, the lift doors sliding shut with a soft, decisive sound.
The ride up felt longer than usual, your reflection staring back at you from the polished steel walls, tired but luminous, like something inside you had been switched on and forgotten. When the doors opened onto your floor, the quiet was almost startling, the thick hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps as you stepped out into the corridor.
And you were halfway through it when you saw him.
He was leaning against the wall near the end of the hallway, looking down at his phone, one foot crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized instantly, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been running his fingers through it too often.
You stopped short, your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
He looked up at the sound, eyes finding you immediately, and for a split second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, the familiar blue of his gaze.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, a laugh threatening to escape without permission.
“What—” you started, then shook your head, blinking hard. “What are you doing here?” It came out somewhere between disbelief and accusation.
He pushed off the wall slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, soft grin that always made it feel like he was in on a joke.
“Hi, to you too,” he said lightly pointing out that again, you didn’t greet him first. His eyes flicking briefly to the tennis bag on your shoulder, then back to your face. “Congrats, by the way, Wimbledon finalist!”
You stared at him, still not moving, your brain racing through the logistics with a kind of frantic precision. Silverstone Race was on Sunday. Two hours away, at least. Media duties or not, this didn’t make sense, not now, not tonight.
“You have a race,” you said, finally, as if stating it plainly might make him disappear. “In, like, forty-eight hours. And it’s not exactly around the corner. Didn’t you just finished qualifying or something?”
He hummed thoughtfully, taking a step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes that mirrored your own. “Yeah,” he said. “No, qualifying is tomorrow.”
“Then why are you—” You gestured vaguely at the corridor, at him, at the very obvious fact of his presence. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer right away, and something in the pause made your chest tighten, made the quiet of the hallway feel suddenly louder, heavier. Then he shrugged, a small, almost sheepish motion that didn’t quite match the confidence he usually carried.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “I figured I’d come by.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head slowly as a laugh finally escaped you, low and incredulous. “You figured you’d come by,” you repeated. “Still not telling me why, tho”
“Well,” he said, smile widening just a touch, “It seemed like today was kind of a big deal.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how raw and open everything felt, the day still clinging to you like static. “What did you say to your team?” you said, though there was no real bite behind it, more a reflex than a warning.
He didn’t answer your question and you tried to study his expression then, you tried to study the way he stood there like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, like he hadn’t second-guessed the decision a thousand times before knocking on some invisible door in his head. And something about that, about his quiet certainty, made your throat tighten.
“I watched you” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.
Your heart stuttered. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Whole thing, luckily was in between session.”
The image of it flashed through your mind without warning, him somewhere not far from here, phone or screen in front of him, watching you move across Centre Court in white, watching you do the thing you’d dreamed of since you were a kid sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to grainy footage of the Williams sisters, imagining yourself there someday.
“This is insane ,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if you were still trying to confirm he was actually standing there, “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. In a garage somewhere. Surrounded by engineers. Doing very important car things, preparing for your race.”
He laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly down the empty corridor. “So what? I already did all those things.”
You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying. It’s Silverstone week. You should be fully in race mode, focused, concentrated, avoiding distractions.”
His eyes flicked back to yours, something playful sparking there. “Are you calling yourself a distraction?”
You opened your mouth to answer, then paused, the weight of the day, the adrenaline still humming through your veins, the sheer improbability of this moment all colliding at once.
You were exhausted, yes, but it was the good kind, the kind that left you feeling light and buzzy, like sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. Your body still felt alive with motion, with victory, with disbelief.
“I—” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Me too,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t really feel like I should be anywhere else.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to close the gap, how little energy it would take compared to everything else you’d done today.
The question slipped out before you’d fully decided to ask it, carried on a lilt that surprised you as much as it did him.
“Do you… want to come in?”
There it was. Hanging between you. Casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, loaded enough that neither of you believed that for a second.
His grin was immediate, bright and unguarded, like he’d been waiting for it. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping past him toward your door before he could say anything else smug.
You pressed the keycard to the reader, the soft green light blinking on as the lock clicked open, and pushed the door inward. The suite opened up in front of you, spacious and understated, all warm lighting and clean lines, the kind of room designed to feel calm and luxurious without demanding attention. You barely registered any of it.
You took two steps inside, just long enough to drop your tennis bag by the wall, the dull thud echoing faintly, and then his hand was on your wrist, gentle but insistent, turning you back toward him.
“Hey,” you started, breath hitching slightly, but whatever you’d been about to say dissolved the moment his mouth found yours.
The kiss was immediate and certain. It felt like something snapping into place, like the end of a long-held breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.
His other hand came up to your waist, steadying you as he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click of it closing sounding oddly final in the quiet room.
His mouth was warm and sure against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he must have chewed on the drive over, a clean, sharp contrast to the lingering adrenaline-salt on your own lips.
You laughed softly into it, the sound muffled, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, and he smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip in a gentle tug before soothing it with his tongue, the gesture so familiarly him that it made something ache pleasantly behind your ribs.
“What?” he murmured, the word a vibration against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your waist, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your post-match polo.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“I should be resting and relaxing” you said but you were already tilting your head, inviting him back in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
His eyes lit up with that trademark mischief, the one that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline. “I can help with that. Can make you feel very much relaxed.”
You snorted, pulling back just enough to give him a mock-stern look, though your fingers betrayed you by twisting into the hem of his shirt. “That was so corny as hell.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his laugh low as he ducked his head in mock shame, but then his hands were sliding up your sides, warm and insistent, and you were both laughing into the space between your mouths before the sound dissolved into another kiss, this one hungrier and messier.
He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands grew bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass through your skirt while the other ventured under the hem of your polo, fingertips skimming the warm skin of your lower back.
You arched into the touch, a quiet hum escaping you, and he took it as encouragement, his palm flattening to pull you flush against him, letting you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your hip.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against your lips, not pulling away far enough to break the connection, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a beat as his eyes flicked open to meet yours, dark and intent. “Missed you. These past few weeks have been hell without these little… incentives.”
“What?” you teased, your voice laced with mock accusation as you pulled back just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t get off without me?”
He squeezed your ass in retaliation, firm enough to make you gasp, but his grin was all boyish charm and tease. “Oh, I managed just fine, don’t worry” he said, his tone dropping to that husky drawl that always made your pulse stutter.
“Let’s just say that having you right here is leagues beyond whatever I was picturing in my head everytime I wanked in the shower”
“Oh, is the shower your place?” you shot back, your lips curving into a wicked smile.
“It is, don’t have to clean after” he replied, his hand flexing on your ass again, pulling you in even tighter.
You burst out laughing at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing softly inside the room.
And it hit you then just how effortlessly everything was with him: no performance required, no careful curation of witty banter, just this seamless slide into dirty talk and domestic absurdity that felt as natural as breathing.
The laughter faded into a shared grin, but the heat didn’t dissipate; if anything, it simmered hotter, pulling you back into the kiss with a renewed hunger that made your hands clutch at his shoulders. His mouth claimed yours fiercely again, tongues dueling in wet, open slides, breaths coming faster as his hands roamed with bold intent.
One delving under your polo to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide to press you impossibly closer, the other hiking your skirt up your thighs until cool air kissed the newly exposed flesh. You moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively, chasing the friction of his hardness against your core, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your chest, his teeth nipping your lower lip before soothing it with a slow lick.
“We should be resting” you whispered against his mouth, but your fingers were already fisting his t-shirt, tugging it upward in silent demand.
“We are” he rasped, breaking just long enough to yank the shirt off himself, tossing it through the door where it landed with a soft thud on the suite’s entry rug, right beside your tennis bag.
He hit the sofa first, dropping onto the wide cushions with a surprised oof, legs splaying open invitingly as he looked up at you from between his thighs, curls tousled, chest heaving. “C’mere” he said, voice thick with approval, reaching for the hem of your polo.
You stepped between his spread legs, the carpet soft under your feet, and lifted your arms to let him strip the polo away, the fabric peeling off with a whisper to join his shirt on the floor.
His hands were immediate, deftly unhooking your sports bra and easing it down your arms, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze and the room’s gentle lighting that cast flattering shadows across your skin.
He didn’t rush, though, his palms cupped you reverently, thumbs circling your nipples into tight peaks before he leaned forward, mouth descending to kiss the swell of one breast, tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles that made you gasp and thread your fingers into his hair.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower to press open-mouthed kisses along the plane of your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel as his hands worked your skirt’s zipper, the sound a sharp zzzzip in the quiet.
The garment slid down your legs in a pool of fabric, and you stepped free, now standing in just your simple black underwear, heart pounding as his kisses continued their descent, soft, heated presses to the flare of your hips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you shiver and grip his shoulders for balance.
He looked up at you then, eyes dark and intent, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to hook into the waistband of your panties. “Jeez, I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he promised, voice a low rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Every fucking inch”
Before you could respond, he tugged the cotton down your thighs, slow and deliberate, letting it catch on the curve of your ass before guiding it lower, past your knees, until you could step out and kick it aside. It landed near the coffee table, tangled with a coaster and the remote for the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall.
Naked now, you felt exposed yet powerful, his hands steadying you as he pulled you closer, breath ghosting hot over your mound.
Then his mouth was there, lips brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh first, teasing higher with featherlight kisses that made your legs tremble, before he nuzzled into you fully, nose nudging your clit as his tongue extended in a flat, languid lick from entrance to peak.
You cried out softly, hands fisting in his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure sparked sharp and bright. He hummed approval against you, the vibration intensifying everything, and latched on gently, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressureg, his strong hands gripping your ass to hold you steady.
“Fuck, Lando,” you gasped, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling’s. He didn’t let up, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to tease your entrance with a single finger, pressing in shallowly, curling just so, while his tongue worked relentless magic on your clit.
He acted as if he was starved. As if you’d be the only nourishing after years of drought.
With you standing and him seated on the plush leather couch, his face buried between your thighs, he nudged his head deeper with each languid stroke of his tongue, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you even closer.
Physio was definitely gonna ask you why your hamstrings are so tight tomorrow.
“Open up a little more for me, baby,” he murmured against you, “Let me get in there properly”
Properly. As if up until now he was just tasting the entree.
A weak, gasping sound was all you could manage in reply, but your body obeyed instinctively, hips canting forward, thighs parting wider around his head as you surrendered to the delicious invasion.
He hummed his approval, and then his fingers joined the party: one, then two, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling upward to find that spot inside that made your vision blur at the edges.
Insane. If he drove two hours from Silverstone just to eat you out like this. Fucking hurray. No complaints.
You were possessed at this point, a creature of pure sensation, capable only of ragged moans and breathy whines that shaped his name into a broken mantra.
“Lando… fuck… right there, please…”
He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers twisting, and you felt the coil inside you wind impossibly tight, teetering on the precipice of a shattering release.
But just as the first tremors began to seize your muscles, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and empty, hovering on the agonizing edge.
You whimpered in protest, your grip tightening in his hair, but he was already leaning back, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you from between your thighs.
Your legs shook violently, barely holding you up, and you knew you must have looked a complete wreck like that: chest heaving, skin flushed, utterly undone.
“Easy there,” he said, his voice rough but laced with amusement as he placed steadying hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your trembling skin.
He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lower stomach, then another just above your pubic bone, his lips trailing upwards over your abdomen in a tender counterpoint to the filth of moments before. He watched you from there, his gaze dark and heated, taking in your disheveled state with evident pride. “Legs giving out?”
“You’re an asshole,” you managed to pant, but there was no heat in it, only the raw, exposed need he’d carved into you.
“Am I? ,” he counter asked easily, grinning wider before his expression softened into something more serious, more intimate. He guided you gently, his hands firm on your waist. “C’mere. Sit.”
You didn’t need telling twice, your body moving on autopilot, but as you shifted to lower yourself onto his lap, you registered that his jeans and boxers were gone, kicked off sometime during his dedicated attention below. He was fully naked now, his erection jutting thick and eager against his stomach, the tip glistening.
“Just so you know… I haven’t been with anyone else. Since Monaco. And I got tested last week. All clear.” He swallowed, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “But we can use condoms, no problem”
The admission, delivered so straightforwardly in the midst of such carnality, struck you with a force that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. It was trust, laid bare amidst the scattered clothes and the city lights.
You let out a slow breath, your own hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble against your palms and the soft cute creek of his dimple.
“Me neither,” you whispered. “And I also got tested the other day, before the tournament started. Also clear.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a soft, reassuring kiss. “We can go bare, if you want” you murmured against his mouth, your voice low but steady.
One hand left his cheek, sliding down your own side until your fingers found the small, almost invisible square of adhesive high on your hip, just inside the crease of your thigh. Contraceptive patch. Mainly for hormonal imbalance. You guided his hand there, pressing his fingertips against it. “Had it for a few weeks now.”
He blinked, his fingers exploring the edges of the patch with a kind of dazed curiosity, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “How did I miss that?”
“Probably distracted by the main attractions,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
His expression sobered, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more searching. “You’re sure?” he asked, his hands returning to your hips, his grip firm but questioning.
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring your certainty into it, your tongue sweeping against his in a promise that needed no words. When you pulled back, you were breathless, but your eyes never wavered from his. “I’m sure. Please.”
His hands returned to your hips, guiding you down as you reached between your bodies to take him in hand, aligning him with your slick entrance.
The broad head nudged against you, and you both gasped at the contact. “Easy,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours, his usual bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. “Take your time.”
You sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness that made your head fall forward onto his shoulder with a choked cry.
He filled you completely, his hands spanning your back to hold you close as you adjusted, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the invasion.
For a long moment, neither of you moved,
“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.
In answer, you began to move, moaning and lifting your hips slowly before sinking back down, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm that drew a deep groan from his chest.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he helped you rise and fall, meeting each downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own that drove him even deeper. The angle was intense, intimate, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of your hips, and soon the slow burn ignited into a fierce, consuming fire.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice strained, his own control fraying as you rode him with a building desperation that matched the fire in his eyes. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight… taking me so well.”
His words were a low, ragged mantra against your skin.
Each syllable vibrating through your chest where he’d latched onto one breast, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked your nipple deep, tongue flicking the hardened peak in time with the upward thrust of his hips.
And the truth was: you could have anyone. Players. Sportsmen. Celebrities. Your DMs flooded with fellow amazing athletes with their sculpted bodies and empty compliments, or billionaires who'd sent champagne and gifts with their numbers scrawled on the card.
But none of them, not a single one, would ever fuck you like this. With this specific, learned intensity, this care masquerading as carnality. Lando wasn't just hitting a spot for pleasure; he was reading your body, adjusting his inputs in real-time based on your gasps and hitches.
And he wasn't even your boyfriend. That was the delicious, complicated irony of it.
There were no labels, no Instagram posts, no meet-the-parents weekends.
Just this: these amazing hotel rooms and stolen nights between Grands Prix and tournaments, a secret kept from the paddock and the press.
Yet he knew you, perhaps better than any official partner ever had.
He knew, for instance, that when your movements became frantic and shallow, you needed the direct pressure on your clit, and his thumb slid between your joined bodies now, finding the swollen bud and rubbing firm, tight circles that made you cry out, your rhythm stuttering.
He knew your nipples were a direct line to your pleasure, so he switched his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, sucking attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch violently.
He knew you liked it when his hand left your ass for a moment to deliver a soft, stinging spank, not hard, just enough to surprise your system and make your inner muscles clamp and clench down on him, which drew a guttural "Fuck yes," from his lips.
He knew you loved dirty talk, that the filthier his praise got, the wetter you became, and he could feel the evidence of it now, the slick, effortless glide as he pistoned into you.
"Look at you," he growled, lifting his head from your breast, his eyes black with want, lips swollen and glistening. "Riding my cock so well, baby. You love this, don't you? Love it so much you make me go raw"
You could only nod frantically, your whines turning into choked sobs of affirmation, because he was right, and the truth of it, spoken aloud in his wrecked voice, pushed you higher.
He knew you had the stamina for rounds, that you'd recover quickly and be ready for more, so he didn't hold back, his thrusts becoming punishing, driving up into you with a force that rocked your entire body, the sofa creaking in protest beneath you.
He knew you were flexible, had bent you over beds and bathroom counters and in the backseat of a rental Porche once, and you'd never complained, only begged for more.
And he knew, most intimately of all, the final clue. As the coil in your belly wound to an unbearable tightness, as the world narrowed to the slap of skin and the smell of sex and sweat, your hands flew from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle of his back, scoring red trails down his skin. It was involuntary, primal, your body's telegraph that you were seconds from the edge.
“I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Wimbledon champion,” he growled while his hips kept driving up to meet your frantic downward strokes with a force that stole your breath
A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled out of you even as you clenched around him, your inner muscles fluttering in response to the declaration. You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, meeting his fevered gaze with a smirk as you continued to ride him, taking him deep with every roll of your hips. “Oh yeah? Irina Sabalenka?”
He surged up with a grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to crush you against his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Shut up,” he commanded, but his eyes were dancing, a smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I mean”
You gasped, the laughter dying into a whimper as he resumed his rhythm, his grip on you iron-tight. Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial, husky whisper that was all for him. “Well then… I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Silverstone champion.”
It was the match to the gasoline.
He saw it, felt it. His breath caught, and his rhythm became erratic, brutal at the sound of your words.
"That's it, baby," he panted, his own release imminent, his grip on you turning bruising. "I know you’re there, let me feel it. Come on my cock."
The command, paired with the exquisite torture of his thumb on your clit and the relentless drive of his hips, shattered you.
Your orgasm ripped through you with a silent scream that finally found voice in a raw, tearing cry of his name, your body convulsing around him, milking him violently as your nails bit deeper into his skin.
The sensation of your tightening and pulling at him was his undoing; with a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the root and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. That had him collapsing back against the cushions and he pulled you down with him in a trembling, sweaty heap of spent limbs and shared breaths.
His hand was still splayed possessively on your lower back and his heartbeat became a steady, slowing drum against your cheek where it rested on his chest.
“My physio would definitely murder me if she knew I had all this extra physical activity after a match”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He even tilted his head to press a kiss to your sweaty temple. “So, does that mean no round two on the bed?”
No. No round two on the bed. You had the most important match of your life in less than 48 hours, and he had his race. You needed rest. Both.
That’s should have been your answer.
But you lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous challenge in the dim light.
And so round two happened. Just like that.
He fucked you from behind with a focused intensity that had you screaming muffled moans against the pillows of your king sized bed.
Then he murmured “Just one more” and round three followed.
Missionary, slower, softer. He kissed you through it, intertwining your fingers and caressing your face, and it felt more tender and devastatingly intimate.
You came together that time, a slow wave of pleasure that left you both breathless and staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on the bedside table blinked to 1:47 AM.
But the peace was short-lived. And apparently sex fairytales don’t last forever.
Cause at almost exactly 2 AM sharp, you felt the mattress shift as he carefully extracted his arm from beneath you and sat up, running a hand through his disastrous curls with a quiet sigh.
“You’re going? It’s past 2,” you mumbled into the pillow, your hand reaching out blindly to find the warm space he’d left.
“I have to,” he said, his voice soft but firm. You heard the rustle of fabric as he began gathering his clothes from the various corners of the room where they’d been abandoned.
Sitting up, you pulled the sheet around yourself, watching him in the sliver of light from the ensuite bathroom. He moved with a quiet efficiency, stepping into his boxers, pulling on his jeans.
“You could stay,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended, laced with a vulnerability that the darkness allowed.
He paused, buttoning his jeans, and looked at you. In the faint glow, his expression was unreadable for a moment. “I have to be at the track at half-eight tomorrow. I can’t stay and risk hitting traffic on the highway or anything else that could make me miss briefings or even worse practice session” He offered a tired, crooked smile. “It’s safer if I drive back now.”
You hugged your knees to your chest, the post-coital glow rapidly cooling into a vague, hollow feeling. “I just feel bad,” you admitted, your chin resting on your knees.
“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric momentarily obscuring his face.
“Because you have to drive two hours to get back and you’ll going to get, what, three hours of sleep?”
He finished tugging the shirt down and leaned over, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I chose to come here, okay? And I chose to stay here until now, I’m not regretting it, so don’t worry about it” He gestured vaguely between you, at the wrecked room. “And I barely get any sleep on race weekends anyway so, it’s nothing, really.”
He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye. You melted into it, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists, wanting to anchor him there longer. But he pulled back, standing up to find his socks and shoes.
You watched him dress fully, the act felt strangely intimate after everything you’d just shared. He laced up his trainers, checked his phone with a slight frown, secured his Richard Millie on his wrist and pocketed his wallet and keys. He looked less like the man who’d just driven you to three earth-shattering orgasms and more like a slightly rumpled, very tired racing driver about to face his day. The duality of it squeezed your heart.
Finally, he came back to the bedside, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of your head. “Good luck tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “Go win that thing and make it look easy.”
You smiled, reaching up to touch his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, you too!”
He kissed you one last time, a quick, hard press of his lips to yours. “I’ll text you.”
And then he was gone, the door to the suite clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
Saturday unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.
Disciplined and controlled, following the schedule to the minute. Recovery breakfast with the team, then some miles on the treadmill, followed by an ice baths and a physio session.
“How are the legs?” your physio asked, pressing into your calf.
“All good, still attached,” you murmured, face pressed into the towel to avoid giving away the fact that those legs had been bent and spread for amazing sex session until 2 am.
Later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of the team room, laptop balanced on your knees, rewinding points, studying patterns, noting tendencies. Your opponent’s backhand under pressure. Her preference for the wide serve on big points. The way she hesitated for half a second when pulled forward unexpectedly. You scribbled notes you might never look at again, the act itself more grounding than the information.
In the gym, someone had the television on, volume low, the familiar hum of Formula One commentary filling the space as background noise. You pretended not to care, but your eyes flicked up at the screen anyway, caught the flash of papaya orange, the on-screen graphic settling into place.
P3.
You didn’t hear from him again that day. Just got a 4am text saying he got to his hotel in Silverstone safe and sound but that was it. No follow-up. No casual check-in. It was fine. It made sense.
You both had jobs that demanded absolute presence, the kind that punished distraction without mercy. Still, somewhere between stretching sessions and an early dinner eaten more out of obligation than hunger, you found yourself checking your phone more often than strictly necessary.
Sunday arrived without ceremony, far too soon, for your liking.
And Centre Court looked different on final day, heavier somehow, the air thick with anticipation, with history pressing in from all sides. You moved through the corridors with your team around you, the familiar routine grounding you, anchoring you in muscle memory when your mind threatened to wander.
In the locker room, you sat on the bench and laced up your shoes slowly, deliberately, pulling each lace tight with the same care you’d given to every preparation step since you were a kid.
For a fleeting second, you considered your phone, then dismissed the thought with a quiet huff of air that escaped you before you could stop it. Of course not. If he was anything like you imagined, he was already strapped into the car by now, helmet on, visor down, his world reduced to steering wheel, tarmac, and milliseconds that decided everything.
Two people. Two arenas. Same kind of day.
“Alright,” your coach said gently. “Five minutes.”
This was it. Now or never.
Your gaze snagged briefly on the poster across the room, Serena mid-roar, frozen forever in dominance and defiance, her eyes fierce even in print. It felt absurdly personal in that moment, like she was looking straight at you, daring you to rise to it.
As you stepped out onto Centre Court, the light hit you all at once, bright and unforgiving, the roar of the crowd washing over you in a single, overwhelming wave.
You took your place at the baseline, bounced the ball once, twice, the sound sharp and clean against the grass, and drew a slow breath in through your nose.
And then it started. Your Wimbledon final.
It began without drama, without ceremony, just the clean crack of the first serve slicing through the air.
The opening games were tight, every point contested, every rally a small battle of wills. Your opponent moved with confidence, her shots deep and precise, testing you early, probing for weakness. You answered back in kind, legs burning, mind sharp, chasing down balls you had no right to reach and placing returns that drew murmurs from the crowd.
When you missed a shot by inches, you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset and be patient. And then, when you won a brutal point at the net, you felt a flash of heat rush through you, the sharp reminder that you belonged here.
Long games stretched on, deuce after deuce, each point feeling heavier than the last. Your legs screamed. Your lungs burned. You welcomed it. Pain meant presence.
And you needed to be present to win this match.
The rallies grew longer. The stakes grew higher. One point here. One mistake there. The crowd rose to its feet and fell back into their seats in waves, gasps and cheers punctuating the silence.
One second you were on the court, grass beneath your shoes, the world narrowed to lines, a small yellow ball and racket in your hand, and the next everything dissolved into noise, into movement, into hands on your shoulders and voices calling your name from every direction at once.
Match was over and you remember walking off Centre Court with the applause following you down the tunnel, echoing against the walls, stretching longer than you thought it would, long enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
Fans pressed in behind barriers, a tide of faces and outstretched hands and phones held aloft, all of them hungry for something tangible to take home, a wave or a smile or a fragment of you caught mid-breath.
You signed where you could, smiled when it felt natural, nodded when you didn’t quite trust your voice to behave properly. Journalists hovered at the edges, sharper, more deliberate, eyes scanning you for cracks, for emotion that might spill into something quotable.
“A few words about the match!” someone called. “What was going through your mind out there?” “How difficult was it?”
You thought, not for the first time that day, that it was a strange profession that demanded eloquence precisely when you were least capable of it.
Eventually, mercifully, you were ushered into a car, the door closing with a solid, blessedly ordinary thunk that shut the world out.
And by the time you reached the hotel, you felt oddly hollowed out, like the echo after a loud noise.
The lobby was still crowded but you moved through quickly, guided by someone who seemed to know exactly when to place a hand at your elbow and when to let you walk on your own.
At some point you became aware of how late it must be, not by checking your phone, which you hadn’t looked at in hours, but by the way your body had shifted into that peculiar end-of-night mode, heavy and slow and faintly unreal.
Your floor greeted you with soft carpet and dim lighting, the hallway stretching out in both directions and for a second, you thought you were imagining it.
The scene was almost identical to two nights ago.
He was there, in the hallway, only this time he wasn’t leaning against the wall, phone in hand, waiting. He was moving, rolling a suitcase beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers.
Lando.
It took you a heartbeat to process it properly, your tired brain lagging behind the simple fact of him, here, now.
He spotted you at the same moment, his steps slowing, then stopping altogether. For a fraction of a second, you both just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the hallway.
“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hey”
He gestured vaguely with the keys in his hand, then the suitcase, as if to explain himself before you could ask. “I’m, uh. I’m heading out. Gonna get back to Monaco tonight”
You nodded, a small, automatic movement, your gaze flicking briefly to the suitcase and back to his face. “Right”
There was a pause then, one of those delicate, hovering silences that seemed to swell rather than settle.
He shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the suitcase. “I just won Silverstone.”
The way he said that, made it feel like he was out of breath.
“I know,” you said. “They just told me… was about to text you, congrats!”
His eyes lingered on you, searching your face for something, maybe that tensed confirmation, maybe shared disbelief.
Did he know?
Silence stretched again, comfortable this time, threaded with something almost giddy beneath the exhaustion.
summary: Wimbledon and Silverstone happen during the same weeks in the same country. What a coincidence!
Part 2 of Tiebreak
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !! (prob bad english soz)
word count: around 10k
➽───────────────❥
“Welcome to the London Waldorf Hotel by Hilton,” the receptionist that welcomed you was smiling brightly, fingers already flying across the keyboard as you stepped up to the desk, passport in hand.
Weeks blurred together after that night, collapsing into a relentless rhythm of early mornings, punishing training blocks, recovery sessions that left your body aching in quiet, specific ways, and a calendar that refused to slow down no matter how loudly your muscles protested.
By the time Wimbledon week arrived, it felt less like an event and more like a reckoning.
Wimbledon was different. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t just another Slam; it was the Slam.
The lawns, the white, the ghosts of champions that seemed to linger in every corridor and press box. Win there, and your name didn’t just sit on a trophy, it stitched itself into history. Lose there, and people still remembered how you lost, how far you went, how close you came. Forever.
This year, the attention followed you more closely than ever.
Top ten. For the first time. No Slam title yet. Too good to ignore, too unproven to fully trust. You could feel the eyes on you already, weighing you, measuring whether you were finally ready to justify your ranking or if you’d buckle under the particular pressure Wimbledon loved to apply.
After Monaco, after that night with Lando, you hadn’t seen him again. Not really. Training had turned brutal and it left little room for distractions, and his schedule had carried him across the Atlantic to Canada first, then back to Europe, Austria, commitments stacking neatly one after the other.
You knew he was in England now, of course. Silverstone loomed on his calendar the same way Wimbledon loomed on yours.
You were halfway through confirming your reservation when the receptionist’s expression shifted, brightening even further as she glanced past your shoulder.
“And welcome back, Mr. Norris,” she said, already reaching for a second keycard with the ease of someone who’d done this many times before.
You didn’t even need to turn around to know.
Of course you’re both staying at the same hotel. What were the fucking odds?
The receptionist handed you your key with a “Have a nice Wimbledon Week Miss”, and then turned her attention fully to him. You stepped aside, suddenly aware of how strange it felt to see him like this again after weeks of nothing but blurred Instagram posts and a few texts.
He approached the counter and handed over his passport as you watched the exchange from a step away: the way she smiled a fraction wider, the way Lando answered her questions with polite charm, not quite flirting but not not flirting either.
“What are you doing here?” you said, straight to the point, pretending this was all entirely normal.
“Silverstone week,” he replied easily, as if that explained everything. “Hi, by the way, good to see you too!”
You blinked. Once. Twice. Completely ignoring the second part of his sentence. “Silverstone is two hours away,” you said, the confusion slipping into your voice before you could polish it away.
He turned fully toward you then, grin spreading slowly, deliberately. “Oh, really?” he said, mock surprise dripping from every syllable. “Did you check?”
You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you. “I’m serious,” you said before repeating “What are you doing here?”
He leaned one elbow against the counter, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if he were about to let you in on some great secret. “This place,” he began, ticking points off on his fingers, “has an amazing gym, genuinely life-changing breakfast, and—” he paused, glancing briefly toward the receptionist before continuing, “—some rooms have jacuzzis.”
You stared at him, unimpressed and thoroughly baffled. You were so confused. “What?”
“The reason why I’m here,” he answered. “It’s my favourite hotel when I’m in England.
The receptionist cleared her throat politely, handing him his keycard with a bright smile. “You’re all set, Mr. Norris. Enjoy your stay.”
“Always do, thank you” he said, offering her a grateful nod before turning back to you.
You shook your head, still trying to reconcile the logic of a Formula One driver willingly committing to four hours of daily commuting during one of the most intense weeks of the season.
You followed him toward the elevators without quite deciding to, waving a porter over and murmuring your room number so he could take your bags. The lobby buzzed softly around you, a hum of accents and rolling suitcases and muted laughter, but somehow it all faded into background noise as you walked side by side, close enough that your arm brushed his every now and then.
“Why are you really here?” you tried again as he reached the elevator bank, pressing the call button with an absentminded tap. “In London, I mean. I’m sure Silverstone has plenty of luxurious hotels with amazing gyms and jacuzzis”
He glanced down at you, expression softer now, less teasing. “Media stuff,” he said. “I got some filming here before heading there for the weekend”
The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. You stepped inside together, the space suddenly smaller, quieter. He leaned back against the mirrored wall, hands folded loosely in front of him, watching your reflection more than you.
“And you?” he asked, casually, though his eyes lingered. “Wimbledon week as a top ten. That’s huge.”
You felt the weight of it then, the unspoken pressure settling into your shoulders the way it had every morning since you’d landed.
It was huge. It was pretty fucking huge. That’s why you needed to stay focused. No distractions. No temptations. No hanging around with an F1 british hottie.
“Yeah,” you said, exhaling slowly. “It is.”
The elevator began its ascent, a gentle hum beneath your feet. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence filled with everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t since that night weeks ago.
Then, the doors slid open onto your floor, and for a second, neither of you moved, suspended in that soft, unremarkable moment that somehow felt like the start of something else entirely.
Lando broke the silence with a crooked smile. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, then.”
You glanced at him, something warm and nervous blooming in your chest. “Guess so.”
You didn’t see a lot of eachtother.
It wasn’t that you were avoiding Lando, not deliberately, not in the way people avoided things they didn’t want to face. If anything, the opposite was true. But your schedule left very little room for anything beyond training sessions that began too early, matches that demanded every scrap of focus you possessed, recovery routines that blurred together, and the quiet mental preparation that followed you back to your hotel room each night like a shadow.
His world wasn’t any less chaotic, from what you gathered in passing. You’d see him occasionally in the lobby, always in motion, phone pressed to his ear, or laughing with someone from his team as he headed out the door, sunglasses on no matter the weather. Sometimes your paths crossed by accident at breakfast, a shared glance over coffee cups, a quick smile exchanged like a promise left there to pick up.
Once, you ended up in the gym at the same time, both of you pretending it was a coincidence while silently acknowledging that it wasn’t entirely.
He’d offered you a grin from across the room, lifting a hand in greeting mid-rep, and you’d felt something warm curl in your chest before reminding yourself, firmly, that this week was not about him.
The first match in qualifying rounds came and went in a blur of nerves and adrenaline, your body stiff at the start before memory took over, muscle and instinct guiding you where your mind hesitated. The grass felt fast beneath your shoes, the ball skidding low in a way that demanded precision and punished hesitation, but by the end of it, you walked off court with a win and a quiet sense of relief that settled somewhere deep in your bones.
The second round followed quickly, then the third, each match stacking on top of the last until they blurred together in flashes of green and white and applause that washed over you like waves. You stopped counting days and started counting routines instead.
Wake up. Stretch. Eat. Warm up. Play. Recover. Sleep. Repeat.
Occasionally, in the margins of it all, your phone would buzz with a message from Lando, something simple and stupid and unnecessarily dirty, like Your ass was phenomenal in that outfit today and you’d find yourself smiling at your screen before slipping it face-down onto the bedside table.
The quarterfinals arrived with a kind of hushed gravity, the air thicker, the crowd more deliberate in its attention. You told yourself it was just another match, just another opponent, but your body knew better, your pulse quickening as you stepped onto court, your breath shallow until the first rally forced you back into yourself. It wasn’t perfect tennis, not then, but it was resilient, stubborn, and when the final point was yours, you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, racket hanging loose in your hand as the realization crept in.
Semifinalist. At Wimbledon.
The word felt unreal, like something borrowed from someone else’s career, something you weren’t quite sure you were allowed to claim.
Back in the locker room, you sat on the bench and stared at your shoes while your phone filled with messages, congratulations piling up faster than you could respond to them.
The day of the semifinal dawned bright and impossibly green, the kind of English summer day that felt curated for television, for history. You woke early, nerves humming beneath your skin, but there was a calm there too, a sense of rightness that surprised you. As you pulled on your all-white outfit, smoothing the fabric over your hips, tying your hair back with practiced precision, it hit you suddenly how far you’d come, how many early mornings and lonely flights and silent doubts had led to this exact moment.
Walking onto Centre Court felt different than anything before it. The stands rose around you like a living thing, steep and full and expectant, the royal box gleaming in your peripheral vision, the grass impossibly pristine beneath your feet. You took a breath, deep and slow, and for a brief, fleeting second, you thought of Lando, probably somewhere not too far away, wrapped up in his own version of this madness, pressure dressed up as opportunity.
Then the match began, and everything else fell away.
From the first serve, something clicked into place with an ease that almost scared you.
Your toss was perfect, your timing precise, the ball snapping off your strings with a satisfying bite that echoed across the court. The rallies unfolded exactly as you’d imagined them in training, your feet light, your movements instinctive, each decision made without hesitation. You weren’t thinking about rankings or history or what this match meant. You were simply playing, fully and completely, present in a way that felt almost transcendent.
Your opponent, number three in the world, tried to disrupt your rhythm, throwing pace and spin at you, testing angles, but you met her shot for shot, unflinching. Somewhere along the way, you even realized you weren’t just surviving the moment. You were owning it.
You barely noticed the clock ticking, barely registered the shifting light as clouds passed overhead. Everything narrowed to the sound of the ball, the feel of the grass, the steady cadence of your breath.
When match point arrived, it didn’t feel dramatic. It felt inevitable.
You stood there, frozen, racket slipping slightly in your grip, as the reality finally caught up with you.
You had just beaten the world number three. In straight sets. In under two hours. At Wimbledon.
A laugh bubbled up before it turned into something dangerously close to tears as you brought a hand to your mouth, shaking your head in disbelief.
The handshake at the net felt surreal, your opponent gracious and composed, the moment passing in a blur of congratulations and flashes from the stands. As you turned to acknowledge the crowd, you lifted your arms instinctively, not in triumph exactly, but in gratitude, as if to say, I know. I can’t believe it either.
You didn’t know what would happen next, whether this run would end in heartbreak again or history, but for now, that didn’t matter.
You were a Wimbledon finalist. And just that was a victory.
Screw your sponsors if they thought it wasn’t.
By the time you made it back to the hotel, the day had finally begun to settle into your body. The lobby was louder than usual, buzzing with a low, constant hum of voices, footsteps, laughter, camera shutters clicking in irregular bursts. Someone recognized you almost immediately, then another, then another, and suddenly you were smiling on instinct, posing beside strangers who held their phones out with shaking hands, signing tennis balls, programs, scraps of paper pulled hastily from bags.
You let it happen, because this was part of it, because you knew how fleeting this version of the moment could be, because some small, younger part of you was watching from somewhere deep inside, wide-eyed and breathless.
You thanked the last fan, waved off a well-meaning hotel staff member who offered congratulations with a grin, and finally, mercifully, your team shepherded you toward the lifts with gentle insistence, reminding you of the early session planned for the next morning, of recovery, of ice baths and stretching and sleep.
You hugged them all goodbye in quick succession, and then you were alone again, the lift doors sliding shut with a soft, decisive sound.
The ride up felt longer than usual, your reflection staring back at you from the polished steel walls, tired but luminous, like something inside you had been switched on and forgotten. When the doors opened onto your floor, the quiet was almost startling, the thick hotel carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps as you stepped out into the corridor.
And you were halfway through it when you saw him.
He was leaning against the wall near the end of the hallway, looking down at his phone, one foot crossed casually over the other, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie you recognized instantly, hair slightly messier than usual like he’d been running his fingers through it too often.
You stopped short, your bag slipping slightly on your shoulder as your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
He looked up at the sound, eyes finding you immediately, and for a split second, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, the familiar blue of his gaze.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, a laugh threatening to escape without permission.
“What—” you started, then shook your head, blinking hard. “What are you doing here?” It came out somewhere between disbelief and accusation.
He pushed off the wall slowly, like he had all the time in the world, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating, soft grin that always made it feel like he was in on a joke.
“Hi, to you too,” he said lightly pointing out that again, you didn’t greet him first. His eyes flicking briefly to the tennis bag on your shoulder, then back to your face. “Congrats, by the way, Wimbledon finalist!”
You stared at him, still not moving, your brain racing through the logistics with a kind of frantic precision. Silverstone Race was on Sunday. Two hours away, at least. Media duties or not, this didn’t make sense, not now, not tonight.
“You have a race,” you said, finally, as if stating it plainly might make him disappear. “In, like, forty-eight hours. And it’s not exactly around the corner. Didn’t you just finished qualifying or something?”
He hummed thoughtfully, taking a step closer, close enough now that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiredness around his eyes that mirrored your own. “Yeah,” he said. “No, qualifying is tomorrow.”
“Then why are you—” You gestured vaguely at the corridor, at him, at the very obvious fact of his presence. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, he didn’t answer right away, and something in the pause made your chest tighten, made the quiet of the hallway feel suddenly louder, heavier. Then he shrugged, a small, almost sheepish motion that didn’t quite match the confidence he usually carried.
He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “I figured I’d come by.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaking your head slowly as a laugh finally escaped you, low and incredulous. “You figured you’d come by,” you repeated. “Still not telling me why, tho”
“Well,” he said, smile widening just a touch, “It seemed like today was kind of a big deal.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how tired you were, how raw and open everything felt, the day still clinging to you like static. “What did you say to your team?” you said, though there was no real bite behind it, more a reflex than a warning.
He didn’t answer your question and you tried to study his expression then, you tried to study the way he stood there like this was exactly where he was supposed to be, like he hadn’t second-guessed the decision a thousand times before knocking on some invisible door in his head. And something about that, about his quiet certainty, made your throat tighten.
“I watched you” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.
Your heart stuttered. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Whole thing, luckily was in between session.”
The image of it flashed through your mind without warning, him somewhere not far from here, phone or screen in front of him, watching you move across Centre Court in white, watching you do the thing you’d dreamed of since you were a kid sprawled on the living room floor, eyes glued to grainy footage of the Williams sisters, imagining yourself there someday.
“This is insane ,” you said, tilting your head slightly, studying him as if you were still trying to confirm he was actually standing there, “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. In a garage somewhere. Surrounded by engineers. Doing very important car things, preparing for your race.”
He laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly down the empty corridor. “So what? I already did all those things.”
You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m just saying. It’s Silverstone week. You should be fully in race mode, focused, concentrated, avoiding distractions.”
His eyes flicked back to yours, something playful sparking there. “Are you calling yourself a distraction?”
You opened your mouth to answer, then paused, the weight of the day, the adrenaline still humming through your veins, the sheer improbability of this moment all colliding at once.
You were exhausted, yes, but it was the good kind, the kind that left you feeling light and buzzy, like sleep was a suggestion rather than a necessity. Your body still felt alive with motion, with victory, with disbelief.
“I—” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I’m just surprised you’re here.”
“Me too,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t really feel like I should be anywhere else.”
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how easy it would be to close the gap, how little energy it would take compared to everything else you’d done today.
The question slipped out before you’d fully decided to ask it, carried on a lilt that surprised you as much as it did him.
“Do you… want to come in?”
There it was. Hanging between you. Casual enough to pretend it meant nothing, loaded enough that neither of you believed that for a second.
His grin was immediate, bright and unguarded, like he’d been waiting for it. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping past him toward your door before he could say anything else smug.
You pressed the keycard to the reader, the soft green light blinking on as the lock clicked open, and pushed the door inward. The suite opened up in front of you, spacious and understated, all warm lighting and clean lines, the kind of room designed to feel calm and luxurious without demanding attention. You barely registered any of it.
You took two steps inside, just long enough to drop your tennis bag by the wall, the dull thud echoing faintly, and then his hand was on your wrist, gentle but insistent, turning you back toward him.
“Hey,” you started, breath hitching slightly, but whatever you’d been about to say dissolved the moment his mouth found yours.
The kiss was immediate and certain. It felt like something snapping into place, like the end of a long-held breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.
His other hand came up to your waist, steadying you as he nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, the click of it closing sounding oddly final in the quiet room.
His mouth was warm and sure against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he must have chewed on the drive over, a clean, sharp contrast to the lingering adrenaline-salt on your own lips.
You laughed softly into it, the sound muffled, half-disbelieving, half-giddy, and he smiled against your mouth, his teeth catching your lower lip in a gentle tug before soothing it with his tongue, the gesture so familiarly him that it made something ache pleasantly behind your ribs.
“What?” he murmured, the word a vibration against your lips as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still framing your waist, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your post-match polo.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head slightly, your own hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid, steady beat of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
“I should be resting and relaxing” you said but you were already tilting your head, inviting him back in, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
His eyes lit up with that trademark mischief, the one that always made you want to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time, and he leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your jawline. “I can help with that. Can make you feel very much relaxed.”
You snorted, pulling back just enough to give him a mock-stern look, though your fingers betrayed you by twisting into the hem of his shirt. “That was so corny as hell.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, his laugh low as he ducked his head in mock shame, but then his hands were sliding up your sides, warm and insistent, and you were both laughing into the space between your mouths before the sound dissolved into another kiss, this one hungrier and messier.
He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound sending a shiver down your spine, and his hands grew bolder, one sliding down to cup the curve of your ass through your skirt while the other ventured under the hem of your polo, fingertips skimming the warm skin of your lower back.
You arched into the touch, a quiet hum escaping you, and he took it as encouragement, his palm flattening to pull you flush against him, letting you feel the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against your hip.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against your lips, not pulling away far enough to break the connection, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a beat as his eyes flicked open to meet yours, dark and intent. “Missed you. These past few weeks have been hell without these little… incentives.”
“What?” you teased, your voice laced with mock accusation as you pulled back just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Couldn’t get off without me?”
He squeezed your ass in retaliation, firm enough to make you gasp, but his grin was all boyish charm and tease. “Oh, I managed just fine, don’t worry” he said, his tone dropping to that husky drawl that always made your pulse stutter.
“Let’s just say that having you right here is leagues beyond whatever I was picturing in my head everytime I wanked in the shower”
“Oh, is the shower your place?” you shot back, your lips curving into a wicked smile.
“It is, don’t have to clean after” he replied, his hand flexing on your ass again, pulling you in even tighter.
You burst out laughing at that, the sound bright and unrestrained, echoing softly inside the room.
And it hit you then just how effortlessly everything was with him: no performance required, no careful curation of witty banter, just this seamless slide into dirty talk and domestic absurdity that felt as natural as breathing.
The laughter faded into a shared grin, but the heat didn’t dissipate; if anything, it simmered hotter, pulling you back into the kiss with a renewed hunger that made your hands clutch at his shoulders. His mouth claimed yours fiercely again, tongues dueling in wet, open slides, breaths coming faster as his hands roamed with bold intent.
One delving under your polo to palm the bare skin of your back, fingers splaying wide to press you impossibly closer, the other hiking your skirt up your thighs until cool air kissed the newly exposed flesh. You moaned into him, hips rocking instinctively, chasing the friction of his hardness against your core, and he answered with a low growl that vibrated through your chest, his teeth nipping your lower lip before soothing it with a slow lick.
“We should be resting” you whispered against his mouth, but your fingers were already fisting his t-shirt, tugging it upward in silent demand.
“We are” he rasped, breaking just long enough to yank the shirt off himself, tossing it through the door where it landed with a soft thud on the suite’s entry rug, right beside your tennis bag.
He hit the sofa first, dropping onto the wide cushions with a surprised oof, legs splaying open invitingly as he looked up at you from between his thighs, curls tousled, chest heaving. “C’mere” he said, voice thick with approval, reaching for the hem of your polo.
You stepped between his spread legs, the carpet soft under your feet, and lifted your arms to let him strip the polo away, the fabric peeling off with a whisper to join his shirt on the floor.
His hands were immediate, deftly unhooking your sports bra and easing it down your arms, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze and the room’s gentle lighting that cast flattering shadows across your skin.
He didn’t rush, though, his palms cupped you reverently, thumbs circling your nipples into tight peaks before he leaned forward, mouth descending to kiss the swell of one breast, tongue flicking out to trace lazy circles that made you gasp and thread your fingers into his hair.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, lips trailing lower to press open-mouthed kisses along the plane of your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel as his hands worked your skirt’s zipper, the sound a sharp zzzzip in the quiet.
The garment slid down your legs in a pool of fabric, and you stepped free, now standing in just your simple black underwear, heart pounding as his kisses continued their descent, soft, heated presses to the flare of your hips, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there just enough to make you shiver and grip his shoulders for balance.
He looked up at you then, eyes dark and intent, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to hook into the waistband of your panties. “Jeez, I wanna kiss you everywhere,” he promised, voice a low rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Every fucking inch”
Before you could respond, he tugged the cotton down your thighs, slow and deliberate, letting it catch on the curve of your ass before guiding it lower, past your knees, until you could step out and kick it aside. It landed near the coffee table, tangled with a coaster and the remote for the massive flatscreen mounted on the wall.
Naked now, you felt exposed yet powerful, his hands steadying you as he pulled you closer, breath ghosting hot over your mound.
Then his mouth was there, lips brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh first, teasing higher with featherlight kisses that made your legs tremble, before he nuzzled into you fully, nose nudging your clit as his tongue extended in a flat, languid lick from entrance to peak.
You cried out softly, hands fisting in his hair, hips jerking forward involuntarily as pleasure sparked sharp and bright. He hummed approval against you, the vibration intensifying everything, and latched on gently, sucking your clit between his lips with just the right pressureg, his strong hands gripping your ass to hold you steady.
“Fuck, Lando,” you gasped, head tipping back to stare at the ceiling’s. He didn’t let up, one hand sliding between your thighs from behind to tease your entrance with a single finger, pressing in shallowly, curling just so, while his tongue worked relentless magic on your clit.
He acted as if he was starved. As if you’d be the only nourishing after years of drought.
With you standing and him seated on the plush leather couch, his face buried between your thighs, he nudged his head deeper with each languid stroke of his tongue, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs to pull you even closer.
Physio was definitely gonna ask you why your hamstrings are so tight tomorrow.
“Open up a little more for me, baby,” he murmured against you, “Let me get in there properly”
Properly. As if up until now he was just tasting the entree.
A weak, gasping sound was all you could manage in reply, but your body obeyed instinctively, hips canting forward, thighs parting wider around his head as you surrendered to the delicious invasion.
He hummed his approval, and then his fingers joined the party: one, then two, sliding into you with effortless ease, curling upward to find that spot inside that made your vision blur at the edges.
Insane. If he drove two hours from Silverstone just to eat you out like this. Fucking hurray. No complaints.
You were possessed at this point, a creature of pure sensation, capable only of ragged moans and breathy whines that shaped his name into a broken mantra.
“Lando… fuck… right there, please…”
He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers twisting, and you felt the coil inside you wind impossibly tight, teetering on the precipice of a shattering release.
But just as the first tremors began to seize your muscles, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and empty, hovering on the agonizing edge.
You whimpered in protest, your grip tightening in his hair, but he was already leaning back, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, utterly satisfied grin spreading across his face as he looked up at you from between your thighs.
Your legs shook violently, barely holding you up, and you knew you must have looked a complete wreck like that: chest heaving, skin flushed, utterly undone.
“Easy there,” he said, his voice rough but laced with amusement as he placed steadying hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your trembling skin.
He leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lower stomach, then another just above your pubic bone, his lips trailing upwards over your abdomen in a tender counterpoint to the filth of moments before. He watched you from there, his gaze dark and heated, taking in your disheveled state with evident pride. “Legs giving out?”
“You’re an asshole,” you managed to pant, but there was no heat in it, only the raw, exposed need he’d carved into you.
“Am I? ,” he counter asked easily, grinning wider before his expression softened into something more serious, more intimate. He guided you gently, his hands firm on your waist. “C’mere. Sit.”
You didn’t need telling twice, your body moving on autopilot, but as you shifted to lower yourself onto his lap, you registered that his jeans and boxers were gone, kicked off sometime during his dedicated attention below. He was fully naked now, his erection jutting thick and eager against his stomach, the tip glistening.
“Just so you know… I haven’t been with anyone else. Since Monaco. And I got tested last week. All clear.” He swallowed, his thumbs rubbing small circles on your skin. “But we can use condoms, no problem”
The admission, delivered so straightforwardly in the midst of such carnality, struck you with a force that had nothing to do with physical pleasure. It was trust, laid bare amidst the scattered clothes and the city lights.
You let out a slow breath, your own hands coming up to frame his face, feeling the faint scratch of his stubble against your palms and the soft cute creek of his dimple.
“Me neither,” you whispered. “And I also got tested the other day, before the tournament started. Also clear.”
You leaned in, brushing your lips against his, a soft, reassuring kiss. “We can go bare, if you want” you murmured against his mouth, your voice low but steady.
One hand left his cheek, sliding down your own side until your fingers found the small, almost invisible square of adhesive high on your hip, just inside the crease of your thigh. Contraceptive patch. Mainly for hormonal imbalance. You guided his hand there, pressing his fingertips against it. “Had it for a few weeks now.”
He blinked, his fingers exploring the edges of the patch with a kind of dazed curiosity, a faint, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him. “How did I miss that?”
“Probably distracted by the main attractions,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips.
His expression sobered, the playfulness fading into something more intense, more searching. “You’re sure?” he asked, his hands returning to your hips, his grip firm but questioning.
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring your certainty into it, your tongue sweeping against his in a promise that needed no words. When you pulled back, you were breathless, but your eyes never wavered from his. “I’m sure. Please.”
His hands returned to your hips, guiding you down as you reached between your bodies to take him in hand, aligning him with your slick entrance.
The broad head nudged against you, and you both gasped at the contact. “Easy,” he breathed, his eyes locked on yours, his usual bravado replaced by something more vulnerable. “Take your time.”
You sank down onto him in one slow, inexorable slide, the stretch a perfect, burning fullness that made your head fall forward onto his shoulder with a choked cry.
He filled you completely, his hands spanning your back to hold you close as you adjusted, your inner walls fluttering wildly around the invasion.
For a long moment, neither of you moved,
“Okay?” he murmured into your hair, his lips brushing your temple.
In answer, you began to move, moaning and lifting your hips slowly before sinking back down, setting a deliberate, rocking rhythm that drew a deep groan from his chest.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, fingers digging in as he helped you rise and fall, meeting each downward stroke with an upward thrust of his own that drove him even deeper. The angle was intense, intimate, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every roll of your hips, and soon the slow burn ignited into a fierce, consuming fire.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice strained, his own control fraying as you rode him with a building desperation that matched the fire in his eyes. “Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight… taking me so well.”
His words were a low, ragged mantra against your skin.
Each syllable vibrating through your chest where he’d latched onto one breast, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked your nipple deep, tongue flicking the hardened peak in time with the upward thrust of his hips.
And the truth was: you could have anyone. Players. Sportsmen. Celebrities. Your DMs flooded with fellow amazing athletes with their sculpted bodies and empty compliments, or billionaires who'd sent champagne and gifts with their numbers scrawled on the card.
But none of them, not a single one, would ever fuck you like this. With this specific, learned intensity, this care masquerading as carnality. Lando wasn't just hitting a spot for pleasure; he was reading your body, adjusting his inputs in real-time based on your gasps and hitches.
And he wasn't even your boyfriend. That was the delicious, complicated irony of it.
There were no labels, no Instagram posts, no meet-the-parents weekends.
Just this: these amazing hotel rooms and stolen nights between Grands Prix and tournaments, a secret kept from the paddock and the press.
Yet he knew you, perhaps better than any official partner ever had.
He knew, for instance, that when your movements became frantic and shallow, you needed the direct pressure on your clit, and his thumb slid between your joined bodies now, finding the swollen bud and rubbing firm, tight circles that made you cry out, your rhythm stuttering.
He knew your nipples were a direct line to your pleasure, so he switched his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, sucking attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch violently.
He knew you liked it when his hand left your ass for a moment to deliver a soft, stinging spank, not hard, just enough to surprise your system and make your inner muscles clamp and clench down on him, which drew a guttural "Fuck yes," from his lips.
He knew you loved dirty talk, that the filthier his praise got, the wetter you became, and he could feel the evidence of it now, the slick, effortless glide as he pistoned into you.
"Look at you," he growled, lifting his head from your breast, his eyes black with want, lips swollen and glistening. "Riding my cock so well, baby. You love this, don't you? Love it so much you make me go raw"
You could only nod frantically, your whines turning into choked sobs of affirmation, because he was right, and the truth of it, spoken aloud in his wrecked voice, pushed you higher.
He knew you had the stamina for rounds, that you'd recover quickly and be ready for more, so he didn't hold back, his thrusts becoming punishing, driving up into you with a force that rocked your entire body, the sofa creaking in protest beneath you.
He knew you were flexible, had bent you over beds and bathroom counters and in the backseat of a rental Porche once, and you'd never complained, only begged for more.
And he knew, most intimately of all, the final clue. As the coil in your belly wound to an unbearable tightness, as the world narrowed to the slap of skin and the smell of sex and sweat, your hands flew from his hair to his shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle of his back, scoring red trails down his skin. It was involuntary, primal, your body's telegraph that you were seconds from the edge.
“I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Wimbledon champion,” he growled while his hips kept driving up to meet your frantic downward strokes with a force that stole your breath
A breathless, giddy laugh bubbled out of you even as you clenched around him, your inner muscles fluttering in response to the declaration. You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, meeting his fevered gaze with a smirk as you continued to ride him, taking him deep with every roll of your hips. “Oh yeah? Irina Sabalenka?”
He surged up with a grin, wrapping an arm around your waist to crush you against his chest, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Shut up,” he commanded, but his eyes were dancing, a smile fighting at the corners of his mouth. “You know what I mean”
You gasped, the laughter dying into a whimper as he resumed his rhythm, his grip on you iron-tight. Leaning in, your lips brushed the shell of his ear, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial, husky whisper that was all for him. “Well then… I cannot fucking wait to fuck the Silverstone champion.”
It was the match to the gasoline.
He saw it, felt it. His breath caught, and his rhythm became erratic, brutal at the sound of your words.
"That's it, baby," he panted, his own release imminent, his grip on you turning bruising. "I know you’re there, let me feel it. Come on my cock."
The command, paired with the exquisite torture of his thumb on your clit and the relentless drive of his hips, shattered you.
Your orgasm ripped through you with a silent scream that finally found voice in a raw, tearing cry of his name, your body convulsing around him, milking him violently as your nails bit deeper into his skin.
The sensation of your tightening and pulling at him was his undoing; with a final, broken shout, he buried himself to the root and came, his own release hot and pulsing inside you. That had him collapsing back against the cushions and he pulled you down with him in a trembling, sweaty heap of spent limbs and shared breaths.
His hand was still splayed possessively on your lower back and his heartbeat became a steady, slowing drum against your cheek where it rested on his chest.
“My physio would definitely murder me if she knew I had all this extra physical activity after a match”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. He even tilted his head to press a kiss to your sweaty temple. “So, does that mean no round two on the bed?”
No. No round two on the bed. You had the most important match of your life in less than 48 hours, and he had his race. You needed rest. Both.
That’s should have been your answer.
But you lifted your head to look at him, finding his eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous challenge in the dim light.
And so round two happened. Just like that.
He fucked you from behind with a focused intensity that had you screaming muffled moans against the pillows of your king sized bed.
Then he murmured “Just one more” and round three followed.
Missionary, slower, softer. He kissed you through it, intertwining your fingers and caressing your face, and it felt more tender and devastatingly intimate.
You came together that time, a slow wave of pleasure that left you both breathless and staring at the ceiling as the digital clock on the bedside table blinked to 1:47 AM.
But the peace was short-lived. And apparently sex fairytales don’t last forever.
Cause at almost exactly 2 AM sharp, you felt the mattress shift as he carefully extracted his arm from beneath you and sat up, running a hand through his disastrous curls with a quiet sigh.
“You’re going? It’s past 2,” you mumbled into the pillow, your hand reaching out blindly to find the warm space he’d left.
“I have to,” he said, his voice soft but firm. You heard the rustle of fabric as he began gathering his clothes from the various corners of the room where they’d been abandoned.
Sitting up, you pulled the sheet around yourself, watching him in the sliver of light from the ensuite bathroom. He moved with a quiet efficiency, stepping into his boxers, pulling on his jeans.
“You could stay,” you said, and it came out smaller than you intended, laced with a vulnerability that the darkness allowed.
He paused, buttoning his jeans, and looked at you. In the faint glow, his expression was unreadable for a moment. “I have to be at the track at half-eight tomorrow. I can’t stay and risk hitting traffic on the highway or anything else that could make me miss briefings or even worse practice session” He offered a tired, crooked smile. “It’s safer if I drive back now.”
You hugged your knees to your chest, the post-coital glow rapidly cooling into a vague, hollow feeling. “I just feel bad,” you admitted, your chin resting on your knees.
“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, the fabric momentarily obscuring his face.
“Because you have to drive two hours to get back and you’ll going to get, what, three hours of sleep?”
He finished tugging the shirt down and leaned over, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheeks. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I chose to come here, okay? And I chose to stay here until now, I’m not regretting it, so don’t worry about it” He gestured vaguely between you, at the wrecked room. “And I barely get any sleep on race weekends anyway so, it’s nothing, really.”
He kissed you then, a slow, deep kiss that tasted like goodbye. You melted into it, your hands coming up to clutch at his wrists, wanting to anchor him there longer. But he pulled back, standing up to find his socks and shoes.
You watched him dress fully, the act felt strangely intimate after everything you’d just shared. He laced up his trainers, checked his phone with a slight frown, secured his Richard Millie on his wrist and pocketed his wallet and keys. He looked less like the man who’d just driven you to three earth-shattering orgasms and more like a slightly rumpled, very tired racing driver about to face his day. The duality of it squeezed your heart.
Finally, he came back to the bedside, leaning down to brace his hands on either side of your head. “Good luck tomorrow,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “Go win that thing and make it look easy.”
You smiled, reaching up to touch his stubbled jaw. “Yeah, you too!”
He kissed you one last time, a quick, hard press of his lips to yours. “I’ll text you.”
And then he was gone, the door to the suite clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
Saturday unfolded exactly as it was supposed to.
Disciplined and controlled, following the schedule to the minute. Recovery breakfast with the team, then some miles on the treadmill, followed by an ice baths and a physio session.
“How are the legs?” your physio asked, pressing into your calf.
“All good, still attached,” you murmured, face pressed into the towel to avoid giving away the fact that those legs had been bent and spread for amazing sex session until 2 am.
Later, you sat cross-legged on the floor of the team room, laptop balanced on your knees, rewinding points, studying patterns, noting tendencies. Your opponent’s backhand under pressure. Her preference for the wide serve on big points. The way she hesitated for half a second when pulled forward unexpectedly. You scribbled notes you might never look at again, the act itself more grounding than the information.
In the gym, someone had the television on, volume low, the familiar hum of Formula One commentary filling the space as background noise. You pretended not to care, but your eyes flicked up at the screen anyway, caught the flash of papaya orange, the on-screen graphic settling into place.
P3.
You didn’t hear from him again that day. Just got a 4am text saying he got to his hotel in Silverstone safe and sound but that was it. No follow-up. No casual check-in. It was fine. It made sense.
You both had jobs that demanded absolute presence, the kind that punished distraction without mercy. Still, somewhere between stretching sessions and an early dinner eaten more out of obligation than hunger, you found yourself checking your phone more often than strictly necessary.
Sunday arrived without ceremony, far too soon, for your liking.
And Centre Court looked different on final day, heavier somehow, the air thick with anticipation, with history pressing in from all sides. You moved through the corridors with your team around you, the familiar routine grounding you, anchoring you in muscle memory when your mind threatened to wander.
In the locker room, you sat on the bench and laced up your shoes slowly, deliberately, pulling each lace tight with the same care you’d given to every preparation step since you were a kid.
For a fleeting second, you considered your phone, then dismissed the thought with a quiet huff of air that escaped you before you could stop it. Of course not. If he was anything like you imagined, he was already strapped into the car by now, helmet on, visor down, his world reduced to steering wheel, tarmac, and milliseconds that decided everything.
Two people. Two arenas. Same kind of day.
“Alright,” your coach said gently. “Five minutes.”
This was it. Now or never.
Your gaze snagged briefly on the poster across the room, Serena mid-roar, frozen forever in dominance and defiance, her eyes fierce even in print. It felt absurdly personal in that moment, like she was looking straight at you, daring you to rise to it.
As you stepped out onto Centre Court, the light hit you all at once, bright and unforgiving, the roar of the crowd washing over you in a single, overwhelming wave.
You took your place at the baseline, bounced the ball once, twice, the sound sharp and clean against the grass, and drew a slow breath in through your nose.
And then it started. Your Wimbledon final.
It began without drama, without ceremony, just the clean crack of the first serve slicing through the air.
The opening games were tight, every point contested, every rally a small battle of wills. Your opponent moved with confidence, her shots deep and precise, testing you early, probing for weakness. You answered back in kind, legs burning, mind sharp, chasing down balls you had no right to reach and placing returns that drew murmurs from the crowd.
When you missed a shot by inches, you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to reset and be patient. And then, when you won a brutal point at the net, you felt a flash of heat rush through you, the sharp reminder that you belonged here.
Long games stretched on, deuce after deuce, each point feeling heavier than the last. Your legs screamed. Your lungs burned. You welcomed it. Pain meant presence.
And you needed to be present to win this match.
The rallies grew longer. The stakes grew higher. One point here. One mistake there. The crowd rose to its feet and fell back into their seats in waves, gasps and cheers punctuating the silence.
One second you were on the court, grass beneath your shoes, the world narrowed to lines, a small yellow ball and racket in your hand, and the next everything dissolved into noise, into movement, into hands on your shoulders and voices calling your name from every direction at once.
Match was over and you remember walking off Centre Court with the applause following you down the tunnel, echoing against the walls, stretching longer than you thought it would, long enough to make your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.
Fans pressed in behind barriers, a tide of faces and outstretched hands and phones held aloft, all of them hungry for something tangible to take home, a wave or a smile or a fragment of you caught mid-breath.
You signed where you could, smiled when it felt natural, nodded when you didn’t quite trust your voice to behave properly. Journalists hovered at the edges, sharper, more deliberate, eyes scanning you for cracks, for emotion that might spill into something quotable.
“A few words about the match!” someone called. “What was going through your mind out there?” “How difficult was it?”
You thought, not for the first time that day, that it was a strange profession that demanded eloquence precisely when you were least capable of it.
Eventually, mercifully, you were ushered into a car, the door closing with a solid, blessedly ordinary thunk that shut the world out.
And by the time you reached the hotel, you felt oddly hollowed out, like the echo after a loud noise.
The lobby was still crowded but you moved through quickly, guided by someone who seemed to know exactly when to place a hand at your elbow and when to let you walk on your own.
At some point you became aware of how late it must be, not by checking your phone, which you hadn’t looked at in hours, but by the way your body had shifted into that peculiar end-of-night mode, heavy and slow and faintly unreal.
Your floor greeted you with soft carpet and dim lighting, the hallway stretching out in both directions and for a second, you thought you were imagining it.
The scene was almost identical to two nights ago.
He was there, in the hallway, only this time he wasn’t leaning against the wall, phone in hand, waiting. He was moving, rolling a suitcase beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder, keys dangling from his fingers.
Lando.
It took you a heartbeat to process it properly, your tired brain lagging behind the simple fact of him, here, now.
He spotted you at the same moment, his steps slowing, then stopping altogether. For a fraction of a second, you both just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the hallway.
“Hey,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Hey”
He gestured vaguely with the keys in his hand, then the suitcase, as if to explain himself before you could ask. “I’m, uh. I’m heading out. Gonna get back to Monaco tonight”
You nodded, a small, automatic movement, your gaze flicking briefly to the suitcase and back to his face. “Right”
There was a pause then, one of those delicate, hovering silences that seemed to swell rather than settle.
He shifted his weight, fingers tightening briefly around the handle of the suitcase. “I just won Silverstone.”
The way he said that, made it feel like he was out of breath.
“I know,” you said. “They just told me… was about to text you, congrats!”
His eyes lingered on you, searching your face for something, maybe that tensed confirmation, maybe shared disbelief.
Did he know?
Silence stretched again, comfortable this time, threaded with something almost giddy beneath the exhaustion.
Okay, Lando Log is out and I have quite literally been crying since the first second it started. Every time i think about Lando being World Champion it feels so unreal. Like??? He’s world champion!!!
It’s crazy to think about the journey he’s been through and i cannot be happier and prouder to have witnessed it all, since his silly streams back in 2020 up until now.
There’s something so emotional about seeing someone you’ve believed in for years finally reach the thing the world once told them was “not ready ,” “not yet,” or “maybe someday.” It hits so close to heart. 🫶🏼
Also what the hell, Yellow by Coldplay in the background? Are you crazy????? Be fucking serious.
summary: just life when you're a pro tennis player and your fuckbuddy is a formula 1 driver
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !!
word count: around 8k ( open for a possible part two)
➽───────────────❥
“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”
You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.
You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.
This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.
Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.
“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”
You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.
The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.
Just like that.
“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”
You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.
And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.
You tried not to look, you really did. But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.
And there he was.
Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.
You smirked. Of course he was here.
“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.
Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.
You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.
That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.
It had been after his Monaco win.
You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.
You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.
It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.
Except it didn’t.
Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.
You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.
Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.
Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?
It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.
And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.
The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.
It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.
You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.
But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.
Horrible.
You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.
Terrible.
“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”
From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.
You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.
Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.
Thwack.
The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.
Fucking finally.
“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”
You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.
By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.
You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.
“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.
As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.
“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”
You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.
When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.
Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.
Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.
It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.
And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.
And that was good.
Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.
And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.
What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.
“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.
“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”
His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.
“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.
“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”
“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”
That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.
“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”
You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”
That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.
“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.
You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.
“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”
You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.
“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.
You felt it.
The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.
And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.
Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.
By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.
And then your phone buzzed against the bench.
Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?
Five minutes. Almost on the dot.
There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.
You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.
With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.
Always neutral territory.
But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.
You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
Send the address.
Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.
Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.
The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.
Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.
This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.
By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.
You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.
Your manager’s name.
You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.
The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.
But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.
Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.
“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”
Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.
Or what?
They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.
You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.
And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.
You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.
You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.
So you did what you’d always done best.
You compartmentalized.
One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.
And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.
Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.
“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.
He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”
His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.
And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.
“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”
“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.
He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over
“How was training?”
“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “
His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”
You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”
“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”
“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.
“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”
You didn’t get the chance to respond.
He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.
Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.
Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.
But only for a moment.
Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.
Concrete results.
Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.
He felt it. Of course.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses
You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.
You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.
It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.
You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.
And yet.
Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.
With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.
Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.
“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.
But he felt it again, of course he did.
And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.
“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”
You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.
For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.
But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.
You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”
The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”
He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.
“How do you do it?”
He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”
You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”
That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.
“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”
You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”
You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”
The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”
He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”
You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”
For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”
“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”
You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”
You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.
“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”
You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”
“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”
He paused. Eyes locked in yours.
“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”
The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been waiting for that confirmation more than you had. “Good,” he said. “That’s what matters”
You lay back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly as you breathed in. “I just hate that sometimes,” you admitted, voice quieter now, “no matter how hard I work, my dreams still depend on someone else. On sponsors, contracts, decisions I don’t get to make.”
He nodded slowly, letting out.a small laugh “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours. “But I still think… at the end of the day, we’re more in charge of our destiny than it feels like.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Because when it finally happens, when you win that tournament, it won’t be just luck. It’ll be because you were ready when the moment showed up.”
You smiled then, small but genuine, and for the first time that night, it reached your eyes.
He was right.
You turned your head toward him, meaning to say something light or teasing to balance the weight of the moment, but the words never quite made it past your lips.
He was already watching you. His expression was soft, open in a way that felt almost intimate given how carefully you both usually avoided that territory, and for a second it struck you how rare it was to be looked at like that without expectation attached.
You lifted your hand and let your fingers settle against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again, as if he were taking his cue from you.
That was what you’d needed, you realized then. Not urgency. Not distraction. Not even sex, though it had crossed your mind more than once tonight.
What you’d needed were those few words, spoken without judgment or pressure, grounding you back into yourself when your thoughts had been threatening to scatter in every direction at once. They had soothed something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t known to ask for.
So you didn’t answer him.
You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slower and softer than before. This time it wasn’t about proving anything or trying to lose yourself in sensation. His hand came up to rest at your waist, warm and steady, and you felt him relax beneath your touch, meeting you there without question.
And finally, your mind was quiet.
The kiss shifted almost without you noticing, the softness giving way to something warmer, more insistent, as if the relief you’d been holding back finally found somewhere to go. His hand slid more securely at your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there, and you felt the familiar spark catch, the kind that always lived just under the surface between you, waiting for the slightest excuse.
For a moment, you were only aware of the heat of him, the quiet sounds between breaths, the way his thumb traced an unconscious arc against your side.
And then he pulled back.
Not abruptly, not coldly, just enough to look at you properly again, his forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” His eyes searched your face, not suspicious, just careful. “We can just… have dinner and Chill. Watch something stupid. Whatever you want.”
You smiled at that, softer than before but steadier, and lifted your hand to his jaw again, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m good. Really.” You met his gaze, letting him see it. “Head’s clear now. I promise.”
He studied you for a beat longer, then nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders as a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure?”
You didn’t give him time to overthink it, didn’t waste a second on words. You leaned in again, sealing his mouth with a brief, teasing kiss; tongue flicking once against his before you pulled away, letting your lips trail lower in a scorching path along the column of his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Yeah, positive.”
And with that, your hand dipped boldly between your bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his boxers to wrap around his cock; thick and velvet-hard, already leaking steadily from the tip as you gave him a firm, twisting stroke from root to crown, thumb smearing the pre-cum in a slick glide that had his hips jerking up into your grip
Lando half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound rumbling deep and breathless from his chest, a choked “Fuck—wow, my words did really inspire you, yeah?” spilling out in that cheeky British drawl, even as his free hand fisted the sheets, abs clenching under your other palm where it splayed across his stomach.
You laughed low against his skin, the vibration drawing another shudder from him. “They definetely did,” you murmured, nipping the hinge of his jaw, your grip slick and unrelenting to really show him you were okay, more than okay, finally here in the filthy rhythm of it.
You and Lando lay tangled on your sides, face to face in the rumpled sheets; breaths syncing in hot, ragged bursts as your fist pumped his cock with slick, twisting strokes that had him thrusting lazily into your grip.
His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you there while his other arm hooked under your thigh, hoisting your leg up high over his hip in one fluid, possessive yank, before he slotted his thick thigh between yours; the coarse hair and muscle grinding right up against your soaked folds with delicious pressure that made you whine into his kiss.
You got so utterly lost in it then, the world narrowing to the fllawless heat of his mouth devouring yours, tongues sliding sloppy and deep, teeth clashing, your hips rocking instinctively to hump his thigh, dragging your swollen clit over the rigid flex of it with every needy grind that smeared fresh arousal down his skin.
His free hand roamed everywhere: palming the heavy swell of your tits through your bra, rough fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed under the lace before hooking into the straps and yanking them down roughly.
The clasp snapped open with a quick twist at your back and he shoved the fabric aside to expose your bare breasts, kneading the soft flesh with greedy squeezes that had milked moans from your throat.
You were so consumed by the blaze of his touch that your hand faltered on his cock, strokes slowing to a distracted squeeze before falling away entirely, forgotten in the haze.
But he didn’t mind, not one fucking bit, didn’t even break rhythm, just growled low into your mouth before abandoning your lips to latch onto the frantic pulse at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise as his teeth scraped the tender skin.
With a shift of his hips, he rolled fully on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight in the best way: his cock trapped heavy and leaking between your bellies, twitching against your skin as his fingers quickly hooked into your panties, ripping them down your thighs in a frantic tear that left you fully bare and exposed, the ruined lace dangling from one ankle like a trophy before he kicked it off entirely.
“Fuck,” he rasped between kisses, lips dragging wet and stinging along your collarbone, nipping the swell of your breast before soothing with a broad lick, his hand now free to roam your naked curves, “It was fucking hot to see you train today,” he confessed.
“… was so hard not to follow you into the locker room and fuck you right there.”
Breathless, ragged laugh punched out of you at his confession, “What stopped you then?” you gasped out, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he continued to lavish your breasts with bruising kisses and rough, possessive squeezes.
At that, Lando pulled back just enough to look down at you, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed face. He let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. “Why?” he teased, “Would’ve you liked it? Would’ve liked the risk?” His thumb stroked the sharp bone of your hip, his gaze locking onto yours with playful intensity. “Hearing every footstep outside the door, knowing anyone could walk in and see me buried balls-deep in you?”
Oh, he was playing dirty.
He didn’t give you a chance to answer, didn’t wait for the breathy yes already forming on your swollen lips.
With a growl that was half-laugh, half-pure hunger, he lowered himself between your legs in one fluid, predatory slide, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart until you were spread wide open for him.
One hand remained latched possessively on your breast, kneading the soft flesh and pinching your nipple into a stiff, aching peak; the other hand released your hip to hook under your knee, spreading you even wider before his fingers laced tightly with yours, palm pressing your joined hands into the mattress.
And then he devoured you.
His mouth crashed onto your pussy with no preamble, no gentle exploration. His tongue speared deep inside you in one long, filthy lick from your soaked entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the gush of your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your most sensitive flesh.
“Fuck, your taste…” He ate you out like a man possessed: tongue fucking you in deep, rhythmic plunges before flattening to swirl broad, relentless circles around your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.
You cursed and moaned, a litany of broken fucks and oh gods spilling from your lips as your mind fractured, splintering far away from all the worries and the sponsor anxieties that had shadowed you when you first walked into his apartment.
Now there was only this: the searing heat of his mouth devouring your cunt, the rough, possessive grip of his hand still kneading your breast, the slick, filthy sounds of his tongue fucking deep into your dripping core before swirling with relentless precision over your swollen clit.
You were left fighting to control your breathing, to not explode too soon, but it’s a losing battle; every time he sucked your clit into the wet heat of his mouth, sent another violent tremor through your limbs, coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter in your belly until it’s a white-hot knot begging for release.
“Lan, I’m so close…” you barely whispered but then, when you came, it crashed over you with shocking force, your back arching off the bed as your pussy convulsed around his tongue, gushing fresh wetness that he drank down with greedy.
And through it all, you couldn’t stop smiling, a breathless, dazed grin spreading across your face even as tears pricked the corners of your eyes… because that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it?
This raw, uncomplicated hunger, this mutual understanding that stripped away everything else until it was just two bodies chasing the same fire. It was why you kept seeing each other, why you kept crashing into his orbit: for moments like this, where the world narrowed to sweat and skin and shared, shuddering release.
And with him, it was something else. Better and more intense than anything.
You stay like that for a few seconds, panting and smiling dopily at each other in the aftermath: him kneeling back on his heels between your splayed legs, his mouth and chin glistening with your spend, a smug, boyish grin lighting up his flushed face; you lying sprawled and boneless on the rumpled sheets, chest heaving as the last tremors subside.
And after a few moments, without a word, you just lazily rolled over onto your stomach, ass lifting in a deliberate, inviting arch as you buried your face in the pillows with a contented sigh, presenting yourself to him fully.
Lando let out a low, delighted laugh “Oh, just like that?” he teased.
His hands came down on your ass immediately, palms smoothing over the curves with a possessive squeeze before one lifted and came down in a sharp, playful smack that echoed in the quiet room.
"No 'please,' no 'fuck me, Lando'—just ass up, ready to go? Wonderful" he murmured against your shoulder blade, nipping the skin there before lining himself up at your entrance, the broad head nudging against your sensitive, swollen folds. "Now let's see if I can fuck all those other thoughts right out of you for good, yeah?”
summary: your boy is Formula One World Champion. How insane is that?
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M)
tw: smut +18, there's literally no plot im sorry
word count: around 4k
feedback is appreciated!! <3
hi besties!! i know it’s been a minute since i last posted, i’m sorry for disappearing like that 😭 life got in the way but i’m back now (kinda) , and i promise I’ll try to be better!!
also please be gentle with me because this is the first fic /OS i’ve written in months… i’m a little rusty 😅 so let me know what you think in the notes, okay??
and ummm… CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT LANDO NORRIS IS A WORLD CHAMPION???? like??? hello???? surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it
➽───────────────❥
On the carpet.
You hadn’t even made it ten steps past the door, before Lando’s mouth was on yours.
He didn’t even give you a second to think, let alone care about making it to the bed (or the shower, for that matter) or to process the fact that you honestly had no idea how you even made it back to the hotel room.
And it genuinely hit you only now.
What had just happened.
Now that the door was closed and the adrenaline was finally loosening its claws, you began to understand.
Lando’s hands were warm on your waist, his laugh still buzzing faintly against your lips, and for the first time, it truly sank in: you had watched him become world champion. You had stood there, helpless and breathless, witnessing that impossible, glittering moment unfold like something stolen from a dream too big for the world to hold.
Because the truth was that, when the chequered flag fell, when his name flashed next to the world champion title and the team erupted into a chaos of screams, sobs and papaya confetti, something inside you cracked open in a way you hadn’t anticipated; you felt your throat close, and your chest expand all at once.
This wasn’t just a victory, wasn’t just a title or statistic printed in history books, this was the culmination of years spent giving every piece of himself to a dream he had carried since he was a shy little boy in oversized karting gear. Years and years of heartbreak and setbacks, near-misses and doubts he only ever confessed to you in the dark, when he thought you were half-asleep and wouldn’t remember.
It was about a boy growing into a man who shaped his entire life around a dream that always felt almost out of reach.
And now, that one thing, that impossible, golden thing, was finally his.
His success didn’t just feel like his; it felt like yours too, woven delicately into the fabric of your shared life, into every bruise you soothed, every doubt you countered, every late-night whispered hope he dared to speak because you made the world feel safer for him.
And maybe that was why your heart felt too full now, why your whole body vibrated with warmth.
The celebrations had been a dream and they had swallowed the entire night, stretching from the second he stepped out of the FIA room to the moment you entered the exclusive Abu Dhabi club someone had reserved and booked for the occasion. And every single person around you decided that staying sober was not only unrealistic but also deeply offensive to the spirit of victory.
So you danced, wrapped around your man until your feet hurt, until sweat gathered at the base of your neck and your cheeks were sore from smiling. The team kept opening new bottles, each more unnecessary than the last, but no one cared because how could you possibly toast a childhood dream with moderation?
Now back at the hotel, hours later, at 7am in the morning, you weren’t drunk anymore. Not really, not to the point of slurred words or stumbling alone, but you were certainly far from sober; and Lando was no better, his pupils blown wide and wild with hours of celebration and disbelief, his breath warm with champagne and laughter every time he kissed you.
The stumble happened because you were both trying to walk, kiss and undress each other simultaneously, which, in hindsight, was probably a terrible plan considering the state you were in, but you didn’t begin to care.
And that's the reason why you couldn't reach the bed.
While falling, he made a sound, a delighted groan that vibrated against your lips, as he wrapped his arms around you, twisting mid-fall in this half-instinctive, half-ridiculous attempt to shield you from the impact.
It didn’t work. You still crashed onto the enormous ivory carpet in the center of the suite, bouncing once on its soft surface before settling in a disheveled tangle of limbs and stray pieces of clothing you’d somehow managed to shed along the way.
"Ooops, jeez!"
You lay there for a moment, chest heaving, hair in your mouth, dress bunched around your hips, leg thrown over his, your hand still gripping the collar of his champagne-stained shirt like you were afraid he might evaporate if you let go.
You were both laughing. So hard and loud your abs started to hurt at some point.
And it didn’t stop. Not even when he found your lips again. That’s why it turned out to be messy with teeth clicking, shared breaths that turned into sighs and chuckles vibrating on his tongue as it swept into your mouth.
His hands, which had been braced on the carpet on either side of your head, slid down. One cupped the side of your face, while the other went to your hip, fingers digging into the bunched fabric of your dress, dragging it downward in a slow, deliberate pull that felt less like undressing and more like claiming territory.
You helped, arching off the carpet just enough to let the silky material slide over your thighs, but you were distracted by his mouth leaving yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat. He lingered at the frantic pulse there, sucking gently, and you let out a shaky gasp, your fingers finally releasing their death-grip on his shirt collar to slide into his hair, curling into the soft, sweaty curls at the nape of his neck.
“Lando,” you breathed, and it wasn’t a protest, just a sound, a piece of him given voice.
“Mmm?” The vibration against your skin travelled straight down your spine.
He didn’t wait for an answer, his mouth continuing its descent, over your collarbone, to the lace-edged cup of your bra. He nuzzled against the fabric, breathing you in, before using his teeth to tug the delicate strap off your shoulder. “Fuck, you smell… fucking amazing”
You both didn't want to waste any time. Right there on the ground, on a wool carpet, was fine. More than fine, it was perfect.
He unhooked the clasp of your bra with a clumsy, fumbling twist of his fingers, a task made infinitely harder because he refused to lift his head from your chest. The fabric fell away, and his groan was raw as he repeated. “So fucking good.”
His mouth closed around your nipple without warning, wet and insistent, and you cried out, back bowing off the carpet instantly. The sensation was electric, amplified tenfold by the haze of alcohol still blurring the edges of reason, making the pleasure feel broader, deeper, less precise and more consuming.
He suckled hard at first, then eased his mouth into slow laps, teasing you with the very tip of his tongue. His other hand slid up to cup your remaining breast, thumb circling the tightened peak with deliberate pressure, until you were writhing beneath him, breath breaking into soft, urgent sounds you couldn’t hold back.
Between some desperate kisses, you wrestled with his shirt. It was already hanging open, but the damn thing was trapped under him, tangled in the arms he was using to hold himself up. You pushed at his shoulder, lips brushing his as you murmured, “Off… get this off…”
He broke away with a wet, obscene sound, sitting back on his heels to yank the white fabric over his shoulders in one impatient motion. It inevitably joined the growing pile on the carpet, and for a second, you just stared.
The suite was dim, lit only by the glow of dawn filtering through the sheer curtains, but it was enough to see the sleek lines of his torso, muscles defined from years of relentless and brutal training, now sheened with a light sweat. He looked utterly debauched, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and hungry as they raked over you, lying half-naked on the ivory wool.
And you were absolutely in love. Utterly and completely.
“ Eager? ” he teased, his hands going to the waistband of his black trousers. But you were already moving, pushing yourself up to kneel before him, knocking his hands away cause yeah, eager.
“Let me.”
Your fingers trembled as you worked the button fly, and he watched you, chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands settling on your bare hips, tracing lines on your skin as you pushed the expensive fabric down over his hips. He helped you then, kicking the trousers and his briefs away in one frantic motion, and then he was just… there. Naked. Hard, flushed and beautiful in the muted light, all lean muscle and intent.
Your world champion ready to fuck you on the hotel carpet.
How surreal.
The last of your clothing was dealt with in two rough and quick tugs, and then he fell back onto the ground, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling his hips, the coarse weave of the carpet biting into your knees, the heat of him pressing insistently against your core. The new position sent a fresh wave of dizziness through you, and you braced your hands on his chest, dropping your forehead to his.
“Wait,” you panted with a giggle, not because you wanted to stop, but because suddenly the world was tilting. “Just… gimme a sec. Head’s spinning.”
He stilled instantly, giggling as his hands come up to cradle your face. His thumbs smoothed over your temples. “Yeah, those tequila shots were a terrible idea, were they?”
“Your idea,” you mumbled with a smile, the words slurring together as you focused on the feel of his skin under your palms, the steady thump of his heart against your fingers. The spinning began to slow, condensing into a warm, pleasant hum in your veins, syncing with the ache between your thighs.
“It was worthy,” he giggled. Then, he shifted his hands from your face, sliding them down your back, tracing the dip of your spine until they settled firmly on your hips. His grip was possessive, grounding. “Better now?”
You nodded, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Yeah…I just…”
You didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it.
But then he was there, looking at you with those soft, slightly glassy puppy eyes, pupils blown, eyelashes wet from the shower of emotions he had been drowning in all night, and suddenly you couldn’t swallow the words anymore.
“I’m just …” you whispered, your fingers sliding up to frame his jaw the way he’d held yours moments earlier, your thumbs brushing gently over the spots where his helmet straps usually left faint marks. Your breath hitched, unexpectedly fragile. “I’m so unbelievably proud of you.”
His smile faltered, shifting into something tender, almost shy, like the compliment hit him somewhere he didn’t know how to protect.
“I know how much work and dedication you put into this” you continued, your voice thickening. “ And being by your side in this journey and watching you achieve it, it was... the greatest privilege of my life… I just—” You swallowed, leaning your forehead to his, letting your breath fan over his lips. “I love you so much”
His hands tightened on your waist, not rough, but sure. Certain.
“I love you too, baby,” he murmured, voice warm and full. “None of this would’ve been the same without you. You know that.”
He kissed you then, fiercely, like he needed the contact, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t fit into words. You kissed him back with everything you had until you were both breathless, the world spinning for a whole different reason.
You broke the kiss with a smile that trembled against his lips.
“Okay,” you said, trying to sound serious. “Now please, fuck me already.”
A sharp, delighted laugh burst from him, and he surged up to kiss you again, rolling you both over in a smooth motion that left him nestled between your thighs.
“You don’t have to say it twice!”
The weight of him was perfect, grounding. He reached down between your bodies, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a groan that was pure filth.
“Christ, you’re soaked,” he muttered, his words a hot puff against your neck as he positioned himself. “All this just from me kissing you on the floor?”
“Yeah, that…” you fired back, hooking your legs around his hips, digging your feet into the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. “…and the fact that you’re a Formula 1 World Champion!”
He dropped his forehead to yours, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged with awe. “It sounds so fucking good coming from you.”
He didn’t wait for you to answer. You didn't. need to. He kissed you, deep and consuming, and as his tongue swept into your mouth, he pushed slowly, inexorably inside.
Just like that.
The stretch was exquisite, a breathtaking fullness that made your eyes roll back. He sank into you with a low, continuous groan, burying himself to the hilt before stilling, both of you trembling with the shock of connection.
“Been thinking about this all night,” he confessed against your lips, his voice a raw scrape of sound. His hips gave a minute, involuntary rock, and you both moaned. “Every time I looked at you in that dress while some sponsor was yapping in my ear… all I could think was how badly I wanted it on the floor”
The fit was perfect, familiar and brand new all at once, stretched and filled in a way that made your toes curl against his calves. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling with the effort of going slow.
“Fuck,” you choked “Fuck, Lando… that’s… oh, god.”
What followed was not graceful. It was a glorious, sloppy, desperate tangle on an expensive carpet. The alcohol made your coordination falter; some thrusts would go slightly off-angle, forcing a breathless, giggling adjustment. Your kisses were more collisions than anything else, all tongue and teeth and shared, panting laughter. He’d try to speak, to murmur something dirty, and it would come out as a slurred, heartfelt jumble.
“You feel…, I can’t… fuck, sorry, I’m trying to say…”
“Shut up,” you gasped, pulling his mouth back to yours.
He obeyed, his rhythm building from a deep, rolling grind into something harder, faster. The carpet burned against your back, a sweet counterpoint to the friction building inside you. His mouth was everywhere: sucking bruises onto your breasts, licking a stripe up your sternum, returning to your lips to swallow your cries.
A part of your brain, the part not drowned in sensation, marvelled at the absurdity. The champagne flutes probably still sat on the minibar. His trophy was likely in a box by the door. And you were here, being ruined on a carpet that cost more than your first car, and it was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt.
Just as that thought crystallised, his hands shifted. They gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard, and in one fluid, shockingly strong motion, he flipped you.
The room spun again, and then you were suddenly straddling him again, his hands still locked on your hips, him buried so deep inside you that you could feel the imprint of him in your stomach. You gasped, bracing your hands on his chest, the new angle making you feel impossibly full, stretched to a breathtaking limit.
“C’mon, baby. Ride me and show me how much you love your World Champion.”
Jesus.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen, and he looked utterly wrecked, but entirely in command at the same time. What a dream.
So you tried. You rose up on trembling thighs, the muscles already burning from the strain of the party, and sank back down with a broken cry. The friction was exquisite, a slow, dragging fullness that made you see stars. But your legs were jelly, your breath coming in shallow, useless pants that inspired zero stamina.
“Lando…” you panted, dropping your forehead to his, your movement faltering into a weak, desperate grind. “… fuck, Lando, I can’t…”
His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping you firmly. “You’re doing so good, baby... just take it”
And then he took over. Holding you in place, he planted his feet on the ground and began to piston his hips upward, driving into you from beneath with sharp, powerful thrusts that stole the air from your lungs. Each one jolted through you, the force of it pushing you up only for his hands to drag you back down onto him, over and over, a relentless, pounding rhythm that had you crying out with each impact.
“You feel that?” he breathed against your lips, his thrusts becoming even harder, deeper, each one a deliberate claim. “Feel how deep I am? That’s where I belong, yeah? Right there”
His dirty talk, low and filthily specific, wound the coil inside you tighter. You clung to him, your arms looping around his neck, your mouth finding his in a series of messy, off-centre kisses, and you couldn't help but notice that he still tasted like champagne.
“Lando, please…”
“I know, I know… I got you,” he gritted out. One of his hands left your ass, snaking between your sweat-slicked bodies. His thumb found your clit again, now swollen and sensitive, and pressed down in firm, circular strokes perfectly timed with his upward drives.
It was the final key. The orgasm detonated, a silent, seismic event that ripped through you with violent intensity. Your body seized, back arching violently as a raw, shattered scream was torn from your throat. You clenched around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain, blinding and absolute.
“Yeah, there she is… my good girl” The sound of his voice, thick with awe and possession, seemed to pull another, deeper wave of pleasure from your core, prolonging the shattering climax until you were sobbing with the intensity of it.
With a final, guttural shout, he slammed up into you one last time, holding you down as he emptied himself deep inside, his own release shuddering through him in long, hot pulses.
You collapsed forward, a boneless, trembling weight on his chest. He held you there, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed possessively over the small of your back, keeping you flush against him even as he softened inside you. His lips moved against your temple, placing a kiss that was surprisingly tender amidst the wreckage. “You alright?” he murmured, his voice wrecked almost a whisper.
You managed a weak nod, your face still buried in the hollow of his neck. “Mmm. Never better.”
A low, breathless chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Liar. You look completely fucked out.” There was no small amount of pride in the observation.
“You completely fucked me out,” you corrected.
“Damn right I did.” The sheer, unapologetic arrogance of it made a laugh bubble up from your own spent core, a soft, shaky thing that he echoed, his shoulders shaking gently beneath you.
Still smiling, you tilted your head up and found his lips. It was a lazy, tender kiss, all soft pressure and warmth, a slow moment to take in after the chaos and the heat.
Then, the heat returned cause he broke the kiss just far enough to speak, and whispered “One more,” his voice still rough but threaded with a bright, giddy energy. “I’m too happy to sleep.”
“Lan!” you laughed against his mouth. “You’re insane, I can’t, my legs have retired.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem” he said, and there was a playful, determined glint in his eyes a second before he moved.
In one smooth, surprisingly strong roll, he had you on your back again on the carpet, his body settling over yours. He was still semi-hard inside you, the sensation a delicious, full reminder. You gasped at the movement, then sighed as he kissed you, deep and sweet, his tongue sweeping in a languid rhythm that promised everything his words did.
“See?” he murmured between kisses.
He rocked his hips once, a shallow, testing thrust that made you both sigh, before reluctantly slipping out of you. You watched, mesmerised by his movements, as he reached down and gave himself a few slow, firm strokes, his eyes locked on yours. The sight of him, tender and focused, bringing himself back to full hardness for you, sent a fresh, aching pulse of desire through your soreness.
Fuck, that was probably the hottest thing you’ve ever seen after seeing him on the podium last night.
Then he was ready, he guided himself back to your entrance, pressing in with an exquisite, gradual slowness that had you arching off the carpet. This time, there was no frantic race. He filled you inch by deliberate inch, until he was fully sheathed, and then he simply stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours.
“Okay?” he breathed.
“Yeah, perfect,” you whispered back.
He began to move then, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. Each withdrawal was a gentle pull, each thrust a homecoming. You wrapped your legs loosely around his waist, not to urge him on, but to hold him close. Your hands framed his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones as you kissed, long and deep and unhurried.
And then, the dirty talk returned. Cause he couldn’t help himself. Even tho, it was softer now, woven into the kisses and the shared breaths. “Love how you feel… so warm and tight for me…” “Never get enough of you…” “My girl taking me so well”
Each whispered word was a brand, a promise, a thread stitching you tighter together in the quiet dark. The only sounds apart from his words were the wet slide of him moving inside you and the broken music of your shared breaths: low moans and sighs, with occasional whispered curses that melted into kisses.
The pleasure was a live wire, sparking from the point where his thumb worked your clit straight down to where he filled you, thick and relentless. It was insane. Irrational. So good words could not explain.
You were overstimulated, exquisitely sensitive. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed, so that the drag of his cock, the press of his pubic bone against your clit, even the whisper of his chest against your peaked nipples, sent licks of electric fire straight to your core. It was almost too much, a sweet, torturous overload that had tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Lando…” you whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, not to push him away, but to pull him impossibly closer. “It’s… it’s so good...”
“I know, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice a low, vibrating hum. “I can feel you squeezing me”
His words, soft and filthy, fanned the flames. You were a live wire, every inch of your skin hypersensitive. The coarse carpet beneath your back, which had been an annoyance, now felt like a thousand points of sensation, and him… him inside you, filling you with this relentless, gentle pressure, was the center of the inferno.
And despite that, you felt like you couldn’t get close enough. Even with 90% of your body being directly in contact with his skin, he felt too far away. You wrapped your legs even higher around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, trying to fuse yourself to him. Your arms wound tightly around his neck, holding him so close your foreheads touched, your breaths mingling in the scant space between your mouths.
“More,” you pleaded “Please, I need...”
He understood. He always did. Instead of pulling back, he braced himself on his forearms, caging your head, and obeyed. He sank deeper, adjusting the angle of his hips so each slow, measured thrust pressed directly against that swollen, tender spot inside you that made you see stars. He dropped his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was all soothing tongue and soft lips, swallowing your gasp.
“God, yes… don’t stop” you choked out, your body beginning to tremble beneath him again, not with the sharp violence of your first climax, but with a rising, wave of sensation that was somehow more overwhelming.
He didn’t. He was lost in it, in you. His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming shallow, jerking things as his own release gathered. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, rocking into you with deep, grinding circles of his hips, each movement designed to worship that impossibly sensitive spot until you were trembling, tears of overstimulation leaking from the corners of your eyes.
This second orgasm didn’t crash; it unfolded. It began as a low, warm tremor in your belly, a pooling heat that spread outward in slow, concentric waves, like a shuddering release that had you crying out softly against his shoulder, your body clasping him in a series of gentle, endless flutters.
With a final, broken thrust, he spilled, a hot, claiming rush that seemed to go on forever, syncing with the last fading echoes of your own pleasure.
He collapsed on you then, a dead weight of utter satisfaction, but instinctively rolled, taking you with him so you were sprawled half on top of him, still intimately joined. His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together.
For a long time, there was only the sound of that heartbeat and your shared, gradually calming breath. The high, singing tension in your bodies had melted into a heavy, boneless warmth. You were both sticky, sore, and utterly content, a tangled knot of limbs on the now ruined carpet.
A faint shiver ran through you then, the adrenaline and sweat cooling on your skin in the room’s air-conditioned chill. He felt it immediately.
“You cold?” he murmured.
Before you could answer, he was moving. With a grunt of effort, he disentangled just enough to stretch one long arm toward the nearby sofa, fingers scrabbling until they hooked the edge of a small, cashmere throw blanket. He dragged it over, the motion awkward and comical, before draping it haphazardly over both of you.
You couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you, muffled against his chest. “We could have just gone to bed, you know.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he settled back, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders and tucking you firmly against his side. “Round three is on the bed”
summary: just life when you're a pro tennis player and your fuckbuddy is a formula 1 driver
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M) - Pro Tennis Player Reader - friends with benefits dynamics
tw: smut !!
word count: around 8k ( open for a possible part two)
➽───────────────❥
“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”
You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.
You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.
This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.
Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.
“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”
You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.
The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.
Just like that.
“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”
You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.
And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.
You tried not to look, you really did. But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.
And there he was.
Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.
You smirked. Of course he was here.
“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.
Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.
You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.
That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.
It had been after his Monaco win.
You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.
You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.
It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.
Except it didn’t.
Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.
You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.
Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.
Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?
It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.
And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.
The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.
It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.
You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.
But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.
Horrible.
You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.
Terrible.
“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”
From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.
You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.
Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.
Thwack.
The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.
Fucking finally.
“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”
You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.
By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.
You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.
“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.
As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.
“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”
You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.
When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.
Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.
Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.
It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.
And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.
And that was good.
Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.
And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.
What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.
“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.
“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”
His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.
“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.
“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”
“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”
That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.
“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”
You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”
That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.
“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.
You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.
“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”
You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.
“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.
You felt it.
The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.
And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.
Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.
By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.
And then your phone buzzed against the bench.
Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?
Five minutes. Almost on the dot.
There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.
You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.
With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.
Always neutral territory.
But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.
You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.
Send the address.
Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.
Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.
The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.
Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.
This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.
By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.
You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.
Your manager’s name.
You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.
The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.
But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.
Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.
“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”
Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.
Or what?
They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.
You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.
And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.
You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.
You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.
So you did what you’d always done best.
You compartmentalized.
One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.
And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.
Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.
“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.
He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”
His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.
And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.
“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”
“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.
He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over
“How was training?”
“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “
His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”
You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”
“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”
“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.
“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”
You didn’t get the chance to respond.
He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.
Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.
Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.
But only for a moment.
Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.
Concrete results.
Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.
He felt it. Of course.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses
You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”
It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.
You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.
It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.
You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.
And yet.
Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.
With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.
Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.
“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.
But he felt it again, of course he did.
And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.
“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”
You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.
For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.
But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.
You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”
The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”
He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.
You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.
“How do you do it?”
He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”
You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”
That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.
“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”
You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”
You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”
The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”
He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”
You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”
For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”
“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”
You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”
You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.
“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”
You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”
“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”
He paused. Eyes locked in yours.
“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”
The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been waiting for that confirmation more than you had. “Good,” he said. “That’s what matters”
You lay back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly as you breathed in. “I just hate that sometimes,” you admitted, voice quieter now, “no matter how hard I work, my dreams still depend on someone else. On sponsors, contracts, decisions I don’t get to make.”
He nodded slowly, letting out.a small laugh “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours. “But I still think… at the end of the day, we’re more in charge of our destiny than it feels like.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Because when it finally happens, when you win that tournament, it won’t be just luck. It’ll be because you were ready when the moment showed up.”
You smiled then, small but genuine, and for the first time that night, it reached your eyes.
He was right.
You turned your head toward him, meaning to say something light or teasing to balance the weight of the moment, but the words never quite made it past your lips.
He was already watching you. His expression was soft, open in a way that felt almost intimate given how carefully you both usually avoided that territory, and for a second it struck you how rare it was to be looked at like that without expectation attached.
You lifted your hand and let your fingers settle against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again, as if he were taking his cue from you.
That was what you’d needed, you realized then. Not urgency. Not distraction. Not even sex, though it had crossed your mind more than once tonight.
What you’d needed were those few words, spoken without judgment or pressure, grounding you back into yourself when your thoughts had been threatening to scatter in every direction at once. They had soothed something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t known to ask for.
So you didn’t answer him.
You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slower and softer than before. This time it wasn’t about proving anything or trying to lose yourself in sensation. His hand came up to rest at your waist, warm and steady, and you felt him relax beneath your touch, meeting you there without question.
And finally, your mind was quiet.
The kiss shifted almost without you noticing, the softness giving way to something warmer, more insistent, as if the relief you’d been holding back finally found somewhere to go. His hand slid more securely at your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there, and you felt the familiar spark catch, the kind that always lived just under the surface between you, waiting for the slightest excuse.
For a moment, you were only aware of the heat of him, the quiet sounds between breaths, the way his thumb traced an unconscious arc against your side.
And then he pulled back.
Not abruptly, not coldly, just enough to look at you properly again, his forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Hey,” he murmured. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” His eyes searched your face, not suspicious, just careful. “We can just… have dinner and Chill. Watch something stupid. Whatever you want.”
You smiled at that, softer than before but steadier, and lifted your hand to his jaw again, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m good. Really.” You met his gaze, letting him see it. “Head’s clear now. I promise.”
He studied you for a beat longer, then nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders as a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure?”
You didn’t give him time to overthink it, didn’t waste a second on words. You leaned in again, sealing his mouth with a brief, teasing kiss; tongue flicking once against his before you pulled away, letting your lips trail lower in a scorching path along the column of his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Yeah, positive.”
And with that, your hand dipped boldly between your bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his boxers to wrap around his cock; thick and velvet-hard, already leaking steadily from the tip as you gave him a firm, twisting stroke from root to crown, thumb smearing the pre-cum in a slick glide that had his hips jerking up into your grip
Lando half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound rumbling deep and breathless from his chest, a choked “Fuck—wow, my words did really inspire you, yeah?” spilling out in that cheeky British drawl, even as his free hand fisted the sheets, abs clenching under your other palm where it splayed across his stomach.
You laughed low against his skin, the vibration drawing another shudder from him. “They definetely did,” you murmured, nipping the hinge of his jaw, your grip slick and unrelenting to really show him you were okay, more than okay, finally here in the filthy rhythm of it.
You and Lando lay tangled on your sides, face to face in the rumpled sheets; breaths syncing in hot, ragged bursts as your fist pumped his cock with slick, twisting strokes that had him thrusting lazily into your grip.
His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you there while his other arm hooked under your thigh, hoisting your leg up high over his hip in one fluid, possessive yank, before he slotted his thick thigh between yours; the coarse hair and muscle grinding right up against your soaked folds with delicious pressure that made you whine into his kiss.
You got so utterly lost in it then, the world narrowing to the fllawless heat of his mouth devouring yours, tongues sliding sloppy and deep, teeth clashing, your hips rocking instinctively to hump his thigh, dragging your swollen clit over the rigid flex of it with every needy grind that smeared fresh arousal down his skin.
His free hand roamed everywhere: palming the heavy swell of your tits through your bra, rough fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed under the lace before hooking into the straps and yanking them down roughly.
The clasp snapped open with a quick twist at your back and he shoved the fabric aside to expose your bare breasts, kneading the soft flesh with greedy squeezes that had milked moans from your throat.
You were so consumed by the blaze of his touch that your hand faltered on his cock, strokes slowing to a distracted squeeze before falling away entirely, forgotten in the haze.
But he didn’t mind, not one fucking bit, didn’t even break rhythm, just growled low into your mouth before abandoning your lips to latch onto the frantic pulse at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise as his teeth scraped the tender skin.
With a shift of his hips, he rolled fully on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight in the best way: his cock trapped heavy and leaking between your bellies, twitching against your skin as his fingers quickly hooked into your panties, ripping them down your thighs in a frantic tear that left you fully bare and exposed, the ruined lace dangling from one ankle like a trophy before he kicked it off entirely.
“Fuck,” he rasped between kisses, lips dragging wet and stinging along your collarbone, nipping the swell of your breast before soothing with a broad lick, his hand now free to roam your naked curves, “It was fucking hot to see you train today,” he confessed.
“… was so hard not to follow you into the locker room and fuck you right there.”
Breathless, ragged laugh punched out of you at his confession, “What stopped you then?” you gasped out, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he continued to lavish your breasts with bruising kisses and rough, possessive squeezes.
At that, Lando pulled back just enough to look down at you, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed face. He let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. “Why?” he teased, “Would’ve you liked it? Would’ve liked the risk?” His thumb stroked the sharp bone of your hip, his gaze locking onto yours with playful intensity. “Hearing every footstep outside the door, knowing anyone could walk in and see me buried balls-deep in you?”
Oh, he was playing dirty.
He didn’t give you a chance to answer, didn’t wait for the breathy yes already forming on your swollen lips.
With a growl that was half-laugh, half-pure hunger, he lowered himself between your legs in one fluid, predatory slide, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart until you were spread wide open for him.
One hand remained latched possessively on your breast, kneading the soft flesh and pinching your nipple into a stiff, aching peak; the other hand released your hip to hook under your knee, spreading you even wider before his fingers laced tightly with yours, palm pressing your joined hands into the mattress.
And then he devoured you.
His mouth crashed onto your pussy with no preamble, no gentle exploration. His tongue speared deep inside you in one long, filthy lick from your soaked entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the gush of your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your most sensitive flesh.
“Fuck, your taste…” He ate you out like a man possessed: tongue fucking you in deep, rhythmic plunges before flattening to swirl broad, relentless circles around your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.
You cursed and moaned, a litany of broken fucks and oh gods spilling from your lips as your mind fractured, splintering far away from all the worries and the sponsor anxieties that had shadowed you when you first walked into his apartment.
Now there was only this: the searing heat of his mouth devouring your cunt, the rough, possessive grip of his hand still kneading your breast, the slick, filthy sounds of his tongue fucking deep into your dripping core before swirling with relentless precision over your swollen clit.
You were left fighting to control your breathing, to not explode too soon, but it’s a losing battle; every time he sucked your clit into the wet heat of his mouth, sent another violent tremor through your limbs, coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter in your belly until it’s a white-hot knot begging for release.
“Lan, I’m so close…” you barely whispered but then, when you came, it crashed over you with shocking force, your back arching off the bed as your pussy convulsed around his tongue, gushing fresh wetness that he drank down with greedy.
And through it all, you couldn’t stop smiling, a breathless, dazed grin spreading across your face even as tears pricked the corners of your eyes… because that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it?
This raw, uncomplicated hunger, this mutual understanding that stripped away everything else until it was just two bodies chasing the same fire. It was why you kept seeing each other, why you kept crashing into his orbit: for moments like this, where the world narrowed to sweat and skin and shared, shuddering release.
And with him, it was something else. Better and more intense than anything.
You stay like that for a few seconds, panting and smiling dopily at each other in the aftermath: him kneeling back on his heels between your splayed legs, his mouth and chin glistening with your spend, a smug, boyish grin lighting up his flushed face; you lying sprawled and boneless on the rumpled sheets, chest heaving as the last tremors subside.
And after a few moments, without a word, you just lazily rolled over onto your stomach, ass lifting in a deliberate, inviting arch as you buried your face in the pillows with a contented sigh, presenting yourself to him fully.
Lando let out a low, delighted laugh “Oh, just like that?” he teased.
His hands came down on your ass immediately, palms smoothing over the curves with a possessive squeeze before one lifted and came down in a sharp, playful smack that echoed in the quiet room.
"No 'please,' no 'fuck me, Lando'—just ass up, ready to go? Wonderful" he murmured against your shoulder blade, nipping the skin there before lining himself up at your entrance, the broad head nudging against your sensitive, swollen folds. "Now let's see if I can fuck all those other thoughts right out of you for good, yeah?”
btw shout out to lando norris for reminding me that the best way to succeed and achieve your goals is to keep being yourself no matter what and doing things your own way rather than pretending to be someone youre not
The beautiful, the amazing, the showstopping, the wonderful, the gorgeous, the spectacular, the brilliant, the glamorous, the magnificent, the breathtaking, the ravishing, the outstanding, the stunning, the angelic, the endearing, the marvelous, the pulchritudinous, the radiant, the divine F1 World Champion: Lando Norris.
summary: your boy is Formula One World Champion. How insane is that?
➽───────────────❥
pairing: lando x afab reader (F/M)
tw: smut +18, there's literally no plot im sorry
word count: around 4k
feedback is appreciated!! <3
hi besties!! i know it’s been a minute since i last posted, i’m sorry for disappearing like that 😭 life got in the way but i’m back now (kinda) , and i promise I’ll try to be better!!
also please be gentle with me because this is the first fic /OS i’ve written in months… i’m a little rusty 😅 so let me know what you think in the notes, okay??
and ummm… CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE FACT THAT LANDO NORRIS IS A WORLD CHAMPION???? like??? hello???? surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it
➽───────────────❥
On the carpet.
You hadn’t even made it ten steps past the door, before Lando’s mouth was on yours.
He didn’t even give you a second to think, let alone care about making it to the bed (or the shower, for that matter) or to process the fact that you honestly had no idea how you even made it back to the hotel room.
And it genuinely hit you only now.
What had just happened.
Now that the door was closed and the adrenaline was finally loosening its claws, you began to understand.
Lando’s hands were warm on your waist, his laugh still buzzing faintly against your lips, and for the first time, it truly sank in: you had watched him become world champion. You had stood there, helpless and breathless, witnessing that impossible, glittering moment unfold like something stolen from a dream too big for the world to hold.
Because the truth was that, when the chequered flag fell, when his name flashed next to the world champion title and the team erupted into a chaos of screams, sobs and papaya confetti, something inside you cracked open in a way you hadn’t anticipated; you felt your throat close, and your chest expand all at once.
This wasn’t just a victory, wasn’t just a title or statistic printed in history books, this was the culmination of years spent giving every piece of himself to a dream he had carried since he was a shy little boy in oversized karting gear. Years and years of heartbreak and setbacks, near-misses and doubts he only ever confessed to you in the dark, when he thought you were half-asleep and wouldn’t remember.
It was about a boy growing into a man who shaped his entire life around a dream that always felt almost out of reach.
And now, that one thing, that impossible, golden thing, was finally his.
His success didn’t just feel like his; it felt like yours too, woven delicately into the fabric of your shared life, into every bruise you soothed, every doubt you countered, every late-night whispered hope he dared to speak because you made the world feel safer for him.
And maybe that was why your heart felt too full now, why your whole body vibrated with warmth.
The celebrations had been a dream and they had swallowed the entire night, stretching from the second he stepped out of the FIA room to the moment you entered the exclusive Abu Dhabi club someone had reserved and booked for the occasion. And every single person around you decided that staying sober was not only unrealistic but also deeply offensive to the spirit of victory.
So you danced, wrapped around your man until your feet hurt, until sweat gathered at the base of your neck and your cheeks were sore from smiling. The team kept opening new bottles, each more unnecessary than the last, but no one cared because how could you possibly toast a childhood dream with moderation?
Now back at the hotel, hours later, at 7am in the morning, you weren’t drunk anymore. Not really, not to the point of slurred words or stumbling alone, but you were certainly far from sober; and Lando was no better, his pupils blown wide and wild with hours of celebration and disbelief, his breath warm with champagne and laughter every time he kissed you.
The stumble happened because you were both trying to walk, kiss and undress each other simultaneously, which, in hindsight, was probably a terrible plan considering the state you were in, but you didn’t begin to care.
And that's the reason why you couldn't reach the bed.
While falling, he made a sound, a delighted groan that vibrated against your lips, as he wrapped his arms around you, twisting mid-fall in this half-instinctive, half-ridiculous attempt to shield you from the impact.
It didn’t work. You still crashed onto the enormous ivory carpet in the center of the suite, bouncing once on its soft surface before settling in a disheveled tangle of limbs and stray pieces of clothing you’d somehow managed to shed along the way.
"Ooops, jeez!"
You lay there for a moment, chest heaving, hair in your mouth, dress bunched around your hips, leg thrown over his, your hand still gripping the collar of his champagne-stained shirt like you were afraid he might evaporate if you let go.
You were both laughing. So hard and loud your abs started to hurt at some point.
And it didn’t stop. Not even when he found your lips again. That’s why it turned out to be messy with teeth clicking, shared breaths that turned into sighs and chuckles vibrating on his tongue as it swept into your mouth.
His hands, which had been braced on the carpet on either side of your head, slid down. One cupped the side of your face, while the other went to your hip, fingers digging into the bunched fabric of your dress, dragging it downward in a slow, deliberate pull that felt less like undressing and more like claiming territory.
You helped, arching off the carpet just enough to let the silky material slide over your thighs, but you were distracted by his mouth leaving yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat. He lingered at the frantic pulse there, sucking gently, and you let out a shaky gasp, your fingers finally releasing their death-grip on his shirt collar to slide into his hair, curling into the soft, sweaty curls at the nape of his neck.
“Lando,” you breathed, and it wasn’t a protest, just a sound, a piece of him given voice.
“Mmm?” The vibration against your skin travelled straight down your spine.
He didn’t wait for an answer, his mouth continuing its descent, over your collarbone, to the lace-edged cup of your bra. He nuzzled against the fabric, breathing you in, before using his teeth to tug the delicate strap off your shoulder. “Fuck, you smell… fucking amazing”
You both didn't want to waste any time. Right there on the ground, on a wool carpet, was fine. More than fine, it was perfect.
He unhooked the clasp of your bra with a clumsy, fumbling twist of his fingers, a task made infinitely harder because he refused to lift his head from your chest. The fabric fell away, and his groan was raw as he repeated. “So fucking good.”
His mouth closed around your nipple without warning, wet and insistent, and you cried out, back bowing off the carpet instantly. The sensation was electric, amplified tenfold by the haze of alcohol still blurring the edges of reason, making the pleasure feel broader, deeper, less precise and more consuming.
He suckled hard at first, then eased his mouth into slow laps, teasing you with the very tip of his tongue. His other hand slid up to cup your remaining breast, thumb circling the tightened peak with deliberate pressure, until you were writhing beneath him, breath breaking into soft, urgent sounds you couldn’t hold back.
Between some desperate kisses, you wrestled with his shirt. It was already hanging open, but the damn thing was trapped under him, tangled in the arms he was using to hold himself up. You pushed at his shoulder, lips brushing his as you murmured, “Off… get this off…”
He broke away with a wet, obscene sound, sitting back on his heels to yank the white fabric over his shoulders in one impatient motion. It inevitably joined the growing pile on the carpet, and for a second, you just stared.
The suite was dim, lit only by the glow of dawn filtering through the sheer curtains, but it was enough to see the sleek lines of his torso, muscles defined from years of relentless and brutal training, now sheened with a light sweat. He looked utterly debauched, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and hungry as they raked over you, lying half-naked on the ivory wool.
And you were absolutely in love. Utterly and completely.
“ Eager? ” he teased, his hands going to the waistband of his black trousers. But you were already moving, pushing yourself up to kneel before him, knocking his hands away cause yeah, eager.
“Let me.”
Your fingers trembled as you worked the button fly, and he watched you, chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands settling on your bare hips, tracing lines on your skin as you pushed the expensive fabric down over his hips. He helped you then, kicking the trousers and his briefs away in one frantic motion, and then he was just… there. Naked. Hard, flushed and beautiful in the muted light, all lean muscle and intent.
Your world champion ready to fuck you on the hotel carpet.
How surreal.
The last of your clothing was dealt with in two rough and quick tugs, and then he fell back onto the ground, pulling you on top of him so you were straddling his hips, the coarse weave of the carpet biting into your knees, the heat of him pressing insistently against your core. The new position sent a fresh wave of dizziness through you, and you braced your hands on his chest, dropping your forehead to his.
“Wait,” you panted with a giggle, not because you wanted to stop, but because suddenly the world was tilting. “Just… gimme a sec. Head’s spinning.”
He stilled instantly, giggling as his hands come up to cradle your face. His thumbs smoothed over your temples. “Yeah, those tequila shots were a terrible idea, were they?”
“Your idea,” you mumbled with a smile, the words slurring together as you focused on the feel of his skin under your palms, the steady thump of his heart against your fingers. The spinning began to slow, condensing into a warm, pleasant hum in your veins, syncing with the ache between your thighs.
“It was worthy,” he giggled. Then, he shifted his hands from your face, sliding them down your back, tracing the dip of your spine until they settled firmly on your hips. His grip was possessive, grounding. “Better now?”
You nodded, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Yeah…I just…”
You didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it.
But then he was there, looking at you with those soft, slightly glassy puppy eyes, pupils blown, eyelashes wet from the shower of emotions he had been drowning in all night, and suddenly you couldn’t swallow the words anymore.
“I’m just …” you whispered, your fingers sliding up to frame his jaw the way he’d held yours moments earlier, your thumbs brushing gently over the spots where his helmet straps usually left faint marks. Your breath hitched, unexpectedly fragile. “I’m so unbelievably proud of you.”
His smile faltered, shifting into something tender, almost shy, like the compliment hit him somewhere he didn’t know how to protect.
“I know how much work and dedication you put into this” you continued, your voice thickening. “ And being by your side in this journey and watching you achieve it, it was... the greatest privilege of my life… I just—” You swallowed, leaning your forehead to his, letting your breath fan over his lips. “I love you so much”
His hands tightened on your waist, not rough, but sure. Certain.
“I love you too, baby,” he murmured, voice warm and full. “None of this would’ve been the same without you. You know that.”
He kissed you then, fiercely, like he needed the contact, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t fit into words. You kissed him back with everything you had until you were both breathless, the world spinning for a whole different reason.
You broke the kiss with a smile that trembled against his lips.
“Okay,” you said, trying to sound serious. “Now please, fuck me already.”
A sharp, delighted laugh burst from him, and he surged up to kiss you again, rolling you both over in a smooth motion that left him nestled between your thighs.
“You don’t have to say it twice!”
The weight of him was perfect, grounding. He reached down between your bodies, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a groan that was pure filth.
“Christ, you’re soaked,” he muttered, his words a hot puff against your neck as he positioned himself. “All this just from me kissing you on the floor?”
“Yeah, that…” you fired back, hooking your legs around his hips, digging your feet into the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. “…and the fact that you’re a Formula 1 World Champion!”
He dropped his forehead to yours, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word ragged with awe. “It sounds so fucking good coming from you.”
He didn’t wait for you to answer. You didn't. need to. He kissed you, deep and consuming, and as his tongue swept into your mouth, he pushed slowly, inexorably inside.
Just like that.
The stretch was exquisite, a breathtaking fullness that made your eyes roll back. He sank into you with a low, continuous groan, burying himself to the hilt before stilling, both of you trembling with the shock of connection.
“Been thinking about this all night,” he confessed against your lips, his voice a raw scrape of sound. His hips gave a minute, involuntary rock, and you both moaned. “Every time I looked at you in that dress while some sponsor was yapping in my ear… all I could think was how badly I wanted it on the floor”
The fit was perfect, familiar and brand new all at once, stretched and filled in a way that made your toes curl against his calves. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling with the effort of going slow.
“Fuck,” you choked “Fuck, Lando… that’s… oh, god.”
What followed was not graceful. It was a glorious, sloppy, desperate tangle on an expensive carpet. The alcohol made your coordination falter; some thrusts would go slightly off-angle, forcing a breathless, giggling adjustment. Your kisses were more collisions than anything else, all tongue and teeth and shared, panting laughter. He’d try to speak, to murmur something dirty, and it would come out as a slurred, heartfelt jumble.
“You feel…, I can’t… fuck, sorry, I’m trying to say…”
“Shut up,” you gasped, pulling his mouth back to yours.
He obeyed, his rhythm building from a deep, rolling grind into something harder, faster. The carpet burned against your back, a sweet counterpoint to the friction building inside you. His mouth was everywhere: sucking bruises onto your breasts, licking a stripe up your sternum, returning to your lips to swallow your cries.
A part of your brain, the part not drowned in sensation, marvelled at the absurdity. The champagne flutes probably still sat on the minibar. His trophy was likely in a box by the door. And you were here, being ruined on a carpet that cost more than your first car, and it was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt.
Just as that thought crystallised, his hands shifted. They gripped your hips, fingers digging in hard, and in one fluid, shockingly strong motion, he flipped you.
The room spun again, and then you were suddenly straddling him again, his hands still locked on your hips, him buried so deep inside you that you could feel the imprint of him in your stomach. You gasped, bracing your hands on his chest, the new angle making you feel impossibly full, stretched to a breathtaking limit.
“C’mon, baby. Ride me and show me how much you love your World Champion.”
Jesus.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen, and he looked utterly wrecked, but entirely in command at the same time. What a dream.
So you tried. You rose up on trembling thighs, the muscles already burning from the strain of the party, and sank back down with a broken cry. The friction was exquisite, a slow, dragging fullness that made you see stars. But your legs were jelly, your breath coming in shallow, useless pants that inspired zero stamina.
“Lando…” you panted, dropping your forehead to his, your movement faltering into a weak, desperate grind. “… fuck, Lando, I can’t…”
His hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping you firmly. “You’re doing so good, baby... just take it”
And then he took over. Holding you in place, he planted his feet on the ground and began to piston his hips upward, driving into you from beneath with sharp, powerful thrusts that stole the air from your lungs. Each one jolted through you, the force of it pushing you up only for his hands to drag you back down onto him, over and over, a relentless, pounding rhythm that had you crying out with each impact.
“You feel that?” he breathed against your lips, his thrusts becoming even harder, deeper, each one a deliberate claim. “Feel how deep I am? That’s where I belong, yeah? Right there”
His dirty talk, low and filthily specific, wound the coil inside you tighter. You clung to him, your arms looping around his neck, your mouth finding his in a series of messy, off-centre kisses, and you couldn't help but notice that he still tasted like champagne.
“Lando, please…”
“I know, I know… I got you,” he gritted out. One of his hands left your ass, snaking between your sweat-slicked bodies. His thumb found your clit again, now swollen and sensitive, and pressed down in firm, circular strokes perfectly timed with his upward drives.
It was the final key. The orgasm detonated, a silent, seismic event that ripped through you with violent intensity. Your body seized, back arching violently as a raw, shattered scream was torn from your throat. You clenched around him in rhythmic, pulsing waves, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain, blinding and absolute.
“Yeah, there she is… my good girl” The sound of his voice, thick with awe and possession, seemed to pull another, deeper wave of pleasure from your core, prolonging the shattering climax until you were sobbing with the intensity of it.
With a final, guttural shout, he slammed up into you one last time, holding you down as he emptied himself deep inside, his own release shuddering through him in long, hot pulses.
You collapsed forward, a boneless, trembling weight on his chest. He held you there, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed possessively over the small of your back, keeping you flush against him even as he softened inside you. His lips moved against your temple, placing a kiss that was surprisingly tender amidst the wreckage. “You alright?” he murmured, his voice wrecked almost a whisper.
You managed a weak nod, your face still buried in the hollow of his neck. “Mmm. Never better.”
A low, breathless chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Liar. You look completely fucked out.” There was no small amount of pride in the observation.
“You completely fucked me out,” you corrected.
“Damn right I did.” The sheer, unapologetic arrogance of it made a laugh bubble up from your own spent core, a soft, shaky thing that he echoed, his shoulders shaking gently beneath you.
Still smiling, you tilted your head up and found his lips. It was a lazy, tender kiss, all soft pressure and warmth, a slow moment to take in after the chaos and the heat.
Then, the heat returned cause he broke the kiss just far enough to speak, and whispered “One more,” his voice still rough but threaded with a bright, giddy energy. “I’m too happy to sleep.”
“Lan!” you laughed against his mouth. “You’re insane, I can’t, my legs have retired.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem” he said, and there was a playful, determined glint in his eyes a second before he moved.
In one smooth, surprisingly strong roll, he had you on your back again on the carpet, his body settling over yours. He was still semi-hard inside you, the sensation a delicious, full reminder. You gasped at the movement, then sighed as he kissed you, deep and sweet, his tongue sweeping in a languid rhythm that promised everything his words did.
“See?” he murmured between kisses.
He rocked his hips once, a shallow, testing thrust that made you both sigh, before reluctantly slipping out of you. You watched, mesmerised by his movements, as he reached down and gave himself a few slow, firm strokes, his eyes locked on yours. The sight of him, tender and focused, bringing himself back to full hardness for you, sent a fresh, aching pulse of desire through your soreness.
Fuck, that was probably the hottest thing you’ve ever seen after seeing him on the podium last night.
Then he was ready, he guided himself back to your entrance, pressing in with an exquisite, gradual slowness that had you arching off the carpet. This time, there was no frantic race. He filled you inch by deliberate inch, until he was fully sheathed, and then he simply stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours.
“Okay?” he breathed.
“Yeah, perfect,” you whispered back.
He began to move then, a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that was less about friction and more about connection. Each withdrawal was a gentle pull, each thrust a homecoming. You wrapped your legs loosely around his waist, not to urge him on, but to hold him close. Your hands framed his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones as you kissed, long and deep and unhurried.
And then, the dirty talk returned. Cause he couldn’t help himself. Even tho, it was softer now, woven into the kisses and the shared breaths. “Love how you feel… so warm and tight for me…” “Never get enough of you…” “My girl taking me so well”
Each whispered word was a brand, a promise, a thread stitching you tighter together in the quiet dark. The only sounds apart from his words were the wet slide of him moving inside you and the broken music of your shared breaths: low moans and sighs, with occasional whispered curses that melted into kisses.
The pleasure was a live wire, sparking from the point where his thumb worked your clit straight down to where he filled you, thick and relentless. It was insane. Irrational. So good words could not explain.
You were overstimulated, exquisitely sensitive. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed, so that the drag of his cock, the press of his pubic bone against your clit, even the whisper of his chest against your peaked nipples, sent licks of electric fire straight to your core. It was almost too much, a sweet, torturous overload that had tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“Lando…” you whimpered, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, not to push him away, but to pull him impossibly closer. “It’s… it’s so good...”
“I know, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice a low, vibrating hum. “I can feel you squeezing me”
His words, soft and filthy, fanned the flames. You were a live wire, every inch of your skin hypersensitive. The coarse carpet beneath your back, which had been an annoyance, now felt like a thousand points of sensation, and him… him inside you, filling you with this relentless, gentle pressure, was the center of the inferno.
And despite that, you felt like you couldn’t get close enough. Even with 90% of your body being directly in contact with his skin, he felt too far away. You wrapped your legs even higher around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, trying to fuse yourself to him. Your arms wound tightly around his neck, holding him so close your foreheads touched, your breaths mingling in the scant space between your mouths.
“More,” you pleaded “Please, I need...”
He understood. He always did. Instead of pulling back, he braced himself on his forearms, caging your head, and obeyed. He sank deeper, adjusting the angle of his hips so each slow, measured thrust pressed directly against that swollen, tender spot inside you that made you see stars. He dropped his head, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was all soothing tongue and soft lips, swallowing your gasp.
“God, yes… don’t stop” you choked out, your body beginning to tremble beneath him again, not with the sharp violence of your first climax, but with a rising, wave of sensation that was somehow more overwhelming.
He didn’t. He was lost in it, in you. His rhythm faltered, his thrusts becoming shallow, jerking things as his own release gathered. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, rocking into you with deep, grinding circles of his hips, each movement designed to worship that impossibly sensitive spot until you were trembling, tears of overstimulation leaking from the corners of your eyes.
This second orgasm didn’t crash; it unfolded. It began as a low, warm tremor in your belly, a pooling heat that spread outward in slow, concentric waves, like a shuddering release that had you crying out softly against his shoulder, your body clasping him in a series of gentle, endless flutters.
With a final, broken thrust, he spilled, a hot, claiming rush that seemed to go on forever, syncing with the last fading echoes of your own pleasure.
He collapsed on you then, a dead weight of utter satisfaction, but instinctively rolled, taking you with him so you were sprawled half on top of him, still intimately joined. His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together.
For a long time, there was only the sound of that heartbeat and your shared, gradually calming breath. The high, singing tension in your bodies had melted into a heavy, boneless warmth. You were both sticky, sore, and utterly content, a tangled knot of limbs on the now ruined carpet.
A faint shiver ran through you then, the adrenaline and sweat cooling on your skin in the room’s air-conditioned chill. He felt it immediately.
“You cold?” he murmured.
Before you could answer, he was moving. With a grunt of effort, he disentangled just enough to stretch one long arm toward the nearby sofa, fingers scrabbling until they hooked the edge of a small, cashmere throw blanket. He dragged it over, the motion awkward and comical, before draping it haphazardly over both of you.
You couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you, muffled against his chest. “We could have just gone to bed, you know.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he settled back, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders and tucking you firmly against his side. “Round three is on the bed”
In 2020, during Covid, you’ll be randomly watching a Twitch Stream while the F1 season was suspended, and there will be this one lad who will make you laugh more than anyone else.
No flash warning? I have epilepsy and my legs are shaking and spreading. Raw next question. I have NOTHING appropriate to say. Who has my clothes? Both lips smiled. Born to ride forced to scroll. FLASH US. This made my whole week. Sorry, I meant hole weak.
Tonight i’ll give you something to remember, an eternity impossible to measure
“Baby i’m home!”
It wasn’t that late when you came home that night. The apartment was warm, dimly lit with the familiar orange hue from the streetlamps bleeding through the sheer curtains.
You dropped your suitcase at the door, kicking it aside with a tired sigh. The week had been long, a blur of airports, hotels, panel talks, and forced smiles for endless photos. Your heels had dug into the back of your ankles all day, your outfit still clung to you from the humidity of the weather, and all you wanted was to collapse into your own bed. Or more accurately, into Lando’s arms.
And thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.
“Hey, love.”
His voice floated in from the kitchen, and it made your chest flutter just hearing it again in person. Then he appeared, barefoot in grey sweatpants and one of his old McLaren hoodies, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was messily pushed back, still damp from a shower, and his boyish grin bloomed across his face when he saw you.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, arms outstretched. You walked into him without hesitation, your hands curling behind his neck, his arms sliding around your waist like they’d missed their place.
“I missed you,” you murmured, cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the solid thump of his heart and the soft rise and fall of his breathing.
“I missed you too,” he said, kissing your temple, then pulling back slightly to scan your face with careful eyes. “You look tired. Flight okay?”
You nodded, brushing your fingers through the ends of his curls. “Yeah. Just long. Got caught in Paris traffic and almost lost my connection ”
Lando chuckled softly, rubbing his thumb against your hip in slow, absent circles. “Normal airport routines uh?”
“You’re telling me,” you teased, finally pulling away from the embrace just enough to look at him.
Lando smiled at you and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips, just a soft peck, the kind that made your chest flutter anyway.
“Did you already eat?” His eyes searched yours like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from you.
“Yeah,” you said heading towards the couch and brushing a knuckle under your eye as you stifled a yawn. “Grabbed a sandwich at the airport before boarding. Probably the saddest-looking baguette in France.”
He sat right beside you, tucking one leg under himself, arm draped behind you. He was close, but not as close as he could be. There was a weird space between you that you decided to not overthink too much, leaning into him anyway and resting your head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” you asked gently, voice laced with a little line of concern. “You’re being quiet.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, too quickly, his hand reaching for the remote just to have something to do. “Just tired. Training was brutal today. Back-to-back meetings. And then sim prep.”
You hummed, unconvinced but not ready to push yet. You knew Lando. That’s why you knew when something was brewing beneath the surface. He wasn’t the type to explode, but the storm always started small. Restlessness in his hands. A twitch in his jaw. A sharp inhale that never quite became a sigh.
“How was your week?” Lando asked, settling even further back into the couch, legs stretched out in front of him.
You smiled tiredly, letting your head fall back against the cushion as you turned slightly to face him. “Busy. We had several panels, influencer dinners, shootings ... I didn’t even had time to unpack fully at the hotel. Just lived out of my suitcase and prayed I didn’t look like a zombie in the campaign photos.”
“You didn’t ” he said. “You looked… gorgeous.”
That gave you pause for a second. You glanced over at him again. He was staring at the TV, but not really watching it. His fingers were tapping restlessly on his thigh, a rhythm just offbeat enough to signal that something wasn’t sitting right.
You ignored the twist in your stomach and carried on. “Ahw, thank you baby. Hopefully we can get sponsored by some big brands, one of them was actually hosting this art-show gala thing last night. Very swanky, very over-the-top. But decent prosecco, so that helped.”
His brows ticked slightly upward, like he was waiting for you to say something else. When you didn’t, he hummed and turned his head toward you again.
“It’s where you met your ex, right?”
There it was. You blinked, caught completely off guard. There it was where his weird attitude was coming from.
“What?” you asked slowly, heart stumbling slightly. “How do you know that?”
Lando didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his phone on the armrest beside him, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward you. You leaned in and squinted at the article open on a gossip site: there was your face clear as day in the center of the header image, smiling politely at your ex in the middle of the event hall.
The caption read:
“Influencer cozy with former flame? Cheating rumors spark as Lando Norris girlfriend is seen reconnecting with ex-boyfriend ”
Your stomach twisted as you scrolled down. Screenshots of tweets, blurry zoom-ins, speculations. Words like “unfaithful,” “suspicious,” and “betrayal” jumped out at you. And your name, your actual name, was trending with cheater beside it.
“Oh my god, what?” you muttered, shoving the phone away like it burned. “Fuck this shit! This is insane. We talked for five minutes about work. That’s it.”
“I know,” Lando said quickly, setting the phone face down on the coffee table. “I know, I trust you. I do.”
“Then, what are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything!” He flinched slightly at your tone, sitting up straighter. “I saw it everywhere today. Twitter, Instagram, even fucking Reddit. And I was sitting in the sim, trying to focus, but all I could think was, why didn’t you mention it? We spoke on the phone this morning!”
You folded your arms across your chest. “Because it wasn’t important. I barely remembered it happened. I didn’t think I needed to come home and give you a play-by-play of every conversation I had at an event.”
“I never said you needed to,” he replied, tone defensive now. “But it’s not just someone. It’s him. And when the whole bloody internet is acting like something’s going on, can you blame me for needing to hear from you that it’s all bullshit?”
You stared at him for a beat, your jaw tight.
“I literally just told you it was bullshit,” you snapped. “Or was that not convincing enough?”
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not trying to be that guy, alright? I don’t want to be the jealous boyfriend who questions everything. But seeing that photo, reading that article. It made me feel like an idiot.”
“Why?” you asked, your voice rising. “ You’re second-guessing me because the internet decided to stir up drama? You’re scared I’m ruining your reputation? What?”
Lando looked at you in a way that felt like you’d cornered him in a truth he hadn’t wanted to face.
“I’m not saying that,” he said quickly, defensively, his voice was now sharp with frustration, as if he didn’t know how to process the conversation properly. “It’s not about my reputation. It’s... God, I don’t even know what it is. I just—when I saw that picture, and your name trending with his… it made my stomach turn.”
“And you think it didn’t do the same to me?” your voice was now trembling “Do you have any idea how humiliating that headline is? My name, Lando. My name. Accused of cheating on you, as if I’d ever—” You broke off with your eyes already burning. “And the worst part is that you’re not mad at them for spinning a five-minute conversation into something it wasn’t. You’re mad at me.”
Lando stood up, raking his hand through his curls as he started pacing the living room. “I’m not—fuck. I’m not mad at you. I’m just… I don’t know. The fact that I had to find out about it over the internet…”
You cut in, interrupting him: “Oh, come on. See? You’re not threatened by him. You’re threatened by what people might think. You trust me, but not enough to not spiral when the internet throws out a headline? That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?”
He stopped pacing, his back to you, fists clenched at his sides.
“No, it’s not,” he said, too quiet.
“Then what?” you challenged, standing too now, anger simmering just beneath your skin. “Actually, why is it okay for you to be photographed surrounded by girls practically throwing themselves at you in every paddock on the calendar, even when I’m standing right there, and I don’t say a damn word because I trust you. But the moment I speak to someone I used to date ages ago, I’m suddenly under suspicion?”
“That’s not the same thing—”
“No, it’s exactly the same thing,” you interrupted, stepping closer.
“Forget it,” he muttered. And he was defensive again. Avoiding confrontation again, even if he was the one starting it.
“Forget it?”
He didn’t answer. He just rubbed the back of his neck and started walking toward the bedroom, tension radiating off of him. And off you.
“Oh no,” you said, scrambling to your feet and following him. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to accuse me, get all in your head, and then just drop it like it’s no big deal and walk away!”
“I’m not accusing you!” he shot back, spinning around just as he reached the doorway, his voice sharp with frustration. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I’m twisting your words?” you asked rethorically stopping a few feet away from him “You saw a picture, made up a scenario in your head, and now what? You’re pretending it never mattered?”
“I never said it didn’t matter,” he said as his jaw tightened. “I said I trust you. I do. But I’m not gonna stand here and keep talking in circles when it’s clearly just… going nowhere.”
“No,” you said, stepping into his space now. “We’re going to talk about it. Properly. Because you’re upset, and I’m upset, and walking away from problems isn’t how we do things. So go on, if you’ve got questions, ask them.”
He sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. He looked tired. Not physically, though you knew training and travel had drained him too, but emotionally. Like he’d been carrying this around all day, trying to hold it in.
He ran a hand through his curls again, the motion rougher this time, more agitated. “Can we just talk about it tomorrow morning?” he asked, his voice low, almost pleading. “I’m wrecked, you’re exhausted… we’re just going to say things we don’t mean.”
You stared at him for a moment, your chest heaving with the weight of the conversation pressing down on both of you. But despite the fatigue lining his face, the tight clench of his jaw, and the flicker of retreat in his eyes, you stood your ground.
“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer again, closing the space between you with intention. “We’re having a discussion here and we’re not going to bed like this. Not upset at eachother!”
You saw the conflict on his face, the parts of him that wanted to let it go, to play it cool, and the other parts, the real parts, that had been stewing in unspoken doubt and gnawing jealousy for far too long.
“Ask the fucking questions, Lando”
“Fine.” He took a step back, into the bedroom now, gesturing vaguely as if still trying to decide if this confrontation was worth it. “What was he doing there?”
The question didn’t sting as much as it surprised you. Because it wasn’t accusatory. It was uncertain. Hesitant.
You softened, just a little. “He works in marketing now,” you said. “He’s part of the agency that coordinated one of the brand launches. He was there in a professional capacity.”
Lando nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“And you knew he was going to be there?” he asked after a moment, not quite meeting your gaze.
You hesitated.
“Yes,” you said with your voice firm “I saw his name on the briefing list a few days ago. But I didn’t think I’d even see him. There were hundreds of people at that event, Lando.”
He blinked at you, like he was trying to read between the lines.
“Then why not tell me?” he asked again. His voice was lower this time, a little more tired, a little less angry. “Why not just... mention it?”
“Because,” you said, throwing your hands out in exasperation, “he means nothing to me. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Lando’s expression flickered, just enough for you to see the flash of something. Something sharp and insecure.
“It mattered to me,” he muttered, turning away like he couldn’t say it while looking at you.
“Why?” you exhaled, exasperated.
And when he didn’t answer, that, made something in your chest snap again.
“You can’t do that,” you said, following further him into the bedroom where he’d collapsed onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair. “You can’t keep telling me you trust me, then act like I broke that trust because of something you imagined.”
“I do trust you,” Lando repeated standing from the bed and walking towards you this time. His head stayed bowed, eyes on the floor like it was the only thing that wouldn’t look back with judgment.
“Then act like it,” you said softly. You weren’t shouting anymore, didn’t need to. The exhaustion in your voice, the disbelief that you were even having this conversation, was enough to hit harder than any raised tone.
You took a step closer. Then another. Until you were right in front of him, close enough that he’d have to feel the way your energy buzzed just under your skin.
“I know,” he said, voice thick and cracking. “Fuck, I know. I just…”
He trailed off, unable to finish.
“I didn’t even want to see him, Lando,” you said, standing tall, your arms still crossed over your chest like a shield. “It was five minutes. A work conversation. Nothing personal. Nothing even remotely meaningful. He means nothing. Not now. Not ever.”
“I’m yours,” it came out as a soft whisper, “I wake up thinking about you. I fall asleep wishing I could roll over and feel your arms around me. I send you dumb memes during meetings and pause in the middle of my day just to text you because you're always on my mind, and i always wanna know what you’re doing, that’s how constant you are for me”
You leaned in slowly, your hand reaching out to cup his cheek, thumb brushing along the sharp line of his jaw.
“I love you,” you said, and you kissed him, slowly, with care, like a balm over every sharp edge between you. Then again. And again. Each kiss deliberate and full with everything you couldn’t quite say with words.
One of his hands reached for your waist, pulling you in like he couldn’t stand the inches between you. The other wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you close.
And finally, finally, he kissed you back.
“I hate it when we fight” he whispered on your lips and you rested your forehead lightly against his, letting your breaths mix together, letting the moment settle between you like dust after a storm.
“Stop letting your overthinking wheels spin, baby,” you whispered. “They’re taking you places that don’t exist.”
He let out a quiet, sheepish laugh. “I know. I just… my brain doesn’t know how to shut up sometimes.”
“Yeah… ” you said gently, fingers slipping into the soft curls at the nape of his neck. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His grip on you tightened slightly, like he needed to be sure of it. Like hearing wasn’t enough, he had to feel it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pressing his forehead harder against yours. “For doubting. For not just… asking. I saw it and spiraled and I hated that part of me.”
“I’m sorry too,” you said, stroking his hair, your voice a little steadier now. “For not telling you about the event. I should’ve mentioned it, even if it was nothing.”
A beat of silence passed. Quiet, warm, intimate.
“We’ve been apart all week,” you whined with a pout, brushing a kiss against his temple. “And this is how we come back together? We haven’t even greeted each other properly”
Lando smiled, small but real this time.
“Hi,” he said quietly, like it was the first word he’d meant all day.
You laughed softly and kissed him again, a hand gently tracing the line of his jaw.
“Hi,” you whispered back
“You were breathtaking in your photoshoot pics, baby.”
He said it like a confession, like he’d been holding it in all week and needed you to know.
You let out a soft laugh, head tipping back slightly as your smile bloomed across your face, warmth spreading down to your chest.
“Yeah?” you teased softly against his mouth.
He didn’t even flinched, he just nodded and reconnected your lips.
This time, there was no hesitation.
Your lips moved against his with more urgency, more intent. No longer just a reassurance, but a reaffirmation. The kind of kiss that tasted like laughter and relief, like you were both finally back in a space that made sense.
Lando groaned softly against your mouth, hands pulling you flush to him until you were standing between his legs. His mouth moved greedily against yours now, like he was making up for all the doubts that arose inside of him involuntarily.
“This was a way better welcome home” You gasped softly into the kiss, smiling again his lips, and he chased the sound with another kiss.
As if he wanted to kiss your smile and make it his.
When you finally pulled back, just barely, your foreheads touched again, both of you breathing hard. His eyes were darker now and he was smiling like he couldn’t help it.
“God, i’m sorry I fucked up,” he whispered. “I missed you”
You brushed your thumb across the corner of his mouth. “There’s never been anyone else,” you said, voice low but steady. “There won’t be. You know that, don’t you?”
Lando’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his hands flexed slightly where they held your hips. “I do, baby,” he murmured, almost shyly now, his voice muffled against your skin as he ducked to press a kiss to your collarbone.
You tilted his chin up, made him look at you again, fingers firm but tender. “I only look at you like this.” Another kiss, this time lingering, your lips pressing into his like a promise. “I only want you like this.”
And that was all it took.
Lando kissed you once again with a smile on his face as he stood there, his legs bracketing yours while crowding you back a few steps until the backs of your knees hit the bed.
Mind went autopilot. Muscle memory kicked in.
Your fingers tugged at his hoodie until he raised his arms and let you pull it off, revealing the warm gold of his skin, the lean muscles moving beneath it as he caught your face between his hands again.
He kept kissing you until your knees gave out, and even then, he was there, lowering you onto the mattress as if you'd break if you landed too hard. You pulled him down with you, laughter threading through your breath again as he nuzzled into your neck, lips finding that spot beneath your jaw that always made your fingers tighten in his hair.
His hands roamed the length of your sides like he was reacquainting himself with every curve, every freckle and dip he'd missed like oxygen.
And you let him, stretching under his touch like a cat eager for attention.
“Can’t believe I got so fucking in my head when you’ve always been right here,” You arched slightly at his words, brushing your chest against his as you exhaled.
“It’s ok baby” you whispered but your breath got caught in your throat when you felt his teeth scraping the swell of your breast through your shirt. “We’ve figured it out, now let’s just make up for that week apart or I’ll go insane”
That made him groan. A full-body sound, raw and full of heat, muffled into the curve of your breast. His hips pressed flush to yours in response, instinctual, needy.
You reached between you, fingers curling around the hem of your top, and Lando pulled back just enough to help you slide it up and over your head, tossing it behind him without looking.
His hands lingered at your sides, then coasted slowly up your ribcage, thumbs brushing just beneath the cups of your bra. Then, without warning, he dipped one hand low, dragging his fingers just beneath the waistband of your panties, knuckles grazing your pelvis as his eyes flicked up to meet yours.
Your breath caught. And he felt it. He always did.
His smile turned smug, lips quirking as he dipped further, fingers sliding between your folds with ease, the heat pulling a soft, surprised gasp from his mouth.
“Well, fuck me…” he murmured as he teased through the slickness, slow and featherlight. “You’re already soaked, baby.”
“Yeah, for you,” you said simply, pushing your panties down just enough so he could see, see how slick and ready you were. You met his gaze, no hesitation. “Always for you.”
Lando stared, really stared, his gaze flicking from your face to where your thighs parted for him, to the living proof of how true your words were.
His hands ended up caressing your thighs, warm and sure, thumbs stroking small circles as he settled between them. He didn’t dive in right away, didn’t rush it. He just looked like he was savoring the view, his eyes flicking up to yours as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee.
You whimpered, hips lifting slightly off the bed as need sparked sharp and hot through you. “Please, Lan…”
He didn’t make you beg again.
He leaned in, tongue flattening against your slit in a long, slow stroke that made your head fall back against the pillows with a choked cry. “God, yes— finally…”
“Mmm,” Lando moaned into you, mouth moving like he couldn’t get enough, like he was starved. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, keeping you spread wide for him as he licked and sucked, each pass of his tongue more purposeful than the last.
“Shit, Lando, that’s so good—fuck, don’t stop…”
He didn’t. Didn’t even think about it. He latched onto your clit gently, sucking it into his mouth. Your hands fisted in his hair again on instinct as your hips started grinding up against his mouth.
And he groaned like he loved it, like the taste of your need was his own personal drug.
“Say it again,” he murmured against you, “Say I’m the only one.”
“You are,” you gasped, breath ragged. “You’re the only one, Lando, only one who makes me feel like this, fuck—”
He slipped a finger into you then, slow and deliberate, crooking it just right, and your legs jerked around his shoulders as you nearly came apart from that alone.
“You’re so fucking tight, baby,” he groaned, mouth still working your clit relentlessly. “Fuck, I was so fucking stupid to even let that thought crawl into my brain. Like you’d ever look at anyone else when I can feel you clenching just from my voice.”
He pushed in another finger, slowly, your body slick and welcoming, and you gasped, hips grinding helplessly down against his hand.
“Yeah, exactly…” you managed to breath out somehow.
He groaned again, completely and utterly lost in the feel of you.
“Come up here, baby,” he whispered “Sit on my face. Wanna feel how much you missed me with your thighs around my head.”
Your breath caught, because fuck, the sound of that alone almost made you come. He pulled back slightly, settling back against the pillows, his curls wild and eyes locked onto you with absolute hunger. His chest was heaving, shirtless and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat, his arms outstretched like he’d never wanted anything more.
“C’mon,” he urged, hands gently coaxing you forward. “Climb up, baby.”
And you did. Half in a daze, half driven by the fire still burning wild between your legs. You crawled over him, knees straddling his chest first, your soaked cunt hovering just above his mouth. He looked up at you like a man watching heaven descend.
“Fuck,” he whispered, and his hands grabbed your ass, guiding you down with a hunger that made your heart trip.
The moment your heat touched his mouth, you cried out a loud “Shit—Lando!” as his tongue dove deep, licking you in long strokes before zeroing in on your clit, sucking it into his mouth with a filthy groan. Your thighs clamped around his head as you ground down onto him, your hips already moving of their own accord.
Insane. Actually insane. You were literally fighting 5 minutes ago and now you were sitting on his face.
Insane.
He moaned into you, the vibration making your head tip back in pleasure.
And then you saw it.
Beneath you, pressed against his stomach, was the hard, thick outline of his cock, straining and aching in his sweatpants, twitching each time you moaned. You could see the precum wetting the fabric and the sight made your mouth water, your body throb with the need to return the favour.
To keep showing him that he was the only one.
So, still breathless, you shifted.
You lifted your hips just slightly off his mouth, his tongue chasing you instinctively with a confused groan, and he looked up from between your thighs, blinking through the daze of heat and arousal.
“Wha—?” he started, his voice husky, dazed.
But then you turned, your thighs brushing against his chest as you pivoted your body to face him. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to.
He got the hint instantly.
The moment you settled over him again, facing his stomach, you immediately leaned forward slowly, shifting your weight with practiced ease and kissing a path down his torso.
He groaned into your cunt the second your hand slipped into his sweatpants, his tongue faltering for a moment, caught off guard by the contact of your fingers wrapping around his cock.
You felt the sticky mess of precum smear against your knuckles as you drew him free, and the weight of him settled heavy in your palm. That sound he made, that ragged, strangled groan, vibrated straight through your clit and made your whole body jolt.
This was going to be the end of you both.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasped against your folds, voice breaking as you stroked him, slow and teasing. “You’re evil”
Oh, you knew. You knew. Because his cock twitched in your hand with every pass of your thumb over the slick head, every soft squeeze you gave to the thick base, and his hips were starting to roll up into your touch now in an unconscious, desperate rhythm that matched the way his mouth was already working you.
You smirked, breath shaky, and leaned even forward, your tongue flattening against the head of his cock, licking up the mess he was already making. He moaned deep into your pussy, the sound hot and low, his hands tightening around your thighs as he tried to focus, tried to keep eating you like he had something to prove.
“Shit…” he muttered literally against your clit, your breath stuttering as your mouth opened wide to take him in.
“We fight after a week apart and then jump straight into a full 69? Thought we’d at least pretend to take it slow…”
You laughed softly, breathless as you licked a teasing circle over the flushed tip of his cock, letting your lips brush against it as you spoke. “You’re the one who told me to sit on your face,”
He huffed a laugh into your cunt, and the warm puff of air made you twitch above him.
You didn’t give him a chance to add anything else.
With a wicked smile and one final flick of your tongue over his swollen tip, you wrapped your lips around him and finally took him into your mouth.
And just like that, you both fell into it: an unspoken and fair compromise, an exchange that felt more like worship one another than anything else.
You sank your mouth down around his cock inch by inch, slow and deliberate, letting your lips stretch around him as your hand twisted at the base, teasing the slick head with your tongue. The sound he made when you did, raw and guttural, sent a fresh wave of wetness pouring out of you, and Lando didn’t waste a drop.
His tongue dove back into you, licking you open, sloppy and relentless, like he couldn’t get enough. He licked up every slick spill from your folds, his tongue circling your clit before sucking hard enough to make your thighs clamp tight around his ears.
And he was right there as well. You felt the way he trembled, the way his abs flexed beneath you as you rocked your hips against his mouth.
He didn’t stop. Not when you moaned, not when you gasped around his cock, not when your fingers dug into his thighs for balance. His grip on your hips was firm, grounding you as you straddled his face, his mouth soaked with you, chin glistening with arousal.
The deeper you took him, the deeper he went on you.
It became a give and take: his cock pushing deeper into your throat, your pussy grinding down against his lips, your tongues dancing filthy games while your bodies threatened to fall apart completely.
You tried. God, you really tried. To keep your lips wrapped around his cock, to match the rhythm of your mouth to the filthy, relentless way he devoured your pussy. But the pleasure radiating from between your legs was just too much.
His tongue moved like he was born for it, circling and flicking, pressing against your clit in a rhythm that set your nerve endings on fire.
You gagged softly around the head of his cock, not from his size (even tho he had a great size, but you were used to so...), but because the orgasm building inside you stole your breath, made you forget how to even suck him properly. You pulled off him with a wet pop, gasping, forehead pressed against his lower abdomen for a moment as you panted through the wave threatening to break.
“Ohh fuck—” Your voice was wrecked, shaky, nearly breathless.
He didn’t let up.
He never did.
His arms wrapped tighter around your thighs, anchoring in you down, forcing you to stay perched over his face, and his mouth latched onto your clit again like he was fucking starved.
You couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t do anything except chase the pleasure ripping through you, grinding shamelessly on his face, dragging his cock through your fingers with the kind of desperate rhythm that spoke to how badly you needed him inside you. How badly you needed to let go.
“Lando, fuck, don’t stop—,” you sobbed, your body shaking now, so close, so high you could barely breathe.
He moaned into your pussy again, his fingers digging into your ass, guiding your motion so you rode his face perfectly, the wet sounds of his tongue buried between your folds filling the room like sin.
And then you broke.
You cried out in pure bliss and pleasure as your orgasm slammed into you, your whole body seizing.
Lando held you through it, mouth open and hungry, licking up every drop as you spasmed against him. You collapsed forward finally, legs giving out, rolling off to one side with a gasp, your chest heaving, skin slick and glowing, thighs still twitching from aftershocks.
Your mind was floating somewhere above the ceiling.
Eyes wide, lips parted, you turned your head slowly toward him, who was shifting beside you, his face glistening with you, mouth red and wet and smiling. The kind of smug, absolutely pleased-with-himself smile that should’ve annoyed you, but instead only made your core pulse again in echo.
“What the fuck was that?” you asked, the words cracking on the tail end as you tried to laugh but ended up just breathless.
Lando burst into laughter, and the sound was pure sunlight, in a way that made your stomach twist and flutter. He didn’t respond right away, mainly because he was too busy crawling up your body, leaving kisses as he went, sloppy and teasing.
One on your belly.
Two on your ribs.
Another just beneath your breast.
He nuzzled into your skin, dragging his nose up between your breasts before pressing a lingering kiss to the hollow of your throat. “That,” he murmured against your skin, still laughing, “was me making up for being a jealous overthinking asshole .”
“Oh my God,” you groaned, but the words came out lazy, soaked in affection. “Is this what guilt sex feels like?”
He kissed your chin, your cheekbone, your temple. “No, no,” he said between kisses, “this is what ‘I’m desperately in love with you and I’m so sorry I don’t show you enough” sex feels like.”
You shivered. Not from the cold. From the way he said that like it was fact, like it was already written somewhere permanent. You met his gaze and found none of the teasing edge that had been there a second ago.
He was serious. So serious that your heart felt like it was right outside your chest.
He kissed you again, lips warm and tasting like everything you’d just given him. His hand moved down again, gripping your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip, settling between your legs once again.
His rightful place to be.
“You good? ,” he murmured against your mouth. “Because now I really need to be inside you.”
The way he said it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t even demanding. It was reverent. Like asking permission to breathe.
You nodded, cupping his jaw, thumb stroking the stubble along his cheek. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice already thick with anticipation.
“You got a preference, baby?” he murmured, that familiar little husk threading through his voice. “Want me to turn you over on your belly for doggy? Ride me? Or—”
You let out a breathy laugh, soft and full of affection, cutting him off with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I want you right here,” you said gently, sliding your hands down to his waist, guiding him in with the ease of instinct. “I want to feel your heart against mine.”
Lando’s face softened completely. “Fuck,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours for a beat, swallowing hard. “ I’m right here, baby”
He braced on one elbow, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking softly along your cheekbone as he kissed you again while his hips started nudging forward just enough for the head of his cock to press against your soaked entrance.
“Right here,” you whispered again, your voice quiet but firm, like a promise.
He pushed in with a soft groan, burying himself inside you in one slow, smooth thrust, stretching you so perfectly your breath caught. Your head fell back into the pillow with a soft gasp, hands moving instinctively to his back, nails dragging gently over the warm, tense muscles as he bottomed out.
“Holy fuck…” Lando’s voice trembled, lips brushing your ear. “You feel so perfect baby, I don’t deserve you”
He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, chest pressed to yours, forehead resting on your temple, his cock pulsing inside you like he couldn’t believe it was real.
“Yeah, you do ,” you murmured, turning your head to kiss the hinge of his jaw, “You do and no one else”
He started to move then, slow at first, deep and rolling, like he was savoring every single inch of you. Every thrust filled you completely, the stretch sweet and thick, his hips rocking into yours with a steady rhythm. He groaned softly into your neck as your walls fluttered around him, clenching every time he pulled back.
“There’s no one else,” you whispered again against his ear, your breath hot. “Never has been. Never will be.”
He let out a shaky breath, his hips stuttering for just a moment before finding that rhythm again, harder now, a little deeper.
“So fucking tight, I can barely move from the way you’re gripping me" he whispered, dragging his mouth up to your neck, kissing you just under your jaw.
You gasped when he angled his hips just right, the head of his cock brushing something so deep it made your toes curl and your thighs clamp tighter around his waist. “Lando, oh god, yes—right there, please—”.
“Yeah? Right there, baby?” Lando echoed, his voice breaking into a low, wrecked rasp, like the sound of your pleasure was winding him tighter with every second.
He grabbed your thigh, hitching it even higher around his waist, and pushed in deep again. Right there. Right where it made you cry out and clutch at him, nails raking soft, unintentional lines across his back.
His hand slipped down, fingers finding your clit with practiced care, slow circles that made your hips jerk and a soft, broken moan spill from your lips.
“There she is,” Lando murmured against your lips, like the sound of your pleasure was a prayer answered.
You whimpered softly, your hands roaming over his shoulders, feeling the taut flex of muscle beneath his skin as he thrust into you with that same slow, purposeful rhythm, dragging every inch through you like he knew it was your undoing.
You were close. So close. You could feel the pressure coiling tight in your core, in each roll of his hips, in each gentle circle of his thumb stroking your clit. His name was now a vow slipping from your lips.
“I know,” he said gently, his lips brushing yours. “I feel you, baby, it’s okay, let go”
Your thighs shook, your cunt clenched tight around him, drawing him deeper, holding him there as you came. “Oh my God, Lando—fuck!”
He groaned, a deep, raw sound from the back of his throat, and his rhythm started faltering.
One more thrust and then he was there too, coming hard, buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing deep inside you as his forehead pressed harder against yours, breaths mingling, hearts thudding in perfect sync.
Neither of you moved for a long moment. Your limbs were tangled, sweat-slicked skin pressed tight together, his arms wrapped around you like a shield. His nose nuzzled your cheek, lips pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your temple, the center of your forehead.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, voice raw and low, his lips brushing your temple as he said it.
He was still heavy on top of you, your leg thrown over his hip, the weight of him still inside you anchoring you to the moment. You could feel him, softening now but still thick, still warm, still nestled deep like your bodies hadn’t figured out how to separate yet.
You tried to answer his question, but all that came out was a sleepy, stunned sigh.
He chuckled under his breath. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I don’t think I can move,” you mumbled, smiling into his neck, too relaxed to lift your head, let alone speak in full sentences.
Lando hadn’t moved yet. He just shifted slightly so that his weight rested more to the side, his chest still flush against yours, one arm cradling your head like a pillow, the other wrapped firm around your waist. He was still inside you, but neither of you made any effort to change that yet. It felt right, like this. Like pausing the world to breathe each other in for a minute.
"Hey..." You took his hand and pressed it to your chest, right over your heart. “This? It’s yours. Okay?"
He just stared at your hand covering his, your fingers tangled over your chest where your heart thudded steady and slow, where you’d just told him it was his.
Then he leaned in and kissed you, like he was carving your promise into his soul. Like you were breath and water and absolution.
“I’m so sorry I doubted you, I am” he murmured against your lips.
“I know you got scared today.” You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, slow and soothing. “But you know that that chapter is closed, baby. Hell, that whole book’s been burned.”
You felt him swallow, throat bobbing against your hand.
“I don’t want anyone else,” you said, voice sure and soft. “Not ever. You’re my home, Lando.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Then, with a low, playful groan, he shifted his hips just slightly, the movement making you gasp even as you both laughed.
"Fuck, baby, you can't say stuff like that when I'm literally still inside you"
