lando norris x reader; franco colapinto x reader
sum: because sometimes, being almost his hurts more than not being his at all.
warnings/notes: SMUT!!!!; toxic relationships; lando being a fuckboy; fwb; english is not my native language. italics: conversations in spanish. JUST A FEW MORE CHAPTERS AND FRANCO APPEARS, I PROMISE.
taglist: @htpssgavi @madkohi
The return to Madrid was silent.
Helena kept glancing at you on the plane, but she didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She knew you too well not to notice you were stuck in some kind of mental loop. The same one that replayed the images of room 308 over and over again like a poorly edited indie film.
As soon as you landed, you switched on “nothing happened” mode.
Messages with Lando: zero.
Instagram stories: happy, outings with friends, mirror selfies, Taylor Swift songs that no one else would understand.
You convinced yourself it was for the best. That it was just a moment. A beautiful mistake. A "what happens in Australia stays in Australia."
That you couldn’t get into something when you didn’t even know if he wanted it.
That if he wasn’t texting, it was because he had already moved on.
That Lily and Carlos were right.
You spent an entire week working hard to get him out of your head.
You went back to work and that helped distract you.
You went out with your friends to those classic Madrid party nights that lasted until sunrise.
Maybe Carlos was wrong and you were one of those people who could easily forget something like that, block out your feelings.
Until one night, you opened your phone and found a new message.
Your heart stopped. Literally.
You looked at the message.
And so began the second wave. Messages again. Late-night video calls. Voice notes with stifled laughter. But you weren’t the same anymore.
Every word from him made you doubt. Was it real? Or did he just want to sleep with you again? Maybe it was the second option. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted that too.
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A quiet corner, with hand-painted metal chairs and the smell of toasted bread. When you got to the place where you'd agreed to meet, Lily was already there, sitting at one of the tables looking at her phone.
—Heyyy —you said once you were beside her. She stood up and you shared a hug, two kisses on the cheeks, and both sat down facing each other.
You ordered coffee. She got a flat white. You, an americano. The waiter didn’t take long. For a while, you talked as if you were just simple friends with very separate lives. Flights. Weather. Shows. The excessiveness of your job. Things that didn’t really touch the real surface.
Until Lily tilted her head, set her cup down on the saucer, and said:
—And you? Everything okay?
The question was loaded. It had nothing to do with health, or your job, or the weather.
You brought the coffee to your lips, held it there for a few seconds, and then set it down without drinking.
—Yeah. I mean, yeah… —you said.
You looked up. Her eyes were fixed on you. Not hard, not soft. Just attentive.
—I’m handling it —you said.
—Handling what? That he’s not texting you? That he is? That you don’t know if you should text him first?
—It’s an honest question.
You didn’t answer. You paid the bill and walked. The air was cool, but the sun made the shadows more intense. Lily’s flight was leaving tomorrow at 9 AM, so you invited her to stay at your apartment for the night.
You knew that meant taking the conversation to another level.
The doorman, don Miguel, greeted you from his desk. He closed his book and stood up.
—Miss, this was left for you a few hours ago.
He had a bouquet in his hands. Big. Wrapped in paper and a white linen ribbon.
It smelled from afar. A perfume of peonies, soft roses, and something else. Something you couldn’t name but pushed your heart to your stomach.
—From who…? —you asked, words hanging in the air.
—No name was left. But there is a card.
—Thanks… —you said, receiving it as if it were fragile.
—Someone’s courting you? —he joked, smiling.
You let out a nervous laugh. Lily just glanced at you from the side. She didn’t say anything, but frowned slightly.
You went up in the elevator without speaking. There was no need anymore.
Once inside the apartment, you placed the bouquet on the dining table. Lily stared at it openly.
—Aren’t you going to open the note?
You bit your lip. The little note was tied with a thin string. You slid it free.
"I know you’ve been struggling with your job. I can’t help you with that, but I hope this softens it —L"
You walked to the kitchen looking for the only decent vase you had, Lily followed you. You filled it with water and arranged the flowers carefully. The note stayed to the side.
—You know who it’s from, don’t be sarcastic —you said.
—So that’s what he’s doing now? Sweetening you up? What else has he sent you? —Lily said, leaning on your kitchen counter while reading the note more closely.
—Actually, this is the first thing he’s sent me. Look, we’ve been talking, a lot, like we used to before what-you-already-know happened. He tells me his stuff, I tell him mine. We video call, we laugh, we have a good time.
—And that’s it? —she asked, resting her elbows on the counter—. Just a good time between friends?
—Yeah. No… —you sighed—We’re not together, we don’t talk about “that”. We keep going like we’re… friends. Just that some things feel different.
—The late night calls. How he listens when I’ve had a bad day at work. Or when things go badly on track and all he wants is to talk about anything but cars. Sometimes he texts me just to tell me something silly. Or to tell me what he dreamed that night.
Lily raised her eyebrows.
—Is that what friends do now?
—I don’t know. Or maybe friends who don’t know how to go back to just being that. But we’re not anything else either.
She went quiet for a moment. Then shrugged.
—As long as you’re okay with it.
—He’s not promising me anything, and I’m not expecting anything either. For now.
The note stayed on the shelf, the bouquet in the vase, and the smell of flowers filled everything again. Outside, the evening started to fall over Madrid, and for a moment, you thought maybe everything was a little bit okay.
That night, when Lily was already lying down in the guest room and you in yours, the apartment was silent, except for the low hum of the city from the window. You sat on the edge of the bed with your phone in your hands.
You saw him typing. Then he stopped. Again. And again.
Until finally, his reply appeared.
Saudi Arabia, Sunday, April 18
The paddock was its usual chaos: photographers, engineers, fans, everything in motion. But in the middle of it all, there he was. Lando. With the sun at his back, wearing joggers, a white t-shirt, and hair tousled from the cap he had just taken off. You recognized him immediately, and he recognized you.
He walked toward you in that way of his: distracted, a bit clumsy, with his hands in his pockets.
—I thought you weren't coming — he said.
—Neither did I. I couldn’t come friday and saturday because of work stuff, and I wasn’t going to come today either— you replied, honestly.
Lando smiled. A small one. The kind of gesture that hides more than it shows.
—Carlos insisted— you said, brushing it off. Even though you knew it wasn’t just because of Carlos.
—I owe him one then— he joked. And looked down a little — You look different.
—No. More like… you. But Bahrain version.
—That means nothing— you laughed.
—Okay, well, I’m not a poet. I’m a driver.
You stood there for a moment, looking at each other.
The noise of the paddock went on, but the two of you seemed to be on a different frequency. Until you remembered you weren’t alone: you were surrounded by people and cameras alert to any situation. So you took your gaze off him and subtly stepped just a few inches away.
—Thanks for the flowers— you said, voice a little lower.
He nodded, searching your eyes.
—I didn’t know if it’d be weird if I sent them.
—It was weird,— you admitted— but it was also sweet.
—And this…?— he asked, gesturing subtly between the two of you— Is this weird too?
—Wanna see the cars?— he said then— Or we can grab some water. Or… whatever you want.
—I think I’ll go find Carlos, say hi, and hang out with him before the race starts.
—Want me to come with you?
—No, I’m meeting Lily to go with her… but thanks.
—So we won’t see each other? Will you be in the Williams garage the whole time?—his voice had a soft way of pleading, like he hoped you’d say “no, I’ll stay with you and watch the race from McLaren’s garage.”
—Carlos was the one who invited me after all, Lando—you unconsciously reached for his hand and squeezed it for a few seconds, as if to give him some encouragement— But we can see each other later.
And you did see each other later.
The race didn’t end well for Lando, at least not the way he wanted or expected.
Since he crashed in Q3, everything had gone downhill. He started tenth, trying to save what he could with a different strategy, but the Safety Car never came. By the time he passed Hamilton, Leclerc was already too far ahead. He finished fourth, Piastri first. Another race where he was beaten by his teammate and main rival in competition.
When you found him later, he had already showered and was zipped up to the neck in his team suit. His hair was damp, and his eyes looked tired. He was leaning against a fence behind McLaren’s hospitality area, half-hidden from the rest of the paddock, like he wanted a break from everything.
—Hey— you said, approaching.
He looked up, and when he saw you, he gave a faint smile.
You stepped next to him without saying more and stood quietly. A minute passed in silence. Then he spoke:
—It wasn’t enough. Again.
—It doesn’t always have to be.— you replied— But look, you’re still up there. It’s just one race.
—Yeah, but it hurt. I lost the lead. And it was my mistake in quali. I took it from myself.
—Then you’ve got one more reason to win the next one.
He looked at you. That look of his that always seemed more honest when he was tired, when he wasn’t smiling for a camera.
You turned slightly, raised an eyebrow at him.
—Besides comforting a frustrated driver?
Lando smiled, more genuinely this time. He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand.
—I was thinking... Netflix and chill? you and me? ice cream for two? in my room? Unless you’re too busy with Carlos and your spanish friends.
You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself. He noticed. And looked down, like he was suddenly afraid he’d overstepped.
—Only if you want to. I’m not… pushing anything.
—I know— you said softly.
Then you moved a little closer.
—Okay. But only if you pick good ice cream.
You looked him up and down and squinted.
You knew you weren’t going to fix the world that night. But between a silly movie, some ice cream, and a look that said more than everything left unsaid… maybe you could fix yourselves a little.
You lay on top of his bed over the blanket, just a few inches separating your bodies, but still feeling the warmth coming off each other.
You picked a random movie on Netflix, and a few minutes in, you heard him sigh and turned to look at him.
—I can go to my room, we can watch something another day, or maybe...
—No, stay, please. I want to spend time with you. It calms me down.
A genuine smile appeared on your lips, and then you patted your lap as a gesture for him to rest his head there. He didn’t think much of it and obeyed.
While watching the movie, at some point, you tried not to do it, but in that atmosphere of total trust and peace, your hand found its way to Lando’s hair, your fingers burying themselves in his curls. You heard him sigh in pleasure, so you kept going.
You stayed like that for several quiet minutes. But the mood changed when, on screen, the characters shared an intimate scene. You didn’t expect it, so your body tensed up, your fingers stopped moving, and you slowly pulled your hand away.
But he noticed. He looked up, found your hand, and put it back in his hair. And everything seemed normal. But he looked at you in a way that made every inch of your skin tingle.
—Are you okay?—his voice came out rough. You swallowed hard and nodded. He smiled and looked back at the screen.
You tried to calm down, you really did, but the scene unfolding in the movie only made your mind wander. You imagined if that were you and Lando right now—you truly imagined it.
The torture ended when the movie shifted to a calmer scene and you were able to relax again.
But then you felt Lando’s hand on your leg. You looked at him and he was still watching the movie like nothing, like it was something you did every day. He was doing it on purpose, you knew it.
Then you saw him grab the remote, pause the movie, and turn to look at you directly. There were no more distractions between you. Just him, you, and that suspended tension that seemed to breathe on its own.
—I don't want to pretend I don't feel this,— he says, his voice low, almost a whisper— Not when you're like this, here... with me.
He sits up slowly, still resting his head in your lap, but now his eyes rise to yours, studying you. Your fingers are still in his curls, though they tremble slightly now. He notices, takes your hand and kisses it, softly, as if he's giving you permission to feel.
—May I?— he asks simply, a mixture of respect and desire pulsing in his gaze.
You nod. You can't speak. You don't need to.
Lando slides up your body, with a slowness that quickens your pulse. His torso settles between your open legs instinctively. His lips seek yours as his hands explore your body.
He lowers himself back into the position between your legs as before and begins to undress you calmly, as if each piece of clothing were an obstacle he doesn't want to tear away, but rather reverently push aside.
When you're almost completely naked beneath him (just your top and bra) and his lips travel between your abdomen and your pelvis, you understand there's no turning back.
His mouth descends, and with a single gesture, he settles you more comfortably between the sheets, parting your legs securely. He watches you from below, his gaze fixed on yours as his tongue brushes your inner lips with a slowness that leaves you breathless.
A moan escapes your lips, a soft, almost involuntary one.
—Like that...— he whispers barely, and licks you again, deeper now, more deliberately.
His movements are slow, deliberate. There's no anxiety. It's as if he's testing you, studying you, memorizing your reactions. He caresses you with his mouth, with his fingers, with the labored breathing of someone on the edge of control.
Your hands return to his hair, buried in his curls, guiding him, wordlessly asking for more. He responds, with rhythm and commitment, until you can't help but tremble beneath his tongue.
You arch, gasp, feel him lick you faster, deeper. Then he stops for a second, looks at you, and without breaking eye contact, slides two fingers inside you with a smooth but firm motion.
You moan in surprise at the sudden intensity. At how your body breaks and rebuilds with each thrust of his fingers, with each lick that takes you from this world. Your orgasm comes with an uncontrollable shudder. Lando holds you tightly, continuing to taste you until your body collapses.
He sits up, his chest heaving, his lips wet. He undresses slowly, still looking at you. There's no shame in either of us. Only desire. Only trust. Only that feeling of having arrived at a place you didn't know you were looking for.
He settles between your legs and caresses your face.
—I'm going to do it slowly,— he warns you— because I want you to feel everything.
And when he enters you, he does so with a depth that steals your breath. His hips move rhythmically, slowly at first, as if dancing with you. Your bodies understand each other effortlessly. Every moan, every sigh, every word murmured against your neck.
—Watch me— he asks, and you do.
You look at him just as he accelerates, when his body slams into yours harder, with more hunger.
You come again, harder, more uncontrolled. And Lando lets himself go seconds later, his body trembling against yours, his breath ragged, his lips kissing your collarbone as if it were sacred.
He collapses beside you, not fully separating, his arm still around your waist. You don't say anything at first. You don't need to.
But then, he breaks the silence.
—Do you know what I thought while you were on top of me?— he asks softly.
You look at him, still panting.
—That you could be my safe place. And that scares me. But it also gives me peace.
You kiss him, without responding. Because sometimes the body speaks louder than any words.
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