Description: You're planning the wedding of the decade—Max Fewtrell and Pietra Pilão's summer celebration at Villa d'Este on Lake Como. Forty-seven page vision documents, destination logistics, and a bride who knows exactly what she wants. You can handle it. What you can't handle is their best man: Lando Norris, fresh off a breakup, he's arrogant, he's relentless, he doesn't take no for an answer, and he's decided that making your job harder is his new favorite pastime. You just want to execute the perfect wedding, he simply just wants you.
Genre: wedding planner x best man, he's down bad immediately, all of the tropes, "are you single?" on first meeting, why are we soooo horny, rom-com meets porn
Notes: um, idk, sorry ive been mia for months, ive been working on my hotd fic on my other acc @serdunkalot, other than that this has been my lando baby for a while, this will be posted in abt a month tops??? i have graphics n shit for it so its been taking a long time
WC: [TBD]
That was two months ago.
Two months of Pietra's color-coded spreadsheets, vendor calls with Italian florists who didn't speak a lick of English, and approximately sixty-three emails about whether the napkins should be ivory or ecru. (They're the same fucking color. You didn't say that, though, you're a an actual professional.)
Now you're standing in Cifonelli, a tailoring house in London where the building is approximately 300 years old and the man at the door eyes you up and down about twelve times before letting you come in. You arrived fifteen minutes early because that's what professionals do, tablet in hand, ready to make sure Max Fewtrell doesn't accidentally pick the wrong shade of midnight blue and give his fiancée an aneurysm.
Max is already here, standing on the fitting platform in his shirtsleeves while a tailor who looks approximately one hundred years old circles him with pins. The groomsmen are scattered around the room—Max's his brother is scrolling through his phone in the corner, and the other three groomsmen are huddled by the window arguing about something that sounds football-related but you're not paying attention.
And Lando Norris, the best man, is in one of the leather chairs, legs stretched out in front of him, watching you.
He's been staring at you for the last twenty minutes while you've been in the checking suit orders. You felt it. Ignored it. Felt it again. Kept ignoring it, like a professional.
Now you've got his garment bag draped over your arm and you're done pretending you don't notice.
"Norris," you call out.
He doesn't move right away. Just lets his eyes drag up from wherever they were—unhurried, unbothered, like you've interrupted something he was very much enjoying. "That's me," he says, and the smile that follows is the kind that knows exactly what it does to people.
"Dressing room two," you say, already walking toward the hallway. "Let's get you fitted."
You hear him get up. Hear him follow. The hallway is quieter, away from the chaos of the main room, and dressing room two is all dark wood paneling, it's exactly the kind of place where people spend obscene amounts of money and feel good about it.
You hang the garment bag on the hook, unzip it.
"Jacket first," you say without turning around. "Then trousers. If the shoulders don't sit right or the sleeve length is off, don't adjust it yourself. Just tell me."
When you turn around, he's in the doorway. Not coming in. Just leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with this look—eyes slightly narrowed, mouth not quite smiling, like he's just confirmed something he suspected and now he's deciding what to do about it.
"You're very good at this," he finally says.
"At my job?" You raise an eyebrow. "Revolutionary concept."
"No." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, slow, like the space belongs to him now that he's decided to enter it. "The whole—not looking at me thing." He tilts his head slightly. "You've been doing it since I walked in. It's very disciplined and I'm a little impressed, actually."
Your jaw doesn't move. Your expression doesn't either. "The suit, Norris."
"See, that." He stops close enough that you have to consciously not step back. Close enough that you catch his cologne—something clean and expensive and quietly devastating. He's taller than you clocked from across the room, and the way he's looking at you isn't rude, isn't aggressive. It's just certain, like he's already several steps ahead and he's being generous enough to wait for you to catch up. "That's the thing. You do this—" a small gesture toward you, vague, like he's indicating everything, "very professional, very unbothered. But you felt me looking at you."
"Everyone in the room felt you looking at me."
"Sure." The corner of his mouth pulls up. "But only you ignored it that hard."
The silence sits between you. He doesn't rush to fill it, just watches you with that quiet, completely unearned confidence, chin tipped down slightly, eyes steady, the kind of eye contact that doesn't shift or flicker, the kind that makes you aware of exactly where your hands are and whether your face is doing something it shouldn't be.
"Are you going to try this on," you say, "or are we wasting Pietra's fitting appointment?"
He reaches out and takes the jacket from the hanger himself. Doesn't look away from you while he does it.
"Quick question," he says and the pause that follows is long enough to be deliberate. "Are you single?"
You've got to be fucking kidding me. You shake your head, "That is not a quick question."
"It's three words." He shrugs the jacket on and takes his time with the second button. "Pretty quick to me."
You step forward and fix the collar before you've put any real thought into it. Professional and an awfully horrible fucking habit you've developed because right this second your fingers brush the back of his neck and you feel him go very still.
"Shoulders are good," you say, stepping back. This is absolutely fine. So absolutely not fine.
"You didn't answer."
"Because it's not relevant, Norris."
"To the fitting?" He turns to face the mirror, but his eyes find yours in it immediately. "Probably not. To me?" The corner of his mouth pulls again. "Little bit relevant."
You crouch down to check the trouser break. He looks down at you. You can feel it without looking up.
"You do this with all your clients?" he asks.
"Check the fit?"
"Go all quiet and professional when someone makes you uncomfortable."
You stand. "You're not making me uncomfortable."
"No?" He turns from the mirror to face you properly. You become aware of your hands. "Then why haven't you answered?"
The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. You're aware of the door behind him, the mirror to your left, the very small amount of air between you.
"The sleeve length is off," you say. It's a lie, but you reach for his wrist anyway.
He lets you take it, doesn't say anything while you pretend to check the cuff, while your fingers brush the inside of his wrist.
"You're single," he says.
You glance up and he's already looking at you, which is unfortunate considering how attractive the fucker actually is. His lip is quirked upwards at the corner, and his eyes are squinting in that specific way that tells you he is enjoying this very much.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He's still letting you hold his wrist, still watching you with that same certainty. "You would've shut this down immediately if you weren't."
You drop his hand and step back. "The jacket fits."
"Good." He shrugs the jacket off, and you watch the fabric slide down his arms, watch the way his shoulders move underneath the sweater. He hangs it back on the hanger with more care than you expected, smoothing the lapels before turning to the mirror. His hands go to the hem of his sweater, tugging it down, adjusting it. The movement pulls the knit tight across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyes—those fucking eyes—find yours in the reflection.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't waiting for you to look. "So when are you free?"
Your throat is dry. "I'm not."
"For dinner." He's still watching you in the mirror. Still standing there with his hands resting at his sides like he's got all the time in the world.
"I know what you meant."
He turns around. The movement is slow, his weight shifts, his hips turn, and suddenly he's facing you instead of the glass. "That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"But it's not a no." The smile that spreads across his face is different from before—softer, more genuine. It makes him look younger, less like him and more like someone who actually wants to know your answer. And somehow that's worse. "Which means you're thinking about it."
"I'm thinking about how to get you to try on the trousers."
His hands drop to his belt.
The metal clinks as his fingers work the buckle loose and you freeze. Actually freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as you watch his hands—tanned, long-fingered, confident—slide the leather through the silver.
"What are you—"
"Trying on the trousers," he says, like it's obvious. The belt slides through the loops with a soft whisper of leather against fabric, and his shit-eating grin only widens. "That's what you wanted, right?"
"You don't have to—" You turn around and face the wall. What the fuck is going on? "There's literally a changing screen right there."
"There is." You hear the zipper, the metallic sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. Then fabric sliding down his legs, the soft rustle of denim pooling at his feet. Oh my god, oh my god. "But you're already in here."
Your stomach drops. Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You draw in a breath—too sharp, too quick—and try to compose yourself. Try to remember that you're a professional, that you've handled difficult clients before, that this is just a suit fitting.
Except it's not. You both know it's not.
"I will actually leave," you say.
"Why?" He sounds amused. You can hear the smile in his voice, can picture exactly what his face looks like right now without even seeing it. "You're the wedding planner. Don't you need to check the fit?"
Your face is on fire. Your hands are clenched at your sides and you're staring at the wood paneling on the wall like it holds the secrets of the fucking universe. "I can check it when you're dressed."
"I'm getting dressed right now." A pause. Then, quieter, "You can turn around. I'm not naked."
You shouldn't. You should walk out of this room, find another tailor, maintain some semblance of professionalism.
He's in his boxers, black Calvin Kleins that sit low on his hips, and that stupid cream sweater that's ridden up just enough to show a strip of tanned, toned stomach. The jeans are pooled at his feet and he's just standing there, holding the suit trousers, legs long and golden like he spends half his life in the sun.
Which he does. Because he's a fucking Formula 1 driver. And you're trying very hard to look at his face, at the trousers in his hands, at literally anything except the very obvious bulge straining against the black fabric of his underwear.
Your eyes drop. You can't help it. The Calvin Klein waistband sits just below his hip bones, and the fabric is doing absolutely nothing to hide how well-endowed he is. Or how hard he's getting. Jesus Christ.
"Well?" he says, and his voice has dropped lower, rougher. Like gravel and honey mixed together. "Should I put these on, or are you going to keep staring?"
Your eyes snap up to his face and the grin there is absolutely wicked. Victorious. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, knows exactly where your eyes just were, and he's loving every second of it.
"The trousers," you manage. Your voice sounds strange—tight and strained and breathier than it should be—and you quite literally want to rip your vocal cords out. "Put them on."
"Say please."
Your brain short-circuits. "Excuse me?"
"You want me to put them on?" He tilts his head, and the movement is casual, easy. Still holding the trousers in one hand, the other resting against his hip, thumb hooked into the waistband of his boxers. Still standing there like this is completely normal. Like he stands half-naked in front of wedding planners every day. "Ask nicely."
This is insane. This entire situation is insane. You're alone in a dressing room with a half-naked Formula 1 driver who's asking you to beg him to put his pants on while he's very clearly hard and very clearly enjoying watching you try not to look.
"Please," you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant it to. "Put on the trousers."
His grin widens. "See? That wasn't so hard."
He steps into them. One leg, then the other, and you watch—you can't not watch—as he pulls them up slowly and deliberately. The fabric slides over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Golden skin disappearing inch by inch beneath midnight blue wool. Over his hips. Over that bulge that's still very much visible, still obscenely obvious even through the suit fabric now.
He doesn't button them. Just leaves them sitting low on his hips, the zipper undone, the waistband gaping open enough that you can still see the black elastic of his Calvin Kleins.
"How's the fit?" he asks.
You can't speak. Your mouth is completely dry, your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you're very aware that you need to actually do your job now. Need to check the hem and the break and the waist, which means getting close to him again. Means kneeling down in front of him. Means being eye-level with—
"I need to check the break," you hear yourself say.
"Go ahead."
You move before you can think about it. Drop to your knees in front of him, and the position is—it's—don't fucking think about it.
Your hands reach for the fabric at his ankle. The hem is perfect. You both know it's perfect. Pietra sent the measurements three times, the tailors here are the best in London, there's no way it's wrong.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up. But you smooth the fabric anyway. Adjust it against his shoe. Check the length with fingers that are definitely not shaking.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
You can feel him watching you. Can feel the weight of his gaze on the top of your head, on your hands, on the way you're very carefully not looking up.
"You know what I think?" he says, voice quiet.
You don't answer. Keep your eyes on the hem.
"I think you're single. I think you've been single for a while. And I think—" he pauses, and you feel him shift slightly above you, "—you're going to go to dinner with me tomorrow."
Something snaps into place in your head. A brilliant, terrible idea.
Fuck it.
You let your hand slide up from his ankle. Slowly. Palm flat against the fabric of the trousers, fingers spreading wide as you move up his calf. The muscle is solid beneath your touch, tense. You feel it twitch as you pass over his knee, and you keep going. Higher.
You feel his leg go rigid under your touch. Hear his breath catch—sharp and sudden.
"You think so?" you ask, still not looking up. Your hand keeps moving. Up his thigh now, and he's gone completely still above you. Not moving. Not breathing. Just frozen.
"Yeah," he says, but his voice has gone rough. Strained. "I do."
Your hand reaches the very top of his thigh. You pause there and let the moment stretch. Then you slide your palm over the bulge straining against his trousers and squeeze.
He makes a sound—sharp, shocked, something between a gasp and a groan.
You stand up slowly, keeping your hand exactly where it is. Keeping pressure. His hands come up like he's going to grab you, touch you, pull you closer, but he freezes when you press harder.
"Fuck," he breathes.
You're close now. Close enough to see his pupils blown wide, close enough to feel the way his breathing has gone uneven. His hips shift forward into your touch and you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this.
"You were saying?" you murmur, tilting your head up. Your mouth is inches from his.
"I—" He swallows hard. Can't seem to finish the sentence. His eyes drop to your lips and you lean in closer. So close your breath ghosts across his mouth. Your hand moves slightly, rubbing through the fabric, and he actually groans this time.
"What was that about dinner?" you whisper.
"Tomorrow," he manages. "Eight. I'll—fuck—I'll pick you up."
"Mm." You lean in like you're going to kiss him. Let your lips almost brush his.
Then you let go, step back, and knee him directly in the dick.
Not hard enough to do real damage. But hard enough.
He doubles over with a choked sound, hands flying to his crotch, and you step around him calmly. You pick up your tablet from where you left it on the chair, and take one final look at Lando Norris.
"The trousers fit perfectly," you say, voice perfectly professional. "I'll let the tailor know we're done here."
howdyyy would you consider redoing the wallpaper pack you did last year (https://www.tumblr.com/hotgirlswatchf1/772794026348920832/f1-laptop-wallpaper-pack) updated with audi and cadillac?
i’ve been using them allll yearrr and i was looking out for an updated ver and i didn’t spot it so i figured it would hurt to ask🤞
Omg! thanks for use my wallpapers. It makes me very happy to know that someone is using them. Thank u for leaving your request in the request box, hope you like it!
High-quality wallpapers, adaptable to all screen sizes.
colorized, retouched and edited by @hotgirlswatchf1
The request box is always open :)
requests box! ⋆˚࿔ ㅤ masterlist
i find it really funny that people are saying “oh lando’s only gonna win this one championship, he won’t get any more” as a way to put him down
like there are so many great drivers that ONLY HAVE ONE CHAMPIONSHIP, for example: kimi raikkonen, nigel mansell, jenson button, nico rosberg, james hunt etc. but nobody really ever says that they’re shit and didn’t deserve the win
and this isn’t me saying that lando is like the greatest of all time or anything, but look at the stats. you don’t have to have loads of championships to be a good driver 🤷♀️
lando: "my biggest dream apart from winning a championship is winning in silverstone. it's where i first ever watched formula 1. i remember seeing the podium, it just looked like the coolest thing in the world. i think something i'm looking forward to probably more than anything is in 20-30 years, once i've retired, is looking back at all of this. preserving any part of history is not just important, i think it's needed."
stormborns
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
