the winner takes it all, ln4
summary: your boy is Formula One World Champion. How insane is that?
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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
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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”