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papayainsectorone · 2 days ago

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Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

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#lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris one shot #lando norris fic #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #mclaren #mclaren x reader #lando norris x fem!reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #f1 smut #𓊆papayainone𓊇 #ln4 smut #f1 series

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papayainsectorone · 3 days ago

Text

Is It Casual Now?

summary: i have nothing to summarize other then .... spiraling

content: unrequited feelings, emotional neglect, jealousy, emotional intimacy withdrawal, romantic displacement, passive heartbreak, "i’m fine" when they’re clearly not, The Couch™ as emotional purgatory

word count: 4,3k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a thought: thank you endlessly for all the love on the last part, your comments truly mean the world to me and i’m so so grateful 🫶

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

The afternoon sun slants across the apartment like it’s trying too hard to be gentle. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket still draped around your shoulders even though you aren’t cold anymore, just… thin. Like your skin’s been worn down by too many hours of pretending.

You don’t remember what’s playing on the TV. You’ve been staring at it hours without really seeing it.

Your stomach is mostly settled now. The sickness has faded, leaving just the ghost of it behind, hovering low and sour. But the ache in your chest—the one that started when her laugh had filtered through your bedroom wall—is louder now in the quiet.

You end up on the ocuch all day, curtains drawn just enough to keep the light soft. You lie on your stomach, scrolling. Meaningless stuff, nothing worth remembering.

And then you type her name into the search bar.

Charlotte.

You don’t even know her last name. But somehow you land on someone who might be her. Blonde. Tall. An unmistakable glint of Lando’s jacket in the background of one photo on her story.

Your stomach clenches, betrayal and shame tangled up like wet wires.

You wonder if he kissed her the same way he kissed you. If he tucked her hair behind her ear the way he used to. If he whispered stupid, soft things to her while his hand was on her waist, if she got the good parts of him too.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You don’t want him. That was the whole deal. Casual. Friendly. Disposable.

Except maybe you do. And maybe it isn’t.

You let your phone slip from your fingers to the cushions, the weight of it suddenly too much again.

The door clicks open late that afternoon.

You don’t move. Just stare blankly at the paused Netflix screen, the lingering image of a scene you didn’t absorb.

Lando walks into view, dropping his keys in the dish by the door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand. He looks freshly showered again, cheeks flushed from the wind outside.

“Hey,” he says, voice light. “How you feeling?”

You turn your head, smile a little too tightly. “Better.”

“Color’s back in your face,” he offers, walking into the kitchen. “Figured I’d make you something. You kept anything down?”

You nod. Lie. “Some toast.”

He pokes his head out from behind the fridge door. “Okay, toast and… crisps it is.”

You huff out a dry laugh as he tosses you a bag.

He drops onto the couch beside you, a little too close, thigh brushing yours. Your body tenses before you can hide it.

Lando glances over at you, the crease between his brows twitching just slightly. “Still nauseous?”

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”

But it isn’t.

He seems like he knows that too, his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s trying to read between your words. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything. He just nods, barely, and turns his attention back to the muted TV screen.

You don’t curl up against him like you usually do. Don’t toss your legs over his lap or lean into his side the way your body aches to do now. You stay where you are, arms crossed, folded in on yourself like that could protect you from whatever it is you’re not saying out loud.

And Lando… Lando doesn’t push for that either.

That’s what makes it worse, somehow.

He’s being kind. Attentive. Gentle.

And it’s unbearable.

Because now, with all that sudden distance stretched between you, you remember how soft he talked to her in that hallway, how his eyes propably crinkled when she whispered something close to his ear. How his laugh rumbled warm and easy with her body pressed against his. Like it wasn’t just fun. Like she meant something.

He’s being careful with you now. But he was tender with her, too.

And that… that hurts in a way you weren’t ready for.

THREE DAYS LATER

You’re both in the kitchen.

Technically.

In practice, it feels like you’re on separate orbits—same space, different gravity. There’s nothing overtly wrong. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just a stillness that hums under everything. A quiet unfamiliarity in a room that used to be full of rhythm.

Lando’s leaned back against the counter, his phone in one hand, thumb dragging absently across the screen. He’s talking in that fast, half-distracted way he does when he’s running on autopilot. Something about the next race—weather forecasts, new car tweaks, a funny thing one of the engineers texted him.

His voice fills the space, light and easy, like it always does. You smile at the right moments. Nod when he pauses long enough to pretend he’s expecting a response.

You’re at the stove, watching the water in the kettle start to tremble. Your arms are crossed, knotted across your chest like they’re holding something in. The steam curls up in slow spirals. You focus on that. It’s easier than watching him.

This used to be your favorite version of him. Excited, moving from topic to topic without breath, like everything that mattered was right there in his head and he wanted to share it all with you. You used to love how chaotic he got before a trip, how he’d try to pack the morning of and forget half his chargers. You’d steal his hoodie just to slow him down. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be mad, and then chase you around the living room until you were laughing too hard to breathe.

Now he’s wearing that same hoodie.

The one you used to sleep in.

You think about how you used to wake up in it. How it smelled like him even after the wash. You think, vaguely, that maybe you hate it now.

You pour hot water over a waiting tea bag. Let it steep. But you don’t drink it. Just hold the mug close, letting the heat pool in your palms, like maybe that’s enough to keep you grounded.

Lando’s still talking. You hear the sound of his voice, but not the words. They don’t quite land.

He doesn’t notice you’ve gone quiet.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t ask.

The thing is, you’re not angry. Not really. You just don’t have the energy to reach for something that feels like it’s already slipping away. Something that maybe was never yours to begin with.

He finally checks the time, stretches like he always does before leaving, and grabs his keys from the bowl by the door.

“I’m meeting Charlotte for lunch,” he says casually, like it’s just another item on the to-do list. Like it’s nothing.

You nod. “Have fun.”

He hesitates, just for a beat. Like maybe he senses it, the shift between you. But whatever he might’ve said gets swallowed down. He flashes a brief, familiar smile, and then he’s walking down the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And the quiet rushes in like a wave, swallowing everything whole.

You’re on the couch together.

The room is dim, cast in soft flickers from the TV, some action comedy Lando picked. Something loud and ridiculous. He said it’d be a good distraction. You didn’t argue.

You sit curled into the far corner, legs tucked beneath you, blanket wrapped tight across your lap like it’s shielding you from something neither of you have named. Your side of the couch is colder than it used to be. That space in the middle, the one you used to fill without thinking, now stretches longer than it should.

Lando’s sprawled comfortably on the other end, socked feet propped on the coffee table, fingers resting loosely on a half-finished bottle of water. He laughs—short and easy—at a dumb joke on screen. You try to echo it with a breathy sound. It doesn’t land.

“You’re not even watching,” he says, without looking away from the movie.

You hum. “I am.”

He glances over, catches your profile in the low light. “What’s the main guy’s name then?”

You pause. “Guy McYells?”

Lando snorts. “Okay, maybe you are watching.”

You smile. It's weak, but it's real enough to fool the room.

Then his phone buzzes between you.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He reaches for it without missing a beat, fingers moving fast. The screen lights up and out of the corner of your eye, you catch the name.

Charlotte.

No emojis. No nickname. Just her name. Clean. Definitive.

Still, the smile that breaks across Lando’s face is soft and wide and utterly effortless. It hits like a punch to the chest.

“What’s she saying?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t look up, still typing. “Just something about her trip. She might come up next week.”

You nod slowly. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” He glances at you now, expression unreadable. “You two should hang out. Properly, I mean.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right, because I’m dying to have girl talk.”

He laughs again, but it’s more of a breath. “Come on, it’s not like that, she´s not like that, I reckon you´d like her just as much as I do”

You turn back to the screen. “Sure.”

A beat.

“Okay, maybe a little less,” he admits, his voice quiet, almost sheepish.

You force a chuckle. “Wow. Big revelation.”

Lando nudges your leg with his foot. “You used to be less mean.”

You glance down at where he touched you, like it matters. “You used to be less predictable.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop.

It hangs in the air—something between you that neither of you dares to name. The familiar rhythm of banter, still there, but thinner. Fragile. Like one wrong word might snap it in half.

He shifts again, settling deeper into the cushions, eyes back on his phone.

The silence between you swells.

“Hey,” Lando says suddenly, voice softer now. “We’re still good, right?”

You look at him. Really look.

His expression is open, brows tilted just enough to show he’s not as sure as he wants to sound. The question hits harder than it should. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s not even close to the one you’ve been asking yourself.

You nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

But something in your chest doesn’t believe it. And maybe he doesn’t either, because he just nods back, like that’s enough to close the subject.

And then he’s gone again, into his phone, into whatever Charlotte’s saying, into a world that no longer includes you in quite the same way.

You stare at the television. Still pretending.

THREE WEEKS LATER

You come home later than usual. Not on purpose, but you didn’t rush either.

The apartment’s quiet when you step inside. Not empty, just quiet in that specific way that tells you someone else is already here. Lights are low. A jacket slung over the arm of the couch. A faint scent of perfume you don’t recognize hangs in the air, something floral and expensive, the kind that comes from a department store tester bottle or a date that went well.

Then you see them.

Her shoes.

They sit just inside the door, neatly side by side like she plans to slip them back on any minute, but you know better.

You freeze for half a second, keys still in hand, breath caught mid-inhale. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag before you force yourself to move again, softer now. Calmer. Like if you go still enough, quiet enough, the ache won’t rise up and drown you again.

You don’t go to your room.

You don’t even look down the hallway.

Because you know.

You know her laughter by now, how it sounds too close to his. You know the creak of his bed when someone rolls too far to the edge. You know the muffled shape of a kiss through drywall, even when it’s gentle. Even when it’s real.

You’re not strong enough for that tonight.

You set your keys on the coffee table as quietly as you can, afraid even the sound of metal might crack the illusion you’re building for yourself.

Then you lie down on the couch.

Curled up small, spine pressing into the cushions, one arm wedged between your cheek and the fabric like that might hold your head still. The blanket’s out of reach, but you don’t grab it. Too far. Too much.

You stare at the ceiling.

You close your eyes.

And you pretend.

Pretend sleep comes easy. Pretend you’re just tired. Pretend your chest doesn’t feel like it’s been hollowed out and left to echo with every laugh, every whisper from the next room. Pretend you don’t feel displaced in your own home. Like you’re the ghost now. The quiet in someone else’s love story.

You tell yourself she’ll leave soon.

But her shoes stay by the door.

And you don’t move.

FOUR WEEKS LATER

You didn’t even want to come.

But staying home felt worse. Like admitting something final.

The bar is too loud, too dark, too full of people you used to feel tethered to. Friends you still technically have, but who feel more like polite acquaintances now. You sit at the edge of the booth, shoulders brushing the wall, knees knocking gently into someone else’s under the table, maybe Grace, maybe Will. You haven’t looked up in a while.

Charlotte is across from you. Right beside Lando, close enough that it matters. She’s laughing at something he said, head tilted just enough to show she’s listening. Really listening. Her smile is soft and bright and infuriatingly genuine.

You want to hate her.

God, you want to hate her so badly.

But she’s… nice.

Too nice.

She’s clever and warm and thoughtful in all the right ways. She compliments your necklace. Orders your favorite food before you even finish glancing at the menu when she stays over. Laughs at your jokes, actually laughs, not the strained kind people give when they’re pretending to like someone for someone else’s sake.

She’s the kind of woman you would’ve wanted your best friend to fall for. If it weren’t your best friend.

If it weren’t him.

Now, she’s just another reminder of how things used to be. How easily you’ve been replaced by someone who never even tried to replace you. Charlotte isn’t taking your place maliciously, she’s just stepping into it naturally, without needing to push. Like the door was always half-open.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was never even near to being closed.

Lando is halfway through another story. Something about last weekend, a dinner you weren’t invited to—of course. You already know who was there. He hasn’t said her name, but she’s in every sentence, tucked into the “we,” ghosting through his memories like she belongs there now.

“She thought it was chicken,” he says, his grin lopsided and familiar. “But it was actually—”

You miss the punchline. You sip your drink, too sweet, too sticky, too something. Vodka cranberry. A drink from a different version of you. One who didn’t feel like a bystander in her own story.

You laugh when everyone else does. Not too late, not too soon. You’ve mastered the timing. Enough to pass.

Someone turns to you and says your name.

You blink. “Hm?”

He repeats the question. Travel plans. Work. Something light.

You nod. Offer a thin smile. “Busy, but good.”

That’s your answer for everything lately.

Busy. But good.

You let the conversation move on without you, words passing over your head like wind through a cracked window. You nod when it seems right, smile faintly when someone laughs, all muscle memory. But your eyes keep drifting. Back to him. Back to Lando.

He’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your chest feel full. That laugh used to be yours, a sound you could pull from him like it belonged to you.

Now, he doesn’t look at you once. Not even by accident.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts.

You remember when he used to. All the time. Across rooms. Mid-conversation. Little glances like secrets. The corner of his mouth twitching when you rolled your eyes. That smirk when someone said something dumb and he knew you were thinking it too. The soft look when he caught you looking at him and didn’t look away.

It used to feel like the two of you spoke a language only you knew. A shared, unspoken thread pulled taut between glances.

Now? Now you couldn’t feel further from him if there were an ocean between you.

You press your thumb into the side of your glass, watching the condensation pool around it, gather into droplets that slide down like they’re trying to escape.

There’s a lump rising in your throat, slow and sharp, pressing against your windpipe like it wants out. You swallow hard. Once. Twice. It doesn’t move.

You’re here. In the same room. At the same table. Breathing the same air.

And you’ve never felt more alone. Not even when you were cities apart. Not even when he left you unread. Not even onve in the many years you knew him.

You wonder if he even notices. That you're slipping. That you already have.

And somehow, he still feels miles away.

You smile again when someone cracks another joke. You don’t remember the setup. You don’t care about the punchline.

You're getting really good at pretending.

You excuse yourself with a smile that doesn’t quite stick.

Something about needing another drink. Even though your glass is still half full. Even though no one really noticed you slipping away, not even Lando. Especially not Lando.

You weave through the crowd, past a cluster of people singing along to something too loud, past two girls laughing at the edge of the bar, already flushed with wine. The room is warmer here. Closer. Easier to breathe in, even if only for a moment.

You lean against the bar, shoulder grazing the cold brass rail, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

"Long night?"

The voice is low. Familiar. Smooth in that signature way that always seems half on the edge of teasing.

You glance to your right and find Charles.

His hair is messy, button-down half undone, sleeves rolled, drink in hand. He looks... at ease. In a way most people don’t at these kinds of things. In a way you definitely aren’t.

You offer a tired smile. “Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something involving Lando?”

Your expression doesn’t change, but your grip on your glass does. He notices. Of course he does.

“You looked uncomfortable back there,” he says gently. Not pushing, just observing. “Not like you.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Charles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Or maybe you're just stuck sitting across from a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.”

That makes you pause.

You glance sideways.

He’s smirking now, the corner of his mouth tugged upward with a quiet kind of mischief. But it’s the look in his eyes that stills you. Calm. Observant. Too knowing for comfort. Like he’s already unraveled everything you’ve tried so carefully to keep wrapped up.

You blink once, sharply, trying to push back the sudden burn behind your eyes.

Charles doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a breath, then sips his drink.

“I mean,” he starts, voice casual but not careless, “I didn’t want to assume... but it kind of seems like whatever this is”, he gestures loosely back toward the crowded booth, where laughter rises again, louder now, “has been going on for a while.”

You look at him. Don’t answer. Just meet his gaze, even though it feels like something in your chest is pulling tight.

Charles leans back slightly, resting his elbow on the bar. “And I haven’t seen you at races,” he adds, quieter now. “Not really. Not the way you used to be there.”

Still, you don’t say anything. But you don’t look away either.

He watches you a moment longer, then shrugs lightly and takes another sip. And then, because he’s Charles, he smirks even more, a different kind this time, nudging your shoulder with his.

“I kinda missed your moans from his driver room,” he says, tone full of teasing, mouth curving around it like he knows exactly how to pull you back from the edge of whatever you were about to feel.

It works.

You huff out a laugh. “You’re such an ass.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe. But I’m right.”

It shouldn’t be comforting. But somehow, it is. That someone knows. That someone sees you, what you were, what you are now, and doesn’t make it more dramatic than it already feels in your chest. He just lets it sit there, in the space between drinks and half-smiles.

You exhale, leaning a little heavier against the bar.

“Can we not talk about him right now?”

Charles tilts his head. “Sure. No Lando talk.”

There’s a pause. The good kind. The easy kind.

Then, like a peace offering, he flags the bartender with two fingers. “Let me get you something better than that sugar-water,” he says, nodding at your half-drunk cranberry vodka. “You always drink that when you’re pretending you’re fine.”

You glance at him, surprised. “God, do I have any secrets left?”

He gives you a look, amused and soft all at once. “Not from me.”

And when the new drink arrives, you take it in your hands and let the sharpness of citrus chase away the ache. Even if just for a moment.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, it’s real. Loose and stupid and full of that fizzy kind of joy that only hits after too many drinks and just enough distraction. The music’s thumping, spilling out over the crowd, all bass and beat and sweat-slicked bodies. And you—pressed up against Charles on the dancefloor—are floating somewhere between tipsy and gone, but it feels good. Easy.

His hands rest light on your hips. You’re not even sure who started the dancing. One second you were at the bar still trading lazy banter, the next—this. Heat. Movement. His smile low and crooked as he leaned in to say something you didn’t quite hear but smiled at anyway.

And that’s when you see him.

Lando. Back at the booth. Standing slightly apart now, Charlotte beside him. His hand wrapped loosely in hers. His eyes, though, locked on you.

You freeze for half a second. Just enough to feel the pulse of something cold run beneath your skin.

He’s staring. Face unreadable, but his jaw tight. Eyebrows drawn the way they get when he’s confused. Or pissed. Or both.

Charles just leans in again, mouth near your ear, breath warm as he says, “Keep dancing.”

And you do.

You move again, slower now, but still with that reckless, weightless ease. You let yourself laugh again. Let Charles spin you slightly, his fingers brushing yours. Lando’s still there. Still watching. But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you.

So you dance.

And when the music gets too loud, and your head starts to spin in that pleasant, end-of-the-night kind of way, the crowd starts to thin.

The booth, you’re no longer part of it, starts breaking apart. Hugs, handshakes, half-shouted goodbyes.

Charlotte finds you just as you’re tipping your head back to finish what’s left in your glass.

“Hey,” she says, her voice warm. “We’re heading out. You coming?”

Her smile is kind. Sincere. Damn her. She’s funny and beautiful and smart and never once made you feel small. And that’s the worst part. Because you want to blame her. You want it to be her fault. But it’s not. It never was.

You open your mouth. Pause.

You are tired. Your feet ache. The room’s spinning just a little.

But you also know exactly what it would feel like to follow them out of this bar. To walk three steps behind as they hold hands to the car. To sit silently beside them on the ride home, pretending not to notice Lando’s arm thrown across the back of her seat, pretending not to feel like a third wheel in your own friendship.

You hesitate.

And then, like he heard the entire conversation in your head, Charles appears beside you.

“Oh, actually—I think we’re fine,” he says casually, slipping an arm lightly around your waist. Not possessive. Just sure.

You glance up at him.

Then, instinctively, you look at Lando.

He’s right there. Just a few feet away. Still holding Charlotte’s hand, but his brow furrowed, like he hasn’t quite figured out what this feeling in his chest is supposed to be called. Like maybe he doesn’t like it.

Your eyes meet. You wait for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there.

Charles turns his head slightly toward you, voice quieter now. “You’re coming home with me, right?”

His eyes are steady. No pressure. Just an offer. A way out.

You glance once more between them—Charled, Charlotte, then Lando the night closing in like a held breath.

Then you nod still looking into his eyes.

“Uhm, yeah. I’m actually good,” you say lightly, tugging your phone out of your pocket, pretending to check something. “Don’t wait for me.”

Charlotte smiles, maybe a little surprised, but not unkind. “Okay. Get home safe, yeah?”

And Lando? He doesn’t say anything at all.

He just watches as you turn away.

As Charles takes your hand.

As the music swells and the night swallows you whole.

SURPRISE Charles revivial hehe

tag list:

@lifesass @mara1999 @norrisjpg @random-movie @widow-cevans @mxdi0 @pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs @isar8tsyyy @wetrainclouds @seonaw @msimpala--67 @isar8tsyyy @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv9 @sparklepiastri @sailorinthesie @bell1a @spikershoyo @fer23022003 @vinylphwoar @wherethezoes-at @mbioooo0000 @v3nd3ttal3on @4-ln4

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