#tendersmut

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ꜱᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇꜱ + ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ + ꜰᴀᴛᴇ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏꜱᴛ-ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ ꜱᴏʀᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ

ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴇʀ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ (ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇɴꜱᴜᴀʟ, ꜱᴇɴꜱᴜᴀʟ, ɴᴏɴ-ɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

ᴘᴜʀᴇ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴄɪɴɢ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ

ᴀᴄᴄᴜʀᴀᴄʏ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴜᴀʀᴀɴᴛᴇᴇᴅ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴇꜱᴛ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴇ!

The sun rose lazily over the Grand Prix venue, casting pale light over the edges of the curtains, soft and tender like a new day being offered in cupped hands. The suite smelled faintly of bergamot from the soap they had used the night before, and though the world outside hummed with anticipation, the room itself remained cocooned in the silence of intimacy and slow breath.

(Y/n) stirred first.

She blinked at the ceiling, her body blanketed in warmth and the kind of ache that only came from being held too tightly, loved too deeply. A faint soreness lingered between her thighs, but it wasn’t painful, it was grounding. A reminder of what had happened the night before. Of what they had given each other.

She turned her head.

Lando was still asleep, mouth slightly parted, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other sprawled across her waist, as though even in sleep, he needed to be sure she hadn’t gone anywhere. There was a strange vulnerability to his sleeping face. No tension in his jaw. No furrow between his brows. Just the unguarded calm of someone who had nothing to hide in that moment.

She let herself look at him a while longer.

And then, slowly, carefully, she slipped out of bed.

Her body protested a little, muscles sore from both the emotional and physical weight of the past few days. But she pushed through it. She had a bag to pack. A schedule to follow. It was race day, after all.

The room was quiet save for the sound of water running as she washed her face. She moved around with practiced ease, setting out Lando’s race kit—folded, prepped, and placed on the edge of the dresser. She tucked their passes into the side of her bag, double-checked the paddock entry wristbands, and made sure to bring the lip balm he always forgot.

By the time he stirred awake, she was already dressed, sitting by the window with her hair half-tied, sipping tea and watching people filter into the circuit from a distance.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” she replied gently.

He stretched, one hand covering his face, then dropped his arm and simply looked at her. His eyes softened as he sat up.

“How are you feeling?”

She smiled faintly. “Sore.”

Lando grinned, satisfied and sheepish all at once. “Yeah?”

She rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

They arrived at the paddock two hours before the start of the Grand Prix.

The car ride was calm, both of them listening to a playlist that drifted between soft indie and vintage R&B. The sun had risen fully now, painting the track in hues of fire and promise. There was something about race day mornings that always felt heavier, as though the air knew it was about to be broken by speed and rubber.

Inside the paddock, the atmosphere shifted from calm to electric.

Team members bustled in every direction. Tires were wheeled into garages. Engineers barked final checks into radios. Cameras clicked. Fans waved banners over the barriers. Commentators rehearsed their opening lines for the broadcast.

And in the middle of it all stood Lando, calm but focused, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his McLaren hoodie, the brim of his cap pulled low, blocking out most of the world.

Beside him, (Y/n) didn’t say much.

She didn’t need to.

Sometimes just being there was enough.

When they reached the hospitality entrance, he gave her hand one final squeeze, then pressed a soft kiss to the back of her fingers.

“Wish me luck?”

“Always,” she whispered.

He smiled—grateful, charged, ready—and then disappeared behind the orange-clad engineers.

(Y/n) found Lily inside the motorhome, curled up on one of the cushioned benches with a half-empty coffee cup. The moment she saw her, Lily brightened and patted the seat beside her.

“Race face on already?” Lily teased, glancing at (Y/n)’s concentrated expression.

(Y/n) chuckled as she sat. “I think I’m more nervous than he is.”

“You should’ve seen me during Oscar’s first race,” Lily replied, taking a sip. “I nearly bit through my pen.”

They both laughed, tension loosening slightly.

It had become a rhythm now, the way the two women fell into conversation. As though they had been friends long before soulmates or team affiliations brought them into the same world. There was something easy about Lily. She didn’t ask too much. Didn’t pry. But she saw.

And for (Y/n), that made all the difference.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The Grand Prix began with a roar.

Engines growled like caged beasts behind the starting grid. Tire blankets were stripped away. Mechanics cleared the lanes. The lights above blinked red, one by one by one, until finally, they blacked out.

And just like that, the race was on.

Lando got a clean launch, holding his second position into Turn 1. The leader—Verstappen—defended hard, pushing Lando to the edge of the track as they approached the second corner. But Lando didn’t flinch. He stayed committed, tucked into the slipstream like it was written into his blood.

Lap after lap, she watched the intervals narrow.

She barely blinked.

Lily handed her a bottle of water, but (Y/n) didn’t drink it. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, on the onboard, on the track.

Lando was relentless.

By Lap 23, he had clawed his way within DRS range, using every ounce of downforce and grit to keep his car breathing down Verstappen’s neck. On Lap 26, he made the first attempt, diving inside into Turn 4. Verstappen covered. The tires kissed. A spark flew. But Lando backed out, saving the move for something cleaner.

And it came.

Lap 31.

Out of Turn 10, with battery deployment maxed and slipstream slicing air like a blade, Lando lunged down the main straight. Verstappen tried to squeeze him, but Lando had already committed. Brake late. Hold the line. Hit the apex. Exit smooth.

He emerged in front.

The crowd erupted.

(Y/n) let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

She didn’t cheer.

She just smiled.

She knew he still had twenty-five laps to survive.

But it wasn’t just adrenaline carrying him now.

It was control.

Maturity.

Purpose.

The second stint was about tire management, fuel saving, clean exits. He held his ground like a seasoned commander, fending off all late charges. Even in the closing laps, when Charles and Max both tried to close the gap, Lando never faltered.

He crossed the finish line 3.6 seconds ahead.

P1.

McLaren’s garage exploded with celebration. Pit boards flew. Radio chatter peaked. The world watched as Lando’s hands went up in the cockpit, victorious, joyful, overwhelmed.

He parked the car in front of the board marked “1” and climbed out slowly, almost in disbelief.

Then he looked around.

Not at the cameras.

Not at the crew.

He looked for her.

And when he saw her standing at the barrier, still in disbelief, he smiled like it was only ever for her.

He jogged to her, unzipping his suit halfway, sweat clinging to his curls. Cameras followed every step, but he didn’t care. Not in that moment.

He reached her.

She reached for him.

And he pressed a kiss to her lips.

Just a peck.

But it meant everything.

She returned it, shyly at first, then again, with more feeling.

It was their moment.

Unfolding between the noise and the crowd and the history being written.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The podium was loud.

The champagne was stickier than she thought it would be. It clung to her skin, to her shirt, to the tips of Lando’s fingers when he pulled her into another hug just before media rounds.

The celebration lingered.

In the garage.

In the smiles of his mechanics.

In the energy of Zak’s toast.

In Oscar’s bear hug and Lily’s proud grin.

But eventually, even the noise began to fade.

And they were back in the suite.

Just the two of them.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

He peeled off his race suit slowly, muscles sore, back slightly tight from the strain. She ran the shower while he undressed, filling the room with soft steam and lavender-scented warmth.

He stepped in first.

She followed after.

They didn’t say much. Words weren’t necessary.

The shower steamed around them, thick and hot, curling along skin like breath. The water cascaded over their bodies in waves—soothing, quiet, almost reverent.

He stood behind her, bare chest pressed flush to her back, his arms wrapped low around her waist, palms spread possessively over her stomach. His cheek rested in the crook of her neck, the scent of her skin mixing with soap and heat and something unspoken between them.

She relaxed into him, spine melting into the hard lines of his body.

His hands moved slowly, deliberately. Up to her shoulders. Down her arms. Over her hips. Mapping her all over again.

He reached for the shampoo and lathered it between his fingers, then brought both hands up to her scalp. His fingertips massaged gently, circling, scraping just enough to make her exhale with a sound that was almost a moan.

She closed her eyes. Let herself be cared for.

He tilted her head back beneath the stream, rinsing her slowly, watching the suds trail down the delicate slope of her neck, over her breasts, then further, following every curve like they belonged to him.

When he kissed her shoulder, it wasn’t a brush of affection, it lingered. His lips parted, teeth grazing. Then he sucked, slow and deep, just enough to leave a mark blooming on her damp skin.

Her breath caught.

His hand slid forward again, between her thighs this time—fingers brushing against her heat, testing. She gasped. Pressed her back against him instinctively.

He was already hard. Already pressed along the curve of her ass, pulsing hot against slick skin.

“I need you,” he whispered, voice rough, low, and trembling. “Right here.”

She nodded. Didn’t need time to think.

He turned her gently, kissed her mouth—wet and full, tongues sliding together like muscle memory. Then he lifted one of her thighs against his hip and aligned himself.

The stretch of him filled her in one slow, aching thrust. Their foreheads pressed together. Her mouth parted. A choked sound left her throat.

“Fuck—you feel too good,” he groaned, hands gripping her ass, holding her steady as he began to move.

Water spilled between them, rivulets tracing down their joined bodies as his hips found a rhythm—deep, slow, grinding.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, then his back, then his hair—needing to hold onto something real. Their bodies slapped together, soft and wet, steam rising with every thrust.

She moaned. Loud now. Unfiltered. Her head fell back against the tile as he fucked her into the wall—deliberate, focused, his mouth kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

“You’re mine,” he murmured between kisses. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, barely able to breathe. “Lando, I—”

He reached between them and rubbed tight circles against her clit, thumb slick, firm, insistent. She broke apart in seconds.

Her orgasm crashed over her—hips jerking, muscles clenching around him, a cry echoing off the tile.

He groaned, deep and guttural, as she pulsed around him. And then he followed—spilling inside her with a stuttering thrust, forehead pressed to hers, breathing ragged.

They stood there, holding each other in the heavy quiet. The water still falling. His hands still on her skin. Her body trembling in his arms.

He kissed her again. Softer now. Sweeter.

And she smiled against his lips, eyes fluttering closed.

Because in the warmth, in the steam, in the ache—they had found something real.

Not just lust. Not just need.

But belonging.

And when they finally stepped out of the shower, limbs still shaking, breath still uneven, the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of reverence, of everything they’d just shared.

She reached first, pulling a soft towel from the hook and wrapping it around his waist with trembling hands. Then, wordlessly, she took another and began drying his hair with the same slow care she’d once given her little brother on nights when the world felt too heavy. Only this time, her fingers lingered longer. She smoothed back the curls from his forehead, rubbed gently behind his ears, moving with a tenderness that made his chest ache.

He didn’t look away.

Didn’t say a word.

He just stood there, hands resting on her hips, as though anchoring himself to the reality of her, to the miracle of being held like this.

Then, as she lowered the towel, he took both of her hands in his and brought them to his lips. He kissed each knuckle. Then the soft inside of her wrists. Then the fading red mark near her soulmate shimmer.

“You saved me tonight,” he whispered against her skin.

But she shook her head, voice raw. “We saved each other.”

And then it was his turn.

He took a towel and slowly, reverently, dried her shoulders, her arms, the curves of her waist and thighs. Every movement was deliberate. Worshipful. Like she was something sacred and he didn’t dare rush.

When he knelt to dry her calves, he pressed a kiss to her knee. Then her hip. Then the stretch mark just above her thigh.

She watched with wide, tear-glossed eyes as he rose again, brushing her damp hair behind her ears before cupping her face.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

She believed him.

Not because of the way he said it, but because of the way he touched her. The way he looked at her like she was made of starlight and second chances. Like her body, her heart, her soul, every part of her, belonged exactly where it was. With him.

They stood there for a long time.

Bare.

Bruised.

But whole.

And when he finally pulled her back into his arms, wrapping them both in the same towel, she melted against him—warm, safe, claimed.

In the quiet of that room, they didn’t need to say what they both already knew:

They had taken each other—fully, completely.

And neither of them would ever give that back.

They climbed into bed with the lights still low and the television muted in the background.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they slept without fear.

No headlines to dread.

No questions to run from.

Only each other.

Only the sound of steady breath in the hush of the suite.

Only the knowing that they had made it—through the weekend, through the storm, and into something that felt like the beginning of forever.

To be continued...🧡

🫱🏼‍🫲🏼ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 14: Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴛᴏᴍᴏʀʀᴏᴡꜱ🫱🏼‍🫲🏼

📝 Note from the Author: My dear Alarwynnites, First post for today, whew. I know, we’re diving in hot again. I had to quietly scream into a pillow while writing half of this because *ahem* someone (Lando) decided to turn the shower into a soul-baring confessional, AND a steam room for Olympic-level passion.

I mean, come on, the way he dried her hair like she was royalty and then went full kneel and kiss every stretch mark mode?? Sir. Please. Some of us are trying to survive out here.

To everyone still riding this story train with me, THANK YOU. Your reblogs, comments, and likes bring this universe to life and keep me from quietly combusting from self-doubt. If you haven’t left a note, it’s totally fine, just knowing you read means the world to me. Still, don’t be shy… reblog, like, comment if you feel something (or scream something). I read everything.

More soon. Stay soft, stay sharp.