You’re brought in to fix Lando Norris. Media nightmare, zero filter, says the first thing that comes to his mind and somehow always mic’d up when he does it. He laughs when no one else does, curses through every press obligation, and gives McLaren's PR team weekly ulcers.
You’re supposed to clean it up.
Make him polished.
Manageable.
Instead, you make it worse.
Now everyone's watching the both of you.
✦Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader
✦Warnings: This story is a mess. It’s loud, explicit, wildly inappropriate, and deeply unserious. People say things they shouldn’t, in places they absolutely shouldn’t. If you’re looking for boundaries, you won’t find them here.
✦Includes foul language, heavy sexual content, emotionally questionable behavior, workplace misconduct, therapy malpractice, and should absolutely not be read by minors.
The carpet is beige and boring. The lamps are soft. The whole room feels too quiet, like something is waiting to go wrong. You sit with your ankle propped over your knee, arms crossed tight, trying not to look at Lando. He sits beside you but angled away, knee bouncing nonstop, jaw locked like he is pretending he is calm when he clearly isn’t.
The therapist looks between you both with the polite, cautious smile people use when they suspect a gas leak. “Alright. Why are we here today?”
Lando answers before you even open your mouth. “Because she keeps acting like I’m the problem.”
Your head snaps toward him. “You are the problem.”
He gestures at you. “See.”
The therapist tries again. “Can one of you give me an example?”
Lando points straight at you. “She says I sexualise everything.”
You sigh. “Because you do.”
He looks at the therapist. “She shuts me up in public with one look. I go silent instantly. Like someone pressed an off switch. Then she texts me filth while I’m trying to stand upright in front of professionals.”
The therapist raises her eyebrows. “Such as?”
He clears his throat. “Stuff like, ‘Come home and fuck me till I can’t walk.’”
You mutter, “Twice.”
“Once was enough,” he says. “I had to pretend I wasn’t going to cum in front of half the garage.”
The therapist nods slowly. “And you?” she asks you.
“He sexualises everything,” you say. “Everything. I breathe wrong and he falls apart.”
Lando smiles smugly. “Tell her about the toothbrush.”
Your jaw tightens. “I was brushing my teeth. That’s it.”
He looks at the therapist. “She’s half naked, hair up, bent over the sink brushing her teeth like it’s the most innocent thing on the planet. I walk by the doorway and she’s-”
“I was brushing my teeth,” you repeat.
He ignores you completely. “She was making noises.”
“I was brushing my teeth.”
“And I said one thing. Just one.”
The therapist looks at you.
“He said,” you tell her, “‘Do us a favor and spit a bit louder next time. Makes it easier for me to wank to later.’”
The therapist stops writing.
You stare at him. “You’re repulsive.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, and you still slept with me that night.”
You ignore that. “Another example. I take my bra off. That’s all. I take it off and toss it on the chair.”
“She threw it,” Lando says.
“I placed it.”
“She threw it. Like she was signaling a pit stop.”
You talk over him. “He looks up from his phone and says, ‘Don’t do that unless you’re ready for consequences.’”
Lando lifts his hands. “Her tits were out. What am I meant to do. Ignore them?”
The therapist looks physically pained.
You keep going. “Or the peach. I’m sitting on the counter eating a peach. That’s it. Not being sexy. Just hungry.”
“She was massacring it,” Lando says.
“I was eating it.”
“Juice down her hand. All over her fingers.”
The therapist lifts a hand. “Alright, I think that’s-”
“And I said,” Lando finishes, ‘You keep that up, I am gonna be rubbing one out in the stairwell.’”
The therapist inhales sharply.
“And when I told him he was disgusting,” you say, “he said, ‘You’re the one deep-throating a peach.’”
Lando nods. “Accurate.”
The therapist presses her fingers to her temple.
“He does this constantly,” you say. “I sit on the sofa in sweats with one leg tucked under me. Comfortable. Normal. He looks once and says, ‘I’ve wanked to less.’”
The therapist freezes mid-pen-stroke.
“And then,” you continue, “I reach up to get a mug. My shirt lifts maybe an inch.”
“More than an inch,” Lando mutters.
You ignore him. “He says, ‘If I get even half a look at your back dimples again I am gonna cum standing up like a dog.’”
The therapist closes her eyes.
You keep going because you’re already halfway to hell. “Work is worse. We’re crowding around screens after practice. I sit down. One leg tucked under me.”
“She does it on purpose,” Lando mutters.
“It’s my leg,” you snap. “He looks down and mutters, ‘Brilliant. Now I’ve got a semi and nowhere to go.’ In front of people.”
Lando shrugs. “It was factual.”
“Earlier that weekend,” you say, “I stretched my arm and my tank top slipped a little. Not much. He looks away, then looks back, and says, ‘If she keeps moving like that I’m going to eat her out on the tyre trolley.’”
The therapist actually stares at him with her mouth open.
“The tyre guy quietly walked away,” you add. “His race engineer sighed into his headset and said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’”
Lando looks unbothered. “Honesty is important.”
You glare at him. “Then there’s the paddock. I walk past in a dress. Nothing extreme. Zip up the front, my legs out, normal. He’s walking with his trainer and says, like it’s small talk, ‘Bent her over the sim rig last week. Nearly dislocated my hip.’”
The therapist pinches the bridge of her nose.
“The trainer said, ‘We’re in public,’” you add. “Lando said, ‘And I’m in pain.’”
The therapist slowly turns to him. “And you said that during work?”
He shrugs. “It was relevant.”
You keep going. “Post-race. He’s sweaty and feeling himself because he just came P2. A journalist asks how he handles mental fatigue mid-race. Innocent question.”
Lando groans quietly.
“He says, ‘I think about something better.’ They ask, ‘Better like what?’ And he says, ‘Can’t say in front of my team.’ Everyone laughs. Then he adds, ‘Put it this way. She’s flexible and I’ve got a good memory.’ Zak put his head in his hands.”
The therapist stares at Lando like he’s radioactive.
You’re not done. “Then after qualifying, he’s on the mic alone. I’m not in the room. A reporter asks, ‘Is she your good luck charm?’ And he says, ‘Yeah, maybe. She gets me loosened up.’ Long pause. ‘Physically. Mentally. Whatever.’ Another pause. ‘That came out wrong.’ He looks toward the curtain like I’m there. I’m not. Then he goes, ‘Fuck.’ Directly into the mic.”
The therapist sets her pen down.
“And the brand video,” you say. “Rapid fire questions. They ask him, ‘What’s the last thing she said to you?’ Without thinking he goes, ‘Don’t come yet.’ I’m standing off-camera. I don’t move. The crew stops breathing.”
Lando clears his throat.
“And,” you continue, “the group interview. Multiple drivers. Someone asks if they believe in soulmates. He should say no. He knows he should say no. He looks at me, barely pulls the mic away, and says, ‘I was inside mine this morning.’ As if no one would hear him.”
The therapist actually flinches.
“Everyone heard it,” you say. “No one reacted. Carlos leaned over and whispered, ‘You are unbelievable.’ Charles looked away so he wouldn’t laugh.”
The therapist turns to Lando. “Is that all accurate?”
He sighs. “Yes.”
“And you don’t see an issue with any of that?”
He shrugs. “I see a few issues. They’re not all mine.”
You laugh under your breath. “Here we go.”
Lando finally looks at you properly. “You’ve spent ten minutes listing everything I’ve said. Do you want to tell her the things you say or should I?”
You feel your stomach drop. “You don’t have to repeat it.”
“I do,” he says. “Because you keep pretending I’m the only feral one here.”
He looks back at the therapist. “She says things during sex that are not normal. They sound like they came from some bloke’s search history. Straight filth. Just falls out of her mouth.”
You whisper, “Please stop.”
He doesn’t. “She’ll be gone. Completely gone. And she’ll say stuff like, ‘Fuck, keep going, I can feel you in my fucking guts, do it again, right there, don’t stop.’ No filter. No awareness. Just raw filth.”
The therapist looks down at her notes again.
“And then,” he says, “there are the ones that should never be said out loud. Ever. She once said, ‘Fuck me until my legs don’t work, fucking kill me, Lando.’ Just like that.”
The therapist stiffens.
“And she grabs me,” he adds, “pulls me closer, and it’s ‘Fuck, cum in me. I want you leaking out of me all day.’”
You put your hand over your face.
“She doesn’t remember half of it,” he says. “Because she’s too far gone.”
The therapist asks quietly, “Do you remember saying those things?”
You shrug. “Some of it.”
“And then there’s the baby one,” Lando says.
You look at him fast. “Stop.”
“She looked right at me,” he says, “and said, ‘I want to have your baby, Lando. Please.’”
The therapist’s eyes go wide.
He adds, out of pure spite, “And she said it in this pathetic little whiny voice.” He mimics you horribly. “‘Lando, please, I want your baby, please.’”
You smack his arm. “I did not sound like that.”
“You did,” he says.
The therapist looks like she wants a glass of wine.
“And outside of sex,” Lando goes on, “she’s worse. Because she doesn’t think. She’ll whisper things like, ‘Your cum is still leaking out of me,’ when we’re walking past fans.”
You shut your eyes.
“Or in the lift,” he says. “‘If you touched me right now I’d let you and they could all watch.’ Full lift. Engineers included.”
You pinch your forehead.
“And before a briefing,” he says, “she hugged me and whispered, ‘I am so wet, I can feel it on my thighs. I need your hands all over me or I will go insane.’ Then acted like nothing happened.”
You breathe out slowly. “You put your hands on me later.”
He stares. “That’s not the point.”
The therapist finally says, “So both of you struggle with boundaries. Especially in public.”
Lando laughs once under his breath. “That’s one way to put it.”
You cross your legs the other direction. “He likes all of it.”
He looks at you sideways. “Liking it and explaining it in therapy are two different things.”
She exhales slowly. “So. To summarise. Both of you use extremely explicit language. In private. In work settings. In public. Often without considering impact.”
Neither of you answers.
She tries another angle. “How did the two of you meet?”
You both answer at the same time, same flat tone.
“Work.”
There is a small silence. The air feels thick. Your chairs have inched closer together without either of you noticing. His knee is almost touching your leg now. His fingers are resting on the arm of his chair, close enough that they keep brushing the side of your hand when he moves.
The therapist looks at where your hands almost meet, then back at your faces, then down at her pad, where absolutely nothing she writes is going to fix this.
“Alright,” she says quietly. “Let us start there.”
You’re brought in to fix Lando Norris. Media nightmare, zero filter, says the first thing that comes to his mind and somehow always mic’d up when he does it. He laughs when no one else does, curses through every press obligation, and gives McLaren's PR team weekly ulcers.
You’re supposed to clean it up.
Make him polished.
Manageable.
Instead, you make it worse. Now everyone's watching the both of you.
✦ Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader
✦ Warnings: This story is a mess. It’s loud, explicit, wildly inappropriate, and deeply unserious. People say things they shouldn’t, in places they absolutely shouldn’t. If you’re looking for boundaries, you won’t find them here.
✦ Includes foul language, heavy sexual content, emotionally questionable behavior, workplace misconduct, therapy malpractice, and should absolutely not be read by minors.
A/N: HOW ABOUT HUNGARY???
Well... I'm back? I think.
There are a lot of new people here, so hi. ❤️
Also, I really wish I was one of those aesthetic fic writers with the cute banners and gifs because I read one the other day and it was so pretty. Meanwhile, y'all get... words.
Anyway, here's another long ass chapter. I'm gonna do my best to keep posting consistently over the next few weeks because once this fic is finished, I swear I may never write another thing ever again.
Also, thank you for all the comments, asks, and reblogs. Sometimes it feels like I'm just throwing this fic into the void, and hearing from you guys genuinely keeps me going. (Also x 2--I don't know shit about fuck when it comes to karting and had to get so much help with that part, so don't come for me, thx)
Everything else between you and Lando was complicated. The sex never was. It had been easy to climb into bed with him once you’d finally let your walls down. Easy to spend that first night in Miami, letting him go down on you in the driver’s room, the fireproof incident forever staining the month of May in your mind. Easy to remember Monaco, then Monaco again. Him asking, “How many of your clients have you fucked?” Straddling him in the car in Italy, every bump in the road nudging him impossibly deeper, your cheek pressed against his shoulder as the lights from passing houses flickered across the side of his face. Waking up beside him in Italy. New York. Silverstone before everything went to shit. The car on the way back from Surrey. The pub bathroom. Looking back, it had all been easy. For two people who couldn’t seem to get the timing right anywhere else, neither of you had ever missed a beat when you were together.
You’d spent half the night remembering the misery of the last month, every evening that had bled into midnight while you sat on the balcony or stared blankly out the window, crying over pages of a book you’d bought with every intention of reading but never made it past the first chapter. It had become little more than something to occupy your lap while your mind wandered somewhere much darker.
The day had been long as most Mondays tended to be. You met with the company you’d been assigned to and were briefed bright and early about the sort of mess you were walking into. You stopped long enough to throw something together for lunch and called him.
“I don’t actually know what eugenics is.”
You smiled to yourself, holding back a laugh.
“Lucky you.”
“Is it bad?”
“Historically…” You let out a breath. “Very.”
He was quiet for a second.
“Well,” he finally said, “guess I’m not buying jeans from those fucks.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it.
“I don’t think that’s the takeaway.”
“It’s mine.”
The conversation drifted after that, the way it usually did, neither of you saying much of anything important before work pulled you back in.
You threw yourself back into work after that, hoping it’d be enough to keep your mind occupied. It worked until it didn’t. You’d been off for a few hours, had a bath, and still somehow ended up back on the balcony with your thoughts refusing to leave you alone. Your nerves showed up in the way the metal balcony railing vibrated beneath your fingertips as you tapped against it, listening to the phone ring, wondering if this was your own version of threatening to put the car in the wall, until he finally answered and you started telling him where your head was, how much you missed him. How you’d sat in a church in Italy praying to a God you weren’t even convinced existed. Prayed he realized he deserved so much better than you, then immediately prayed he’d never actually realize it. Prayed he felt the same way you did. Prayed this would somehow work. Prayed that if it didn’t, the two of you would realize what a joke the whole thing had been and it’d be over in an instant, the way parents promise their kids when they rip a Band Aid off. Prayed that if he didn’t feel the same way, somebody else would win the next few races and you’d wake up with convenient amnesia because surely that would hurt less. You prayed you’d never have to touch him for the last time, kiss him for the last time, hold his hand for the last time. You prayed the rest of the world would stay dumb and blind to the two of you, content to let you live inside your own little bubble of stolen moments.
“I’ll be there in two hours,” he said after you’d finally stopped long enough to take a shaky breath, pressing the phone a little closer to your ear.
Three hours and fifteen minutes later, he was true to his word, calling to ask for your address. It struck you as almost ridiculous that after everything the two of you had shared, after everything you’d admitted to him only a few hours before, the way he had threatened to bin his car at every race only a few weeks earlier over not being able to see you, every emotional and physical boundary the two of you had crossed, he still didn’t know where you lived.
And when he walked in with only his backpack and a carry on, so far removed from podiums and interviews, you remembered he’d always just been a twenty five year old doing what he could to get back to you. He looked like a man who’d gotten on a plane because the person he cared for was hurting.
He dropped his bags, walked straight to where you were backed up against the kitchen counter and laughed.
“This all you’ve had for dinner?” He reached past you and held up the empty Kind bar wrapper.
You nodded.
“Let’s fix that.”
And then the two of you were sitting on the floor in front of the couch, a spread of McDonald’s courtesy of Uber Eats covering the coffee table between you. There were enough nuggets to sustain a small village, their boxes leaving warm little squares against the glass while salt slowly smeared everywhere as the two of you absentmindedly reached for more fries.
“God it’s so spicy,” Lando grimaced out with a shake of his head as he stole a sip of your Sprite.
“Hurts so freaking good, doesn’t it?” You snatched it back, sipping with no reaction.
“Christ. That’d take the varnish off a table.” He said, watching you like you’d grown a second head.
“You don’t know what eugenics means, but ‘varnish’ is in your vocabulary?”
He blinked.
“…Yeah?”
“Where the fuck did ‘varnish’ come from?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
You stared at him for another second before shaking your head, laughing into another sip of your Sprite.
“You’re so weird.”
“Weird enough to get on a plane just to come eat McDonald’s with you.”
“Don’t weaponize it.”
He smiled.
“I’m not.”
You looked over at him.
“I’m serious.”
His eyes stayed on the coffee table for a second before he reached for another fry.
“I’m actually glad you said all that tonight.”
You frowned.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Means I’m not the only one lying awake at two in the morning thinking about what this looks like in five years.”
“You do that?” you asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah. All the time.” He shrugged.
“Sometimes a song comes on and I’m right back in Miami.”
You smiled.
“The one you put on?”
He nodded.
“Every time it comes up, I remember standing there trying to work out whether you were gonna tell me to piss off.”
You laughed.
“Sometimes I’ll wake up before my alarm and everything’s that weird shade of blue right before the sun comes up.”
He looked down at the table.
“Makes me think of Barcelona. Waking up and seeing you all blue. I remember thinking, ‘don’t fuck this up.’”
You looked at him for a second.
“What does five years look like?”
He frowned.
“Hm?”
“You said you think about us in five years.” You nudged his knee with yours. “What does that even look like in your head?”
He was quiet for a moment before shrugging.
“I picture winning a race…”
He shrugged.
“And you’re just there. Not in hospitality. Not working. Not hiding.” He looked over at you. “Just… there because you’re meant to be.”
You looked down at the coffee table, absentmindedly pushing a fry back and forth.
“I picture you sat on the bathroom counter while I’m getting ready.”
He reached for a nugget, dunked it into the barbecue sauce, and shrugged again.
“Just being in public with you without it turning into some massive fucking thing.”
He chewed for a second, washing it down with another sip of your Sprite before looking back over at you.
“I picture introducing you as my girl instead of trying to explain… whatever this is.”
“Your girl?” You raised an eyebrow. “Bit of a jump.”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Five years.” He shrugged. “I’ve had time to work on it.”
Once dinner was over, you both ended up on the couch. He was out like a light, draped over you like a heavy blanket within twenty minutes. With his head resting against your stomach, you could look right down at him and the way his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were darting behind his lids, deep in whatever he was dreaming about.
You should have been sleeping too, but your brain was stuck on a loop. You kept replaying every word of that sensitive, and honestly embarrassing, confession you'd dumped on him earlier. That 'word vomit' was the only reason he had shown up, and now you were wide awake, left to deal with the mental aftermath while he slept through it.
Eventually, you finally drifted off, only to wake up a few hours later when you felt his weight shift. You watched him through heavy lids as he pushed himself up from between your legs, pausing for a second to look down at you. You were too tired to say anything, letting him maneuver you until he was settled behind you, pulling you back against his chest.
It wasn’t long after that before you felt him fumble with his joggers, shoving them down just enough to free himself, before his hands moved to your waist to yank your sweats and panties down your legs in one go. He didn't even wait for them to hit the floor before he was opening you up, hooking your top leg over his thigh to get the angle he wanted.
He guided himself in with one heavy, slick shove, burying his cock to the base. It was a slow, deep stretch that had you gasping against the cushion, but he didn't give you a second to adjust. He started fucking you from behind with a rhythm that had the couch creaking against the wall.
The friction was brutal. He hit that spot inside you with every single thrust until you were a sobbing mess beneath him. You came hard—two, three times—your pussy clamping down on him until you felt like your heart was going to stop. Every time you tried to catch your breath, he just adjusted his grip and drove into you harder, chasing the sound of your voice breaking.
He finally pulled out with a wet sound, his own breath hitching as he tried to keep himself from finishing. He stayed right there, flush against your back, his chest heaving. You could feel his cock, hot and twitching with pre-cum, resting against your soaking wet thigh.
You were a complete disaster. A puddle of useless limbs. You were so overstimulated, the only feeling you could register was the pulsing throb between your legs that wouldn't quit and the feel of his cock.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just an inch from your ear. He was still breathing hard, his voice a rough rasp.
“Can’t even keep your head up, can you?” He muttered, his thumb reaching down to smear the mess on your thigh.
You tried to answer him. You wanted to tell him he was a prick, or to tell him to get back inside you, but your brain had completely short circuited. You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a broken moan that wouldn't turn into a word. You just blinked at the blurry room, your jaw slack and your mind a total blank, while he watched you over your shoulder as you struggled to form a single coherent thought.
He let out a low, satisfied sound and kissed the back of your neck.
He didn’t give you a second to think. He moved fast, unhooking himself from behind you and dropping off the couch to his knees on the floor. He grabbed your thighs and yanked you toward the edge of the cushions until your ass was right at the edge, forcing your legs wide over his shoulders.
He didn't say a word before he buried his face in your pussy.
The first lick was heavy and slow, his tongue dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You let out a broken sob, your hands flying to his hair to try and shove his head away. It was too much. You were already raw and dripping from him fucking you, but he didn't care.
He ignored you and leaned into it, his mouth latching onto your clit and sucking hard while he slid two fingers back inside you. He set a brutal pace, his fingers pumping in while his tongue flicked relentlessly.
Tears leaked out of the corner of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it. Your hips were bucking against his face, but he just dug his fingers in deeper and curled his knuckles to hit your front wall until you were shaking uncontrollably.
Then you snapped. Your back arched, your ass pressing hard into the edge of the couch as you came so hard your vision went white, your pussy pulsing in waves around his fingers. He didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, lapping at you and drinking you down while you came. You were sobbing, fingers tangled in his hair as you tried to ground yourself, but he just kept his fingers inside you, working you until the very last aftershock finished racking your body. When he finally lifted his head, he leaned in and pressed a slow, wet kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.
“Fucking incredible,” he muttered against your skin.
He stood up, his eyes never leaving yours while he shoved his joggers the rest of the way down his legs and kicked them aside. He didn't give you a second to recover before he was back on the couch, moving you back to lie flat, crawling over you and yanking your leg up until it was hooked firmly over his shoulder.
He guided his dick to your entrance and buried himself with one long thrust. You let out a broken gasp, your hands reaching for his shoulders as he started to fuck you again. He was relentless, his pace fast and heavy, the slap of his balls against you the only sound in the room.
“Lando—I can’t—I literally can’t anymore,” you managed to get out, your head tossing back against the armrest.
He didn’t slow down. He leaned over you, his mouth finding your ear, his voice a rough, desperate rasp.
“Yes, you can, baby. Come on. Just one more time. Cum with me, please.”
You squeezed your eyes shut. You were so far gone every nerve felt raw.
“No, open your eyes. Yes, you can,” he grunted, his pace turning brutal as he hiked your leg higher over his shoulder to hit that spot deep. He was shaking now, his own muscles straining as he held himself back, his knuckles white where he gripped your thigh.
He adjusted his angle, his thumb finding your clit and pressing down and rubbing to match the rhythm of his dick. It was too much. You bucked against him, a choked off sound caught in your throat as your pussy clamped down on him like it was trying to pull him in even deeper and never let him go.
He let out a low groan, slamming into you one last time and burying himself to the base. His whole body went rigid, his head dropping to your shoulder as he came inside you in thick pulses that you felt deep in your gut.
He stayed there for a long time, buried deep, his chest heaving against yours as the room went quiet, both of you completely destroyed.
__
You woke up to the sound of your phone buzzing across the coffee table. Lando groaned beside you, one arm still thrown over your waist as you reached over him to grab it.
It was Caroline: Legal's still with the client. Board meeting isn't until this afternoon. Stay near your phone, but don’t bother logging in today. Regroup tomorrow unless something catches fire.
You stared at the screen for a second before setting the phone back down.
"Everything alright?" Lando mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep.
"Apparently the world's on pause until the lawyers finish arguing."
He cracked one eye open.
"So..."
You looked back at the message.
"Looks like I've got the day off."
The morning followed the wreckage of the couch with a different kind of energy. Lando hadn’t said a word about the destination, only telling you to throw on leggings and a tank top and proper trainers. The fabric of the leggings felt way too conscious of how sensitive your thighs still were, but you followed him out to the rental anyway.
He was quiet as he navigated out of the city, one arm hanging out the window, looking entirely too smug for someone who had barely slept. You kept your eyes on the GPS, looking for any clues of your destination.
He didn't offer any hints until the car pulled into the gates of Sandown Park.
He hopped out, stretching his arms over his head. He looked over the roof of the car at you, reaching up to adjust his hat.
"Thought I’d see if you actually have any pace," he said, rounding the door to meet you.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the side of your waist, pulling you closer as the two of you headed for the entrance.
Inside, a member of staff greeted him by name before disappearing behind reception. A minute later they returned with two race suits and two pairs of gloves. After a quick glance between the two of you, they swapped yours for a smaller suit before handing everything over.
"If you follow me, I'll show you to the changing rooms."
You looked down at the bundle in your arms. "This is... a lot."
Lando laughed. "You'll be alright."
The changing rooms were empty, so you decided to just follow Lando. You held the suit up in front of yourself. "I don't even know where to start."
He took it from your hands to unzip it, crouching before holding it open for you. "One leg."
You stepped in.
"Other one."
You did as you were told, trying not to lose your balance as he pulled the suit the rest of the way up your shoulders.
"Arms."
You slid them through. He reached forward, tugging the zipper all the way to your neck before fastening the Velcro tab at the collar.
"There."
He finally turned to his own gear, stepping into his suit with the kind of speed that came from years of doing it basically every weekend. He zipped it up to his chest, leaving it slightly open, and grabbed his phone from his pocket.
"Come here."
"We need evidence."
"Evidence of what?"
"Your first time."
You rolled your eyes but stepped beside him. He held the phone out, snapping one picture.
"One more."
"Lando..."
"C'mon."
You sighed dramatically before smiling anyway. He tucked the phone back into his suit and finished zipping himself up. "Perfect."
The safety briefing was held in a small room off the main lobby. You were still trying to remember what all the different colored flags meant, while Lando looked like he could've given the talk himself. He just leaned against the doorframe, waiting.
As you finally walked out toward the track, the silence hit you. No other karts were out, and the spectator area was completely empty.
"Why is it empty?"
He looked back over his shoulder.
"Didn't fancy getting beaten by a beginner in front of an audience."
You laughed. "You're ridiculous."
The marshal was waiting by the pit lane with the rest of the gear. Lando grabbed one of the disposable balaclavas and a helmet and stepped in front of you.
“Hair up,” he commanded.
You gathered your hair as best you could while he pulled the thin fabric over your head, his fingers skimming your forehead and ears as he tucked in the stray strands. Then he lifted the helmet, guiding it down over your head.
“Shake your head.”
He rested his hands against either side of the helmet, making sure it didn’t shift before reaching beneath your chin, tightening the strap and snapping the buckle into place.
“Comfortable?”
“I think so.”
He gave the helmet one last gentle nudge, satisfied it wasn’t going anywhere, before reaching for the second balaclava and pulling it over his own head with practiced ease. He settled his helmet on, fastened the strap beneath his chin, then picked up both pairs of gloves from the bench, handing yours to you. He waited while you shoved your hands into them, then pulled his own on, tightening the Velcro straps at his wrists until they were secure.
"So... how do I actually drive this thing?" you asked, looking at the kart.
He laughed through his open visor. "Oh, yeah. You've never done this."
He pointed at the pedals. "Two pedals. Right's go. Left's brake. Don't use both at the same time."
"You want your knees bent a bit. If you're reaching for the pedals, you're too far back." He added.
You climbed in, feeling how low you were to the asphalt. Lando leaned over the side, reaching across you to pull the harness straps over your shoulders. He adjusted the tension, his gloved hands firm as he clicked the buckle into place over your chest, making sure you were locked in tight.
"Stay still," he muttered, giving the straps one last tug before resting a hand on the steering wheel. "And don't death grip it. You'll just tire yourself out."
He straightened up and walked over to his own kart, stepping in and settling into the seat. He clicked his own harness shut, revved the engine until the frame was vibrating, and looked across at you through his visor.
"You're not trying to beat anyone."
A second passed.
"Well... maybe me eventually."
A marshal gave the signal, and Lando pulled out into the pit lane. The first lap was exactly what you expected. You braked too early and overcorrected every corner, but every few turns, you'd catch Lando slowing down just enough to glance back, making sure you were still there before disappearing around the next bend. He spent the first three laps of the session making sure you were okay.
By lap five, you were finally starting to pick up some actual speed. You still weren't hitting the turns right, but you were at least stepping on the gas enough to feel the kart pull. Lando, apparently deciding you weren't going to fly off into a tire barrier, stopped babysitting and started playing around.
He blasted past you on the main straight, the scream of his engine loud enough to vibrate in your chest. Without even thinking, you took one hand off the wheel and flipped him off, your glove bright against the black track.
You saw his head tilt back as he laughed, even if you couldn't hear it over the noise.
He slowed down, drifting toward the outside of the next turn, waiting until you were beside him again. You saw him reach into his suit and pull his phone out.
"Lando, what the fuck?" you yelled, even though he couldn't hear a word.
He didn't care. He steered with one hand, arm extended toward you as he recorded you struggling through the corner. You could see the screen lit up while he captured you bouncing over the curbs and fighting the steering wheel.
You flipped him off again, keeping your kart as close to his as you dared, but he just shook his head, tucked the phone back into his suit, and floored it.
He completed the lap and pulled into the pits, signaling for you to pull up beside the two-seater kart parked at the far end. He was out of his kart in a second, his visor still down. He walked over to yours, reaching down to unclip your harness and haul you up before you could even get your bearings.
"Switching," he yelled over the buzzing engines, gesturing to the passenger side of the bigger kart.
You hopped in, and he was right there, leaning over the side to pull the harness straps over your shoulders. He clicked the buckle with a sharp snap, checking the tension against your chest to make sure you were locked in tight. He hopped into the driver's seat and looked at you.
"Hanging on?" he asked, his voice muffled by the helmet.
He didn't wait for an answer. He floored it.
The G-forces hit you immediately. He didn't even touch the brakes for the first turn. You let out a sharp cry, your hands flying to the frame of the seat to hold on for dear life.
He spent the first lap hunting for every curb, intentionally clipping them to make the kart jump and jostle, testing how hard you were actually gripping the frame. When he reached the expanse of the back hair-pin, he yanked the wheel hard and floored it, the kart spinning into a donut.
Everything became a blur of grey asphalt and green grass. The scent of burning rubber and fuel filled your helmet as the kart whipped around, the force pinning you against the side of the seat. You were screaming, your eyes wide as the world spun, and Lando just kept his foot down, the engine screaming at the limit. He reversed the spin so fast your stomach did a somersault, the world flipping directions in a cloud of blue smoke.
He didn't stop there. He straightened out and tore into a second lap, taking the chicanes so fast the tires were screeching, sliding the back end out in every corner just because he could. You were a mess in the passenger seat, completely at the mercy of how he threw the kart around.
He finally late braked into the pits, stopping so hard your chest hit the harness.
The silence when he finally cut the engine was deafening. You sat there for a second, your heart hammering, while Lando hopped out. He unstrapped his helmet and tore it and the balaclava off in seconds, placing them on the ground beside him. He reached for your helmet immediately after, unclicking the strap and pulling it off, then doing the same for the balaclava. His fingers caught in your messy hair, pulling it back from your face so he could see you.
"You're a fucking maniac," you gasped, your hair standing up in every direction, your chest still heaving.
He just smirked, reaching down to unclip your harness. He didn't pull back once you were free, just leaned in close, his gloved hand resting on the back of the seat right next to your head. He reached down and pulled you out of the seat, his hands staying on your waist a second too long as he looked you over, his own face flushed and damp under the pit lights.
"You're shaking," he noted, his voice low and entirely too pleased with himself.
"I'm fine," you muttered, though your legs were still unsteady.
He didn't let go of your waist. He just stood there, watching your chest rise and fall while the heat from the karts started to fade into the cool morning air. He reached up, his gloved thumb catching a bead of sweat on your forehead and smearing it into your hairline.
"Sure," he said, his voice flat. "That's why you're leaning on me."
"I am not leaning on you."
He laughed, walking to prop his phone on the pit wall and set the timer. He walked back, and hooked a gloved arm around your waist, pulling you against his side for the first shot. As soon as the timer started clicking for the next one, you leaned away and gave the camera the double bird. Lando followed suit immediately, head tilted back as he gave the lens the double bird right along with you.
He didn’t check the photos. He just grabbed the phone, and headed for the building.
"Come on. Suit off."
The changing rooms were quiet. You were standing in the middle of the room when Lando stepped right in front of you.
You tried to get the Velcro at your neck, but your fingers were still buzzing from the steering wheel. Lando nudged your hands away.
"Move," he muttered.
He unfastened the collar and dragged the zipper down. His knuckles grazed your skin as he hooked his fingers into the shoulders, peeling the heavy fabric down your arms. Once the top of your suit was bunched at your waist, he started on his own, zipping his suit down and shoving it off his shoulders.
You both stepped out of the heavy legs of the suits at the same time, kicking the gear into a pile on the floor. You were just in your tank top and leggings now, the damp fabric sticking to your skin, while Lando stood there in just his t-shirt and joggers.
He didn't move away. He stepped in, his hands sliding around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You could feel the heat radiating off him. He looked down at you, his eyes moving over your face, then down to your mouth.
"You good?" he asked, his voice low.
"Yeah," you whispered, looking up at him. "I'm good."
He didn't smile. He just tightened his grip, his thumbs pressing into your skin through the leggings.
"Good. Because I'm starving."
__
He finally lost it with the traffic after thirty minutes, dragging the rental onto a side road without even checking the GPS. He just drove until he spotted a low slung pub with a gravel lot. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of stale beer and fried food, a couple of locals were nursing pints and the background noise was just a dull hum from a TV somewhere.
He headed straight for a cramped booth in the back and dropped into the seat. He looked like a wreck, his curls were flattened against his head from the helmet, but he didn’t care about that. When the girl came by, he didn't even look at the menu, just asked for a burger and a Coke. You went for a chicken sandwich and a lemonade.
The adrenaline from the track was still sitting right under his skin. Even after the session, he wasn't tired — he was wired, his leg bouncing under the table and hitting your knee every few seconds.
"You weren't bad today," he said, and for once, he wasn't trying to be a sarcastic ass. "I've seen guys who think they can drive freeze up way worse than you did."
"I was terrified," you admitted, finally feeling the vibration leaving your palms. "I just didn't want to give you the satisfaction of seeing it. I figured if I was going to bin it, I might as well do it at full speed."
He laughed, and reached across the scratched table to grab your hand. He didn't just squeeze it, he laced his fingers with yours and kept them there, his thumb tracing the back of your hand while the two of you waited.
"Trust me, I saw it. I saw every time you oversteered and every time you nearly took me out in the hairpin."
When the food finally arrived, he let go of your hand to grab his burger. He demolished half of it in about thirty seconds, eating like he hadn't seen food in a week. You were actually hungry, too, finally taking a bite of your sandwich while he watched you, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on your face. That smug smirk started to crawl back onto his face as he chewed.
"Still don't think I'm the winner, though?"
"You won on a technicality," you shot back, wiping a bit of stray salt from your lip. "I'd never even sat in a kart before. It doesn't count if the competition doesn't know where the brakes are."
"A win's a win," he smirked, entirely too pleased with himself. "Check the standings. My name is at the top of the board. I don't see anything in the regs about the other driver being a first timer."
You rolled your eyes and kept eating. You just sat there in the middle of the noise, not giving a single fuck that the two of you were out in public together, while the rest of the world stayed stuck in that parking lot of a road a few miles away.
"We should probably get back," he muttered, finally finishing the last of his fries and wiping his hands on a napkin. "Otherwise we're never getting out of here."
He paid the bill and you headed back out to the gravel lot. He caught your hand as you stepped toward the rental, lacing his fingers with yours without saying a word.
Once you were both back in the car, he reached for the screen and turned on the playlist you’d been building together since Miami. He pulled out of the lot and merged back into the crawl toward London. He kept one hand on the wheel and draped his other arm over the center console, his fingers occasionally tapping the rhythm against your knee as you both just jammed along to the music, watching the city skyline slowly start to appear through the hazy afternoon heat.
___
The grime from the track felt like a heavy film by the time you finally made it through the door. Lando didn't even wait for the door to click shut before his shirt was on the floor and he was heading for your bedroom. Your apartment was quiet, the high ceilings making the space feel open and cold compared to the heat coming off the both of you.
The master bath was right off the bedroom. By the time you stepped in, he’d already turned the water on. Steam was rising fast, blurring the glass walls before you even made it under the spray.
The hot water hit your skin. Lando didn't say a word, he just grabbed your waist and pulled you flush against him, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was deep and desperate. He reached for the bottle of soap on the stone ledge, pouring a pool of it into his palm. He started on your shoulders, his hands moving slow and heavy down your back. He worked the lather over your hips and stomach, his fingers digging into your skin, mapping you out while his mouth stayed glued to yours. You rubbed your lathered skin against his, gently moving in circles to clean where you could reach without breaking the kiss.
He poured a glob of shampoo into his hand and started working it into your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp with a steady pressure that made your eyes flutter shut. He was thorough, making sure he got every bit of the day out, his hands moving through the damp strands until the lather was thick. You did the same for him, your fingers tangling in his curls, scrubbing the shampoo in until he let out a long breath and leaned his forehead against yours.
You grabbed the shower head, pulling it from the wall to rinse the suds out of his hair. You ran your fingers through his curls, making sure the water washed everything away before he took the spray from you to do the same. He moved the water over your head and down your body, rinsing the lather off your skin until you were just slick and clean under the steam.
He hung the spray back up but didn't move away. He stepped in, pinning you against the wet stone wall, his hands coming up to cup your face. He leaned in and kissed you, a long, messy kiss that was all teeth and tongue while the water roared against the floor.
He stayed there, solid and heavy against you, his hands sliding down from your face to your waist to hoist you up. You locked your legs around him, your skin squeaky clean and flushing red from the heat, while he kept his mouth on yours like he was trying to breathe for both of you.
Eventually, he put you down, and reached over to cut the water, the sudden silence in the big bathroom almost as loud as the roar of the shower had been. You both stood there for a second, dripping and catching your breath in the thick steam.
You reached out, grabbing two of the thick towels from the shelf right beside the shower door. You handed one to Lando, but he didn't use it on himself. He stepped in and started drying you off, the towel rough and heavy as he rubbed it over your shoulders and down your back. You did the same for him, dragging the fabric over his chest and arms until his skin was just damp and warm under your hands.
He tossed the towels onto the floor and didn't even give you a chance to reach for a robe. He stepped in and hooked his arms under your thighs, hoisting you up in one smooth move.
You let out a laugh, your arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him in for a kiss. You could feel the grin against your lips as he carried you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, your legs locked tight around his waist.
He walked straight to the bed and lowered you onto the duvet, his body following you down before you could even settle into the mattress. He was over you in a second, his weight pinning you down as he found your mouth again.
He didn't rush. His mouth traveled down your body with a kind of lazy focus, his lips pressing into the skin just below your ear, then the side of your neck, then lower, his teeth grazing your collarbone in a way that made your breath catch. You could feel the dampness of his hair against your chin as he moved, the heat of his skin still carrying the warmth from the shower.
His hands slid down your sides, his palms flat, his fingers spread wide like he was trying to touch as much of you as possible at once. He paused at your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your hipbones, and you could feel the weight of him settle on the bed below you.
"Roll over."
You didn’t argue. You rolled over onto your hands and knees, and he didn't waste a second, grabbing your hips and pulling you back until your ass was up in the air. He dropped his head and buried his face in you from behind, and the first lick was a disgusting stripe that went from your clit all the way back to your asshole.
He went all in, his tongue flat and thick as he worked his way in and out of you. He was burying his nose in your wetness, his jaw grinding against your inner thighs as he latched onto your clit and sucked like he wanted to rip it off.
"Lando—fuck—" you choked out.
He ignored you, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still while he stayed glued to you. The pressure snapped and you came hard, a heavy gush erupting from you, soaking his mouth. He stayed right there until you finally collapsed forward, face first into the pillows.
You heard the thick sound of a hand moving fast over wet skin once you came back to earth. You turned your head just enough to see him. Lando was sitting back on his heels behind you, his mouth still glistening with your mess, his hand wrapped tight around his dick as he worked himself.
You crawled on your hands and knees until you were right between his legs. You leaned in and took the head of his cock into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the tip before you slid all the way down. You let the saliva pool in your mouth, keeping it as wet as possible, the sound of you sucking him off loud and filthy.
He wasn't gentle, he was guiding your head, his hips starting to buck instinctively as you worked him. You sucked him deep, your throat taking every inch of him while you looked up at him through your eyelashes, watching his face shift.
His entire body spasmed. He was vibrating, his heels digging into the mattress as he tried to stay upright. He let out a groan, his head snapping back as his fingers tangled in your hair, the corded muscles in his neck straining. Every time he felt your tongue catch on the underside of his dick, he let out a sharp breath that sounded like he was being punched.
"Fuck—stop, please—just—fuck," he choked out, his eyes squeezed shut, but he was pushing himself even deeper down your throat as he said it. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, and he looked completely undone.
You swirled your tongue around the base, then moved back up to the head, using your lips to create as much suction as possible.
"Fuck, baby," he rasped, his voice a total mess as he gripped your hair tighter. "You're gonna make me cum. Right fucking now."
He didn't pull away. He leaned forward, shoving his dick deeper into your mouth, his breathing turning into jagged, desperate hitches. You didn't slow down, you used your tongue to map every vein.
He was right on the edge, his whole body shaking as he looked down at you, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip while you continued to work him over.
His hips bucked hard into your mouth one last time as he finally broke. You felt the first thick, hot pulse of cum hit the back of your throat, and you didn't pull away, you just stayed there, eyes locked on his face, swallowing every bit of it.
His chest heaved as he tried to catch a breath that wasn't there, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his body still twitching as he finished completely.
He finally let go, his hands sliding down to cup your face as he pulled you up. He didn't say a word, just kissed you before he collapsed back onto the mattress, dragging you down with him.
The two of you settled on your sides, facing one another on top of the sheets. The air in the room was cool against your damp skin, but you didn't feel it with him this close. He reached out, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before settling at the corner of your mouth.
He leaned in and started to kiss you again. It was slow and deep and full of tongue. You tasted like him, and he tasted like you, the movement of your mouths the only move either of you felt like making. You tangled your fingers in the wet curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until your chests were flush and your legs were a mess of tangled limbs.
He didn't pull back, just kept his hand on your face, his fingers stroking your cheek while the kiss went on. He looked at you through his eyelashes every time he pulled back to catch a breath, his eyes dark and settled. When you finally asked him what he was looking at, he just smiled.
"Nothing."
You narrowed your eyes.
"Bullshit."
"Just you."
You stayed like that for a long time, just making out in the dark, the heat from the day and the track finally starting to fade into something much softer. He eventually moved his hand from your face to the back of your head, holding you there like he was never going to let you go, his tongue sliding against yours one last time before his head finally dropped to the pillow. The both of you stared at one another quietly, totally content to do so until the sun rose.
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