Autism in the media is often portrayed stereotypically and over-dramatised. Though there are people out there with those “stereotypical” traits, in reality for many people on the spectrum, it isn't obvious at first glance - it's subtle, different for everyone, and not easy to deal with - and Hudson portrayed that perfectly.
They delivered a subtle representation without taking the focus away from the actual storyline and overall meaning of the show.
I forgot which exhibit letter we're on now for the proof that Ritch absolutely screams Asperger Syndrome, but here's another one for the alphabet soup.
One of the things I love about The Pitt's portryal of an autistic character, is that there's a girl-genius medical student (not the autistic character) and there is a doctor who has no social life outside of their work (also not the autistic character) and then, there's a skilled, cool under pressure, very professional and also crying sometimes, when she gets emotional, and self-regulating when she gets overwhelmed (sometimes at a suggestion of others, but that was only once) doctor, who actually is autistic (coded). Oh, btw, that doctor has a sister, also autistic (confirmed), and the two of them are best friends. :D
Summary: It starts as a vocabulary lesson. Somewhere between careful definitions and increasingly inconvenient examples, Lando realizes he’s revealed far more about himself than he’d intended.
Warnings and Notes: discussions of BDSM dynamics and terminology, kink/fetish discussion,
Word Count: 2.7k
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The hallway to their private room is dimmer than the main floor.
Music filters through the walls in softened waves—bass dulled, laughter distant, the low hum of conversation like static under everything.
Inside, the room feels deliberately removed.
Low lighting. A wide leather couch positioned to face the one-way window that overlooks the rest of the club floor. From this side, the glass is clear—movement, silhouettes, scenes unfolding in muted fragments. From the outside, it’s just a mirror.
Louise sits curled slightly toward him on the couch, one leg folded beneath her. She’s changed into something simple—black, soft, understated. No performance in it. Just comfort.
The book he gave her rests open on her lap.
Its spine is already worn from her flipping back and forth through certain chapters, margin notes in pencil where she’s paused to underline something that caught her attention.
He’s leaning back, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind her—not touching, but close enough that she can lean if she wants to.
He doesn’t interrupt her.
He just watches.
The way she reads isn’t passive. She tilts her head slightly. Chews lightly on the inside of her cheek. Brows knitting together when she’s thinking. Every few pages she glances out through the glass, matching what she’s reading to what she’s seeing below.
A scene shifts on the club floor. Someone kneels. Someone else circles slowly.
Louise turns another page.
Silence stretches comfortably between them.
Then—
She pauses.
Her fingers stop at the edge of a paragraph. She re-reads a line. Blinks once.
Slowly, she turns her head toward him.
It’s that look.
The one that always undoes him—earnest, curious, completely unguarded.
“That face,” he says lazily. “That’s your ‘I’m researching something’ face.”
She glances up.
“Am not.”
“You are.”
A pause.
“…Okay, maybe.”
He grins. “What is it?”
She hesitates — which immediately makes him more alert.
“What?” he presses. “What did you find?”
She shifts slightly, lowering her voice even though they are completely alone.
“Can you explain something to me?”
He narrows his eyes. “That depends.”
“What’s the difference,” she asks, voice soft but clear, “between a kink, a fetish, and a preference?”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh—but not at her. Never at her.
Just at the way she can dismantle him with a question delivered like that.
Lando blinks.
“…That escalated.”
She throws a cushion at him.
“I’m serious.”
“I can tell!”
She watches him carefully — curious, not embarrassed. The same way she asks about engine mapping or tire degradation. Pure inquiry.
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck.
He shifts forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs, giving her his full attention.
“Okay,” he says thoughtfully. “So… simplest version?”
She nods once.
“A preference,” he starts, “is something you like. It enhances things. If it’s there, great. If it’s not, you’re still fine.”
She nods, attentive.
“It’s basically something you like. But you don’t need it. It’s not central. It just enhances things.”
“Example.”
He squints at the ceiling.
“Like… say someone prefers their partner to take the lead sometimes.”
She tilts her head.
“Lead how?”
“In general,” he says vaguely. “Planning things. Initiating things.”
“Oh.” She considers that. “So it’s optional.”
“Exactly. It’s like—” He gestures toward the kitchen. “Preferring chocolate ice cream. You like it. But if there’s vanilla, you’re not devastated.”
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Preference equals bonus.”
“Yes.”
She nods, satisfied with the framework.
“And a kink?” she prompts.
He shifts again, slightly more aware of the direction this is heading.
“A kink is more specific,” he continues, “is something that adds excitement. It’s part of what turns you on. You don’t need it every time, but it’s meaningful. It’s part of how you experience intimacy. It’s more defined than a preference.”
Her fingers lightly press into the page.
“Example,” she insists.
He eyes her.
“You really want examples.”
“Yes.”
He sighs dramatically.
“Fine. Hypothetically. Someone might have a kink for… power dynamics.”
Her brows lift.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they enjoy the dynamic of one person being more in control, or pretending to be.”
She processes that.
“Like… structured roles.”
“Sure,” he says quickly, relieved at the neutral phrasing. “Structured roles.”
“And that’s different from preference because…?”
“Because it’s more tied to excitement. It’s not just ‘oh I like that.’ It actively contributes to the experience.”
She nods again.
“Okay. So preference is icing. Kink is flavor.”
He stares at her.
“That’s disturbingly accurate.”
She beams faintly.
“And a fetish?” she asks.
He considers his words carefully.
“A fetish is something someone feels they need in order to be aroused. It’s central. Without it, the experience doesn’t really work for them.”
She studies that. Looks back down at the book. Then back out the one way glass.
Below them, someone is speaking quietly to a kneeling partner—checking in, adjusting something at their wrists. The dynamic is obvious, but so is the care.
Louise’s voice is softer when she speaks again.
“So the difference isn’t about how extreme something is.”
“No,” he says gently. “It’s about how necessary it is to the person.”
Her curiosity sharpens.
“Example.”
He groans. “You’re relentless.”
“You volunteered.”
He didn’t. But fine.
“Okay. Hypothetically,” he says again, very deliberately, “if someone could only feel attracted or engaged if a specific object or scenario was present. That would be a fetish.”
“Like?”
He points at her sleeve.
“Certain clothing materials, for example. If that’s the only way someone can feel excitement.”
Her gaze drops to her oversized hoodie.
“Oh.”
“Or,” he adds quickly, “specific sensory things. It becomes the focal point.”
She leans back against the couch, absorbing it.
“So the scale is… preference, kink, fetish.”
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly.
“And all of them are valid?” she asks.
His mouth curves faintly. “If they’re consensual, informed, and safe? Yeah.”
She closes the book halfway, keeping a finger between the pages.
“Do people ever get them confused?” she asks.
“All the time,” he replies. “Labels matter less than understanding what you actually need.”
That makes her quiet.
He watches her thinking.
She’s not flustered. Not embarrassed. Just curious. Analytical in that quiet way she has—like she’s mapping something internal against what she’s learning.
After a moment, she shifts closer without really noticing she’s done it. Her knee brushing his thigh.
“Do you have any?”
He chokes.
“That’s not part of the lecture!”
She laughs.
“You explained the theory. Case studies are useful.”
He points at her accusingly. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I’m learning.”
He studies her for a second — the genuine curiosity, the analytical tilt of her head. She’s not asking to be provocative. She’s mapping language to experience.
He doesn’t deflect.
“I like control,” he says calmly. “But not for the sake of it. I like structure. Ritual. Knowing exactly where someone’s boundaries are and staying inside them.”
Her eyes flicker—recognition.
“That’s not about power,” she says quietly.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s about trust.”
The word lingers between them.
She studies him for a long second, then looks back down at the book, thoughtful.
The word lingers between them.
She studies him for a long second, then looks back down at the book, thoughtful.
“Why were you reading about this anyway?” he asks.
She shrugs lightly.
“Sometimes people use the words interchangeably. And I don’t like imprecise terminology.”
He laughs softly.
“Of course you don’t.”
“I just wanted clarity,” she says. “Otherwise how do you know what someone actually means?”
He watches her for a moment — sees the same pattern as always. She doesn’t navigate things by instinct. She navigates them by definition.
“You know,” he says gently, “most people don’t approach this like a vocabulary quiz.”
She smiles faintly.
“I know. But I approach most things like that.”
He shifts closer, nudging her knee with his.
“It’s not bad,” he says. “It just means if you ever ask someone about it, they’ll need to be specific.”
“I would prefer that,” she says simply.
“Of course you would.”
She grows quiet for a second.
“Is it… bad?” she asks, softer now. “If someone has one?”
“No,” he answers immediately.
She nods, visibly relieved at the structure of that answer.
“Okay.”
He studies her face.
“You’re not secretly worried about something, are you?”
“No,” she says honestly. “I just like understanding things before I encounter them.”
“That tracks.”
She shifts slightly, her knee brushing his thigh.
“So,” she says lightly, “if someone preferred gentle pressure and precision—”
He freezes.
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
She smiles innocently.
“I’m categorizing.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice just a little.
“That,” he says, “would fall under preference.”
“Not kink?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Not fetish?”
“Definitely not.”
She seems pleased with that.
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because I don’t want to accidentally file something incorrectly.”
He laughs, shaking his head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
She rests her chin on her knees again, watching him with quiet amusement.
“You don’t mind explaining things to me?” she asks.
He softens.
“Not when you ask like that.”
A small smile curves her mouth.
“Good.”
He nudges her gently with his shoulder.
“And for the record,” he adds lightly, “you don’t need a glossary to navigate everything.”
“Maybe not,” she says. “But it helps.”
He looks at her — at the careful way she moves through the world, wanting definitions before diving in.
“Then we’ll define things,” he says quietly.
She meets his eyes.
“I think,” she says slowly, almost to herself, “I like understanding the rules before I break them.”
He smiles at that—warm, unguarded.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
She closes the book fully this time and sets it beside her.
Then she leans—just slightly—into his side.
Not asking.
Just choosing.
“If I ask too many questions, you’ll tell me, right?”
He grins. “Louise, if you stop asking questions, that’s when I’ll panic.”
She laughs, rolling onto her side. “Good. Because I have so many more.”
“I know,” he says fondly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
And he lets his arm settle around her shoulders, steady and grounding, while beyond the glass the world hums on, distant and blurred.
—
Louise is quiet for a while after that.
Not empty quiet. Thinking quiet.
The kind where her fingers keep moving even after her mind has gone somewhere else.
She picks the book back up from beside her and folds one leg beneath herself again, closer this time, her shoulder tucked lightly against his side beneath his arm.
Outside the glass, the club continues without them.
A flash of red lights over the crowd. Someone laughing too loudly near the bar. The slow, measured movement of people crossing from one room to another.
Inside, it feels suspended.
Louise flips back through the book.
A page. Another. The corner of her thumbnail catching lightly against the paper.
Every so often she pauses, skims a paragraph, makes a small thoughtful sound, then keeps going.
Lando watches her over the rim of his drink.
“What now?” he asks.
She slowly lowers the book into her lap and turns to look at him.
It is the look.
The one that means she has discovered something and intends to use it against him.
“You have another one.”
He blinks.
“Another what?”
Without breaking eye contact, she lifts the book and taps a line with her finger.
“This one.”
He leans over slightly.
Then immediately wishes he hadn’t.
“Branding kink,” she reads.
Lando chokes on absolutely nothing.
“What? No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I absolutely do not.”
She turns the book toward herself again and reads aloud, voice annoyingly calm.
“An enjoyment of leaving a mark, claiming, symbols of ownership, or associating emotional intimacy with being visibly connected to someone.”
Lando points at her.
“That is not what this is.”
Louise lifts her eyebrows.
“No?”
“No.”
“No,” she repeats flatly.
“No.”
She studies him for a long second.
Then she closes the book around one finger and says, very sweetly—
“You like stamping your brand on everything under the sun.”
“I work in Formula One,” he says immediately. “That’s just marketing.”
She gives him a look.
“You put your blobs on your golf clubs.”
“Also normal.”
“Lando.”
“What?”
“You also kiss me longer when I’m wearing your merch.”
He goes very still.
Louise’s expression turns triumphant.
“Aha.”
“That is slander.”
“It is absolutely not slander.”
“You’re making that up.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“You do,” she says, leaning back into the couch, all infuriating calm.
He opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Because unfortunately, she is right.
There is, he realizes with growing horror, an embarrassing amount of evidence.
“I just like when you wear my stuff.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it’s nice.”
She shifts onto her knees on the couch to face him properly now, curls slipping over one shoulder, eyes bright with entirely too much enjoyment.
“No, no,” she says. “You don’t get to spend the last hour explaining terminology and then get vague.”
He laughs despite himself.
“You literally said labels matter.”
“Not when they’re being weaponized against me.”
She flips the book open again dramatically.
“Page one hundred and twelve says otherwise.”
He reaches for the book. She twists away, grinning.
“Louise.”
She softens a little then, the teasing easing at the edges.
“You like it,” she says quietly. “When people know something's yours.”
The room seems to go still around them.
Just for a second.
The bass below them. The shifting lights through the glass. Someone laughing in the hallway outside.
All of it distant.
Lando looks at her.
At the way she’s watching him now—not teasing anymore. Just curious. Open.
He could lie.
Could make another joke.
But he doesn’t.
“Maybe,” he says softly.
Louise’s expression changes in that small, dangerous way it always does when she realizes he’s telling the truth.
“Maybe?” she repeats.
“You do look unfairly good in my merch.”
She laughs immediately, hiding her face against his shoulder.
“There it is,” she mumbles.
“What?”
“Branding kink.”
“Rude.”
But his arm tightens around her anyway.
—
Louise is still half-curled against him, the book balanced over her knees, when he says it.
“Go on,” Lando says, voice lazy with amusement. “See if you can find something about sleep play in there.”
She glances up at him immediately.
“Why?”
He only shrugs, looking far too innocent.
She narrows her eyes at him, then flips a few pages anyway.
The room is quiet except for the muted pulse of music through the walls and the soft whisper of paper under her fingers.
Lando watches her.
The little crease between her brows deepens as she scans down the page. She’s so earnest about it that it almost undoes him. Sitting there in his hoodie, hair slightly messy from where she’s been tucked against his shoulder, reading about kinks with the same concentration she gives race strategy.
Then she stops.
Her eyes flick over a line. Then back again.
Slowly, she turns her head toward him.
He leans in then, close enough that his mouth brushes the shell of her ear when he speaks.
“It’s yours,” he murmurs.
She goes completely still.
Not embarrassed exactly. Just startled.
He feels the tiny hitch of her breath before she turns to look at him, eyes wide and searching his face for any sign he’s joking.
He isn’t.
“You like being taken care of when you’re tired,” he says softly. “You get all soft and clingy and stop pretending you can do everything yourself.”
“I am perfectly capable when I’m tired.”
“Bug,” he says, smiling now, “last week you fell asleep sitting upright with your laptop open and then argued with me when I tried to take it away.”
Louise looks back down at the page, trying very hard to seem unaffected.
“You’re making things up,” she mutters.
“I’m really not.”
She’s quiet for a second.
“You get softer whenever I carry you to bed when you’re half-asleep, you curl into me without even opening your eyes, I think you’d like it a little too much.”
Her face goes warm instantly.
“Lando.”
“And when I tuck you in—”
“Lando.”
“—and kiss your forehead—”
She hides her face against his shoulder with a groan.
“You’re the worst.”
Then he presses a kiss into her hair, right near her temple.
So, a while back I did this piece for a zine that unfortunately did not pan out about Cybertronians living with disabilities, neurodivergencies, etc. It was to be titled Out of Spec! Sometimes when I'm at work, I just can't stop. I will work through all of my breaks because my autistic brain will not let me pause. It's known as Autistic inertia!
I also wrote 3 little ficlets to go with it!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
