seen from Ukraine
seen from Russia
seen from Poland
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United Arab Emirates
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Spain
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seen from United States
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
You are Autistic!
April Fools! But not really!
I love all of you. Thanks for following and thanks for all the kinds words.
The canon disabled character of the day is Woo Young-Woo from Extraordinary Attorney Woo who is autistic.
No Title - Last Light
Lando Norris x Louise Levine (Original Character)
Summary: With one race left to decide the championship, Lando discovers that the hardest part of the weekend isn’t the pressure—it’s remembering that he doesn’t have to carry it alone anymore.
Warnings and Notes: SMUT! explicit sexual content, oral (m receiving).
Word Count: 7.5k
Masterlist
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The cabin was warm in that understated, expensive sort of way—not ostentatious, simply comfortable. Cream leather seats faced each other across polished walnut tables, soft lighting replacing the harsh fluorescent glare he’d become accustomed to on charter flights. Somewhere toward the rear, one of the flight attendants was already arranging dinner while the engines settled into their steady climb out of Doha.
Qatar disappeared beneath a blanket of clouds.
Another race finished.
One left.
Abu Dhabi.
One weekend.
One championship.
The entire season distilled into seventy-odd laps around Yas Marina.
He’d spent months telling himself not to think that way.
Now it was impossible.
Louise sat opposite him for all of maybe five minutes before abandoning her seat entirely.
She tucked one leg underneath herself as she crossed the aisle, settling beside him instead.
Her head found his shoulder almost immediately.
He laughed quietly, nudging her knee with his own.
“You interrupted my existential crisis.”
“I know.”
She smiled against his shoulder.
Below them, the Persian Gulf reflected the late afternoon sun in fractured pieces of silver.
Lando watched it for another moment before speaking.
“I was wondering if…”
He looks at her.
“If I could stay with you?”
She stares.
Not because she’s surprised he’d asked.
Because she can see how carefully he’d phrased it.
How tentative he’d become over something so small.
“At my apartment?”
He nods.
“If that’s alright.”
She tilted her head.
“I just…”
His voice softened.
“I don’t really want to go back to finishing the day in a hotel room by myself knowing you’re five minutes away.”
He smiles sheepishly.
“I’d rather wake up with you.”
Louise didn’t answer immediately.
Not because she needed time.
Because she could see exactly how much thought had gone into every single word.
She smiled.
Slowly.
Almost mischievously.
“Do you actually want to stay with me… or are you just trying to take advantage of the unlimited access to the golf course?”
He blinked.
“What?”
She couldn’t hold the straight face any longer.
A laugh escaped her, warm and effortless.
Across from her, Lando rubbed a hand over his face, already smiling despite himself.
“I ask one vulnerable question and immediately get accused of using you for your residential amenities.”
He looked at her with exaggerated disbelief.
“I can’t decide if I’m offended… or impressed that you’ve managed to make this about golf.”
She smiled sweetly and squeezed his hand.
“I liked waking up next to you too.”
“So…”
She bumped his shoulder lightly.
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“You can stay with me.”
—
The gym occupied the back of a private performance centre a short drive from the Marina, tucked away from the hotels where most of the paddock stayed during race week. It wasn’t glamorous and it wasn’t particularly large, but after years of travelling together, John had accumulated a collection of places in nearly every country on the calendar where he knew exactly what equipment he’d find waiting.
Routine mattered.
Especially this week.
Especially now.
Lando spotted him before he’d even stepped through the doors.
John was already arranging resistance bands beside one of the lifting platforms, a stopwatch looped loosely around his wrist. He glanced up only long enough to acknowledge Lando’s arrival.
“Morning.”
“You actually look awake.”
“I resent that.”
“You should.”
"Great.”
John tossed him one of the heart-rate monitors without looking.
“You’ve been impossible before seven a.m. for about… six years.”
Lando strapped it around his chest with practiced motions.
“I’ve matured.”
John looked over the top of his glasses.
They’d spent enough years together to understand that mornings like these weren’t for conversation. The paddock would provide enough noise later. Interviews would ask the same questions they’d been asking for weeks. Every television in the hospitality units would cycle through championship permutations until even the mechanics could probably recite the mathematics from memory.
For ninety minutes, none of that existed.
John simply handed him a resistance band.
“Let’s get started.”
Mobility first.
Hip openers.
Thoracic rotations.
Balance drills.
John corrected his posture once, nudged his shoulder back into alignment another time, but for long stretches neither of them spoke. They’d worked together long enough that silence wasn’t awkward. It was productive.
Lando concentrated on the movements, breathing steadily while John timed each hold.
“How’re you sleeping?” John asked eventually.
“Pretty well.”
“Apartment treating you well?”
Lando looked up from where he was stretching a resistance band across his chest.
“What?”
“The apartment.”
“Oh.”
He smiled without thinking.
“Yeah.”
John leaned back against one of the racks.
“I’ve got to ask.”
Lando groaned theatrically.
“Whose idea was it?”
Lando thought for a second.
“…Mine.”
“And why?”
“…Because that’s where she is.”
Silence settled between them for a moment.
“Has she ruined hotels forever?”
Lando laughed under his breath.
“…Maybe.”
“I’m happy for you.”
Lando looked over.
John wasn’t teasing anymore.
He clapped once, breaking the moment before it became sentimental.
“Right.”
He pointed toward the sled waiting at the end of the turf.
“Enough feelings.”
Lando sighed dramatically.
“I knew this was a trap.”
“You’ve got six pushes.”
“I’d rather discuss my emotional development.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“…No.”
John grinned.
“Go on.”
Lando walked toward the sled, shaking his head.
“You’re a terrible therapist.”
“I’m an excellent trainer.”
—
By the time Lando parked outside Louise’s building again, nearly two hours had disappeared.
The coolness of the morning had already begun surrendering to the desert sun. Heat shimmered above the pavement as he crossed the lobby, exchanging an absent smile with the concierge before taking the lift upstairs. His training shirt clung uncomfortably between his shoulder blades, and all he could think about was a shower.
He slipped off his trainers in the hallway before wandering further inside.
Louise was exactly where he’d expected to find her.
Curled into the corner of the living room sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched absent-mindedly toward the coffee table. An oversized hoodie all but swallowed her hands, sleeves pushed back just enough to keep them clear of the iPad balanced against her knees. Colourful telemetry traces stretched across the screen, disappearing beneath quick strokes of her Apple Pencil as she compared lap overlays with the concentration of someone who’d forgotten the rest of the apartment existed.
She didn’t notice him.
Or if she did, whatever she’d found inside the data was winning.
Lando paused for a moment simply to watch her.
He wasn’t sure when this had become one of his favourite sights.
Perhaps because this version of Louise belonged to almost no one else. The paddock knew the composed one. The media knew her funny takes. They never saw this—the woman sitting cross-legged on her own sofa in an oversized hoodie, entirely absorbed by suspension traces.
Only when he stepped around the sofa did she finally look up.
Her eyes lifted from the screen, taking a second to focus on him before a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“There you are.”
“Here I am.”
He leaned down without another word, one hand resting lightly against the back of the sofa as he pressed a gentle kiss into her hair.
She hummed, almost absent-mindedly, leaning into it for the briefest moment before her attention flickered back toward the telemetry.
“Good session?”
“Mhm.”
“Just gonna hop in the shower real quick.”
She smiled, eyes going back to the screen. Another absent hum.
—
By the time he came back twenty minutes later, dressed in grey joggers and a black T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower,
Louise was still on the sofa.
The iPad was still balanced on her knees.
But she wasn’t writing anymore.
Instead, she was reading through something with the stylus resting loosely between her fingers, her brow knitted in concentration. The telemetry, a wash of green and white traces that meant absolutely nothing to him beyond the fact that they clearly mattered to her.
She heard him before she looked up this time.
Her eyes followed him as he wandered toward the kitchen, opening the fridge in search of something cold to drink.
“Everything solved?” he asked.
She glanced back at the screen.
“No.”
“Progress?”
“A little.”
“Good enough?”
She let out a thoughtful hum.
“…Good enough until tomorrow.”
With surprising decisiveness, she tapped the side button, locking the screen before folding the cover shut. The Apple Pencil clicked neatly into place along the edge.
Then she leaned forward, placing the iPad on the coffee table.
Away from her.
It wasn’t a dramatic gesture, but Lando noticed it anyway.
Work was over.
At least for now.
He smiled to himself as he twisted open a bottle of water.
“I’ve got your attention now?”
She watched him take a long drink before patting the empty cushion beside her.
“Come here.”
He wandered back into the living room, dropping onto the sofa with a tired exhale. He sank deeper into the cushions than he’d intended, one arm stretching along the backrest while the other rested across his stomach.
Louise turned sideways to face him.
There was something observant about the way she looked at him, as though she were quietly taking inventory.
“You survived John.”
“Barely.”
She reached out without thinking, smoothing a damp strand of hair away from his forehead before letting her hand fall back into her lap.
“What exactly have you told everyone at Mclaren? About not staying with them.”
He scratched absentmindedly at the back of his neck.
“I may have…”
She waited.
“…been a little creative.”
“Oh no.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Lando.”
“I told Andrea I wanted somewhere quieter.”
“Mhm.”
“Less people.”
“Mhm.”
“Better sleep.”
“Mhm.”
“I think I also said I’d been struggling with switching off.”
She blinked.
“…that’s actually believable.”
“I think Zak actually bought into the idea that a quiet ‘Airbnb’ is better for my 'flow state' than a hotel lobby full of fans.”
She smiled. The teasing air shifted, becoming something more grounded, more focused.
“Who's coming this weekend?”
“The whole family basically,”
“What about your friends?”
“Max is coming. And bringing the hole Quadrant lot with him.”
He listed names lazily, almost absent-mindedly, the way people did when they weren’t trying to impress anyone.
Louise listened.
She liked hearing him talk about people outside racing.
Friends he’d known before championships were on the line.
Before every conversation became about points.
Before every interview carried another version of the same question.
"And you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where’s your head?”
He stared up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know.”
She waited.
“I know where I want it to be.”
“But?”
“But sometimes…” He exhaled quietly. “It’s difficult not to think about all the what-ifs.”
"Do you want to unpack it?" She paused, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "Or do we just go to the golf course and see if you can actually hit a straight drive for once?”
Lando let out a long, shuddering exhale, the kind that seemed to deflate his entire chest. He looked at the iPad, then back at her—at the quiet, uncomplicated space she provided. The title was a mountain of noise and expectation, but this room was a valley of silence.
"Golf," he decided, his voice firm. "Definitely golf.”
⸻
By Thursday morning, the novelty of being back in the paddock has already been swallowed whole by a race weekend’s relentless machinery.
Lando barely has a second to himself.
Media pen.
Sponsor activation.
Team content.
Another interview.
Another camera.
Another microphone shoved under his chin asking him if the momentum from the last race changes his expectations for this one.
He smiles until his cheeks ache.
Answers the same question six different ways.
Laughs when he’s supposed to.
Then he’s ushered somewhere else before the conversation has properly ended.
Every now and then, between camera resets or while walking from one obligation to the next, his eyes wander almost instinctively toward the Aston Martin garage.
Not because he’s looking for her.
Because he’s become so used to finding her.
—
Louise, meanwhile, has slipped back into Aston Martin as though she’d never left.
The green polo sits comfortably against her shoulders. Unlike the last race weekend she’d attended, there are no journalists waiting to ask about her career. No television cameras turning the lens toward her. No PR representative quietly guiding her from interview to interview.
She belongs to the invisible part of Formula One now.
Exactly where she’s happiest.
The engineering tower becomes home almost immediately.
Laptops.
Strategy discussions.
Tyre models.
People speaking in half-finished technical sentences that everyone somehow understands.
She slides into conversations without needing introductions, picking up simulations where someone else left them, answering questions before they’ve fully been asked.
It’s familiar enough that her body settles before her mind does.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this.
Not the work itself.
The rhythm of it.
The feeling of contributing to something larger than herself without anyone applauding when she gets it right.
Still…
The paddock hasn’t forgotten.
She notices the double takes.
Mechanics from other teams lifting their heads as she passes.
PR people whispering.
A few journalists whose eyes follow her, clearly debating whether she’s worth chasing before remembering she’s technically off-limits today.
Funny how quickly anonymity disappears once the internet decides you matter.
She isn’t quite sure how she feels about it.
—
Friday arrives wrapped in sunshine.
The paddock is louder today.
Louise has a fifteen-minute gap before another engineering meeting. She slips out through the side entrance of Aston Martin’s hospitality.
She doesn’t make it thirty metres.
“LOUISE!”
Lando’s family is gathered outside McLaren's hospitality area, a familiar cluster of warmth amid the chrome. His younger niece spots her first.
She looks up just in time to see a tiny blur in papaya-orange trainers breaking away from an adult’s hand.
“Hey you,” Louise laughs, crouching to catch her properly.
Louise smiles into her hair, rubbing a hand gently over her back before easing her back onto the ground.
Only then does the little girl take a proper look at her.
Her eyes travel from Louise’s face… to the emerald green Aston Martin polo… then down to the team trousers and accreditation.
She wrinkles her nose.
Louise immediately recognizes that expression.
“What?”
The girl glances over one shoulder.
Lando’s family is only a few metres away, chatting amongst themselves outside the McLaren hospitality, blissfully unaware. Satisfied they aren’t paying attention, she leans in until she’s practically whispering against Louise’s ear.
“I don’t match you.”
Louise blinks.
“You don’t?”
The little girl shakes her head with heartbreaking seriousness.
“I’m orange.”
She pinches the front of her papaya McLaren shirt.
“You’re green.”
Another quick glance toward her family, making absolutely certain nobody is listening.
“I think…” she whispers even quieter, “…I should go change into the Aston one you gave me.”
Louise has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.
Not because it’s funny.
Because it’s impossibly sweet.
She crouches until they’re eye level.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Is that why you’re worried?”
A solemn nod.
“So we match.”
Louise looks down at her own shirt, tugging lightly at the Aston Martin logo embroidered over her chest.
“You know something?”
“What?”
She lowers her voice to the same conspiratorial whisper.
“I actually wanted to wear orange today.”
The girl’s eyebrows shoot upward.
“You did?”
“Mhm.”
“But…” She points at Louise’s shirt as though this is indisputable evidence. “You’re green.”
“I know.”
Louise sighs dramatically, glancing toward the Aston Martin garage.
“Occupational hazard.”
The little girl giggles.
“I work for Aston.”
“I know.”
“And unfortunately,” Louise continues, tugging at the fabric again, “they’re a little funny about me turning up dressed as McLaren.”
“They wouldn’t let you?”
“I don’t think my boss would be very impressed.”
The girl considers this carefully.
“…No.”
“No.”
Louise smiles.
“So I have a different idea.”
“What?”
She gently smooths a wrinkle out of the little girl’s papaya shirt.
“I thought maybe…” she says, “…since I have to wear green…”
The little girl watches her intently.
“…you could wear orange for both of us.”
Silence.
“For… both of us?”
Louise nods.
“You can cheer twice as loudly.”
“I can?”
“You’ll have to.”
The girl bursts into giggles.
The little girl looks down at her papaya shirt again.
This time, instead of uncertainty, she smooths it proudly across her front.
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
She leans forward and taps the girl’s nose with one finger.
“So every time you shout for Uncle Lando…”
The girl grins.
“…pretend I’m shouting with you.”
For a moment, the little girl’s face glows with the kind of uncomplicated joy only children possess.
Then she throws her arms around Louise all over again.
“I’ll cheer extra loud.”
Louise hugs her back just as tightly.
“I never doubted it.”
From a few metres away, Lando catches the tail end of the embrace while walking over from another media obligation. He can’t hear what they’re saying, only sees his niece proudly showing Louise the front of her McLaren shirt before Louise says something that makes her beam.
A second later, his niece pumps both fists into the air with enough enthusiasm to make Louise laugh.
He has absolutely no idea what conspiracy they’ve just agreed to.
Judging by the matching smiles on their faces, he’s fairly certain he’s the subject of it.
⸻
Saturday dawns clear and sharp, the desert sun already turning the paddock into shimmering waves of heat before most people have finished their first coffee. By mid-morning the air has that peculiar Yas Marina quality—dry enough that every breath feels crisp despite the temperature climbing relentlessly overhead.
The circuit almost seems to vibrate with anticipation.
The engineers move a fraction faster. Mechanics double-check things they already know are correct. Journalists linger a little longer outside the garages hoping to catch an expression, a gesture, some tiny clue about what might happen in the afternoon.
Inside McLaren’s garage, the atmosphere settles into something quieter than excitement.
Purpose.
Someone wheels tyre blankets away.
Another mechanic adjusts the cooling fans.
Headsets murmur with overlapping conversations that somehow never descend into chaos.
“Front wing adjustment is loaded.”
“Copy.”
“Weather’s stable.”
“Track evolution is stronger than expected.”
The familiar choreography unfolds around Lando with practiced efficiency, each person performing their role until the garage itself feels like a living organism.
He sits on the edge of the cockpit while someone tightens the shoulder straps, another mechanic making a final adjustment to the steering wheel.
“Comfortable?”
“Yep.”
“Pedals?”
“Good.”
A gloved hand taps the halo twice.
A tiny ritual.
Ready.
Lando slides fully into the seat.
The cockpit hugs him so tightly it almost becomes another skeleton.
Belts tighten across his chest.
One click.
Another.
Then harder.
He flexes his fingers inside his gloves, rolling his shoulders as far as the restraints allow.
The helmet goes on.
Suddenly the world changes.
Everything becomes smaller.
Quieter.
More intimate.
His own breathing fills the space inside the visor, each inhale sounding louder than the mechanics bustling only inches away.
Someone slots the steering wheel into place.
The screens blink alive.
Battery.
Fuel.
Brake temperatures.
Differential settings.
An endless constellation of switches and coloured lights that his hands know almost instinctively now.
Responsibility settles across his shoulders with the comforting familiarity of an old coat.
Not heavy.
Just expected.
The radio crackles.
“Radio check.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good luck, mate.”
A pause.
“Let’s have some fun.”
A smile ghosts across his mouth.
“That’s the plan.”
The engine erupts to life beneath him.
Every conversation in the garage instantly becomes secondary.
—
Louise watches from the pit wall, arms loosely folded, eyes tracking each car as it flashes past. She doesn’t flinch when times change. Doesn’t react when the margins tighten. She knows qualifying too well to get dragged by the noise.
She offers what she always does—presence, not interference.
As the drivers line up at the end of the pit lane for their final runs, the sun sits low enough to glare off visors and mirrors. Helmets hide faces, but posture gives everything away. Some tense. Some restless.
She lifts her hand as each car passes. A nod here. A quick wave there.
When Lando’s car rolls forward, engine snarling, she feels the instinct to look sharpen—not anxious, not hopeful. Just aware.
He shouldn’t look.
He does anyway.
A fraction of a second. Just enough.
She raises her hand.
It’s the same gesture she’s given everyone else. She knows that.
He knows that too.
Still—something inside him eases. The kind of steadiness that doesn’t add speed, but removes doubt.
—
He pushes on the out lap, warming tires aggressively, weaving just enough to feel the grip wake up. The radio murmurs adjustments. Brake bias forward two clicks. Engine mode confirmed.
Green.
He commits.
The first flying lap is clean but not perfect—rear steps out slightly through Turn 6, costs him a whisper of time. He corrects without drama, keeps his foot in it, crosses the line knowing it’s good but not enough.
“P3 provisional,” comes over the radio.
He exhales once. Tightens his jaw.
He goes again for the final run, everything riding on execution.
He attacks Turn One later.
Not recklessly.
Decisively.
The steering input is cleaner.
He lets the car rotate underneath him instead of forcing it into the corner.
By Sector Two, something clicks.
The balance changes.
Or maybe he changes.
Either way, the argument between driver and machine disappears.
The McLaren begins doing exactly what he’s asking of it.
Every apex arrives naturally.
Every exit opens perfectly.
Even inside the cockpit, he can feel it.
Those rare laps where everything suddenly becomes…
Quiet.
The timing beam flashes beneath him.
He crosses.
The engineer’s voice breaks just enough to betray what he’s seeing.
“That’s P2.”
When the flag falls, he’s locked in at the front. Not by luck. Not by chaos.
By control.
—
The apartment had gone quiet in the particular way only Abu Dhabi ever seemed to manage during a race weekend.
Lando was lying beside Louise, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, staring at absolutely nothing.
He hadn’t moved much since.
At first he’d assumed she’d drifted off.
Bu she’d noticed it.
His breathing.
Not uneven.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
Like someone pretending to sleep instead of actually sleeping.
It wasn’t obvious to anyone else.
To her, it practically glowed.
She lay still for another minute, listening.
There it was again.
A longer inhale.
Held.
Released.
His fingers flexed once against the mattress.
Not enough for nerves.
Enough for thoughts.
Too many of them.
Louise sighed quietly before rolling onto her side to face him.
She reached over, brushing the backs of her fingers across his forearm.
“Lando.”
A tiny hum.
“I’m awake.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
She smiled faintly.
He let his eyes close again.
She watched him for another few seconds.
“You okay?”
The question lingered between them.
He answered too quickly.
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…Just can’t switch my brain off.”
"Do you want me to help?" Louise asked, her voice barely a whisper, shifting closer to his side.
Lando didn’t answer with words. He turned toward her, the sudden movement decisive, and captured her lips with a hunger that spoke of a desperate need to be grounded. He kissed her with a frantic sort of focus, as if he could physically push the racing telemetry and the mental noise of the weekend out of his head and replace it with the taste of her. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, seeking the friction and the weight of her.
Louise let out a soft, humming sound of approval, her eyes fluttering closed as she leaned into him. Her hand slid down the length of his torso, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. She didn't rush it, her palm cupping him with a gentle, firm pressure that made Lando’s breath hitch. He groaned into the kiss, his hips instinctively arching toward her touch, the physical sensation finally starting to drown out the static in his mind.
He shifted, his hand sliding down to the hem of her sleep shorts, intending to pull her closer and find the skin of her thigh. But as his fingers brushed the fabric, Louise gently caught his wrist, pinning his hand back against the mattress.
“No,” she whispered against his lips, her voice playful but firm.
Lando blinked, his chest heaving, a look of confused longing crossing his face. “What do you mean?”
“Tonight, I’m taking care of you,” she murmured, her fingers tightening their grip on him, sending a jolt of electricity straight to his spine. “You’re not allowed to worry about me. I just want to make you feel good until your brain finally shuts up.”
The tension in Lando’s shoulders didn’t vanish, but it transformed, shifting from the rigidity of anxiety to the heavy, humming anticipation of surrender. He sank back into the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out a long, shuddering exhale. For someone who spent his professional life in total control of every millisecond, the idea of having no responsibility other than to feel was an intoxicating relief. He stopped trying to move, his entire world narrowing down to the rhythmic, warm pressure of her hand and the steady beat of her heart against his side.
Louise shifted her weight, sliding her body further up the bed until she was draped over him, her hair falling in a soft curtain around their faces.
Lando’s hips gave a sharp, involuntary jerk, a low sound escaping the back of his throat that was half-sob, half-groan. He reached up to touch her cheek, his fingers trembling slightly, but he kept his lower body still, honoring the boundary she’d set. He watched her through hooded eyes, mesmerized by the focused, tender expression on her face. She was grounding him, anchoring him to the present moment with every deliberate movement of her hand.
Slowly, she began to move her hand in a steady, sliding motion, the friction of his skin against hers creating a heat that seemed to radiate through his entire lower body. Lando’s breath hitched, his eyes rolling back as the mental noise of the race track—the tire degradation, the strategy calls, the pressure of the podium—finally dissolved into a blur of white light. There was no telemetry here, no data to analyze, only the visceral, overwhelming sensation of Louise and the way she knew exactly how to quiet the storm inside him.
Louise didn’t pull away, her hand maintaining a rhythmic, insistent pace that drove the last remnants of the outside world from the room. She watched the way his muscles coiled, the tension shifting from his jaw to his thighs, until she felt him pulse against her palm, fully hard.
She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice a velvet command. “Help me take your boxers off.”
The request broke the last of his restraint. With a shaky exhale, Lando hooked his thumbs into the waistband and kicked the fabric away, surrendering himself entirely to her. Now exposed and vulnerable beneath her gaze, he felt the cool air of the room for only a second before she returned, but this time her approach was different. Instead of the firm, grounding pressure from before, her touch became light, almost ethereal. She didn't grip him tightly or move with haste; instead, she used only the pads of her fingers to trace the length of him, circling the crown with a delicacy that felt more intense than any heavy pressure could be. Each graze sent a sharp, electric shock through his system, making his cock jerk instinctively whenever she neared the tip.
Lando’s breath came in short, jagged hitches. He felt as though he were floating, his senses heightened to the point where the slight friction of her skin against his felt like a thunderclap. He tried to track her movement, but his vision was blurring, his mind reduced to a singular, pulsing point of desire. He felt the mattress shift as Louise moved from his side, sliding her body until she was kneeling between his legs.
He barely managed to lift his head, catching a fleeting, blurred glimpse of her descending toward him. The sight of her hair falling forward, framing the focused expression on her face, was the last thing he saw before she lowered her head. The first wet, warm contact of her lips against him triggered a guttural sound from deep in his chest. Lando’s eyes snapped shut, his head dropping back into the pillows with a heavy thud as the sensation of her mouth enveloping him sent a surge of pleasure crashing over him, effectively erasing everything but the feeling of her.
She worked with a slow, deliberate rhythm, using her tongue to swirl around the head of his member before sucking him. Lando’s hands flew to the sheets, gripping the fabric so hard his knuckles turned white. He wasn't just letting go of the stress of the race anymore; he was unraveling, piece by piece.
The contrast between the soft pressure of her lips and the flick of her tongue was driving him toward a precipice he wasn't sure he was ready to cross just yet.
As she continued, Louise looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes searching his. She could feel the frantic beat of his pulse against her lips, the way his thighs were trembling under the weight of his own anticipation. She slowed down, teasing the most sensitive parts of him with a series of light, fluttering licks that made Lando hiss.
Lando reached out, his fingers finding the nape of her neck, not to push her away but to guide her, his touch shaky and uncertain. He let out a long, ragged breath, his voice a strained whisper. "Louise..." He didn't have to specify what he wanted; the way his body was reacting, the desperate tension in his core, told her everything.
Hearing the desperation in his voice, Louise shifted, sliding her hand back down to grip the base of him firmly while her mouth continued its rhythmic work. The combination of the tight suction and the grounding pressure of her palm pushed him over the edge. Lando let out a sharp, choked moan, his eyes flying open as he stared up at the ceiling, his entire body locking.
"Lou, fuck, I'm close," Lando gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of a pleasure that felt almost too heavy to carry. His hips were bucking rhythmically, searching for a peak that felt just out of reach, his entire consciousness narrowed down to the wet, searing heat of her mouth. He was hovering on that precarious edge where the world dissolves into static, his fingers digging into the mattress as he fought to keep his breathing steady.
Louise felt the shift in him, the sudden, frantic tension in his thighs, and she decided to push him over the cliff. She reached down with her free hand, her fingers sliding beneath him to find the sensitive, weighted curve of his balls. The sudden, unexpected contact—the gentle, rhythmic playing of her fingertips against his most vulnerable skin—sent a shockwave through his system that bypassed his brain entirely.
"Oh shit, I'm coming!" he choked out, the words barely leaving his throat before his body took over. He arched his back, a guttural sound ripping from his lungs as he finally shattered. Louise didn't pull back; instead, she tightened the suction, drinking him in with a focused intensity, swirling her tongue around the head of his member to draw out every last vibration of the release. She stayed with him through the pulsing waves, ensuring that the physical purging of his stress was absolute, until he was trembling and limp beneath her.
With a playful, wet pop, she finally released him, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room. She leaned forward one last time, pressing a single, lingering kiss to the very tip of him—a tender seal on the encounter—before she shifted her weight. In one fluid motion, she slid back up his body and nested into his side, tucking her head under his chin and draping an arm across his chest as if she hadn’t just dismantled his entire nervous system.
Lando lay there for a long minute, his chest heaving and his muscles feeling like melted wax. The silence of the apartment had returned, but it was different now. It wasn't the heavy, oppressive silence of an impending race; it was a soft, velvet quiet that felt earned. He felt the steady, rhythmic thrum of Louise's heart against his ribs, a biological metronome that finally synced his own racing pulse back to something manageable.
He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair, his arm winding around her to pull her flush against him. The mental noise—the lap times, the tire pressures, the endless chatter of the paddock—was gone, replaced by the lingering heat of her skin and the comforting scent of her shampoo. He closed his eyes, the tension finally drained from his jaw.
Louise shifted, her hand beginning to trace idle, absent-minded circles on his chest.
"Better?" she murmured, her voice vibrating against his skin.
Lando let out a long, shuddering sigh, his fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt.
"Better," he whispered, his voice sounding raw and distant. He shifted his legs, feeling the cool air hit the damp skin of his thighs, but he didn't move to cover himself. He just held her closer, anchoring himself to the only thing in his world that didn't require a strategy or a set of data points.
“Good, now sleep."
“Just one more question— Where the hell did you even learn how to do that?” Lando murmured, his voice still thick with the remnants of his release. He was staring at the ceiling, though his mind was replaying the precise sequence of pressures and rhythms she’d used—the way she’d navigated his body like she had a blueprint of his nervous system.
Louise didn’t open her eyes. She just shifted closer, her breath warm against the skin of his chest, her voice drifting in a lazy, half-asleep cadence. “Chapter nine of the encyclopedia had some interesting instructions.”
Lando let out a soft, huffing laugh that vibrated through his ribs. “I honestly don't know if I should hide it from you,” Lando murmured, his voice grazing the edge of sleep, “or just buy you a second, more expanded volume to keep you occupied.”
Louise finally opened one eye, glancing up at him with a look that was equal parts tender and teasing. She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw and gently guiding his head back down into the pillow, effectively cutting off his train of thought.
“You should go to sleep. You’ve got a race to win tomorrow.”
"You're a menace," Lando murmured, though he was already sliding deeper into the mattress, his muscles finally surrendering to the heavy pull of gravity.
He didn't close his eyes immediately. Instead, he watched the way the dim light of the room caught the edge of Louise’s silhouette, the soft rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. For a moment, he felt the familiar itch of a thought trying to take root—a lingering doubt about the turn-in point at corner twelve—but as soon as the spark flickered, Louise shifted.
He felt her arm tighten around him, a final, protective squeeze that seemed to lock him into place. With a long, slow exhale that seemed to empty his entire chest, Lando finally let go of the day. The darkness behind his eyelids became a velvet void, and he slipped under the surface of consciousness, drifting away from the roar of the engines and into a deep, dreamless sleep.
⸻
Sunday feels unreal before it even begins.
Yas Marina wakes slowly, but the air is already heavy — dense with heat, fuel, and the electric quiet that comes before something final. The kind of air that presses against the chest and refuses to be ignored. Floodlights still hum faintly against the pale morning sky, casting long shadows across the paddock as if the night hasn’t fully agreed to leave.
It is the last race of the season.
That fact sits over everything.
Final briefing. Final grid. Final chance for the math to hold.
In the McLaren garage, orange glows under fluorescent light — bright, defiant, almost too vivid to look at directly. Mechanics move with surgical focus. No wasted motion. No loose cables. Every tire stacked precisely. Every tool exactly where it should be.
Lando sits in the cockpit long before he needs to.
Helmet on.
Visor down.
Hands resting lightly on the wheel.
The noise outside is muted through carbon fiber and padding — voices reduced to low currents. But inside, it’s clear.
The steering wheel display flickers softly. The straps across his shoulders are tight enough to remind him he’s held in place.
His engineer’s voice breaks through the silence in his ears. Calm. Familiar. Almost gentle.
“Okay, mate. Same plan. Eyes forward. Bring it home.”
He exhales once.
Not dramatic.
Just deliberate.
Same plan.
Bring it home.
Across the paddock, in a strip of green that feels both separate and connected, Louise fastens the final clasp on her headset
She knows how to do this.
She’s stood on pit walls with her pulse steady while engines screamed below. She’s watched races unfold like equations. She’s learned that nerves are energy, and energy can be directed.
But today, the air feels different.
Charged.
Like static before lightning.
She takes her place on the pit wall — headset on, posture composed. Green shirt crisp against the pavement. Screens flickering in front of her with sector times and strategy trees.
This isn’t just another race.
It’s the last one.
And if everything aligns —
She doesn’t let the thought finish.
On the grid, cars settle into place nose to tail, perfectly aligned like ceremonial offerings. Mechanics crouch, hands on front wings for one last check. Fans swell in the grandstands, a low tide of noise building under the sun.
Lando’s heart is steady.
That surprises him.
He expected something louder inside his chest.
Instead, there is clarity.
He looks straight ahead at the five red lights hanging over the track.
He doesn’t think about points.
Red.
He doesn’t think about headlines.
Red. Red.
He thinks about braking markers.
Red. Red. Red.
About tire temperatures.
Red. Red. Red. Red.
About Turn 1.
Red. Red. Red. Red. Red.
Out.
The launch is clean.
Not explosive.
Not heroic.
Clean.
He reacts well. Clutch release precise. No wheelspin drama. No immediate chaos.
Into Turn 1 he holds the inside — not aggressively, just firmly enough to remind the car beside him that today is not the day to test him. The field compresses like an accordion behind, then stretches as the first lap untangles itself.
Behind the wheel, he feels the car settle.
He breathes with it.
From the pit wall, Louise tracks the timing screens without staring at them too hard. She has learned the art of peripheral monitoring — not clinging to numbers, not flinching at every tenth gained or lost.
She watches the way he moves through traffic instead.
There’s a difference today.
He isn’t chasing.
He’s building.
Lap after lap, he layers the race carefully.
Manage the front left.
Lift slightly through Sector 3.
Take what’s offered. Leave what isn’t.
His engineer keeps the radio measured.
“Tyres look good. Keep managing.”
“Copy.”
No panic.
No urgency.
Just rhythm.
Louise can tell when he’s pushing even if the numbers don’t scream it. The way he hits the apex with a fraction more commitment. The way his exit speeds sharpen.
She folds her hands in front of her, expression unreadable.
Inside, her pulse ticks faster.
The first pit cycle arrives like a held breath finally released. Strategy windows open across the grid. Cars peel off unpredictably. Undercuts threaten.
“Box, box.”
He dives in clean.
The crew is flawless — wheels off, wheels on, car dropped and gone in a blink.
He rejoins into clean air.
That matters more than anything.
On the out-lap, the car feels alive.
The new tyres bite.
The steering lightens.
He lets it flow.
He doesn’t look at the championship standings displayed on the dash. He knows roughly where he stands. That’s enough.
By mid-race, the field has stretched into long silver ribbons under the sun. The heat shimmers above the asphalt. Every braking zone feels slightly softer now. The track evolving.
Louise shifts her weight subtly as strategy calls ripple across the Aston pit wall too. Constructors battle humming in parallel.
Green and orange, separated by meters of concrete and years of rivalry, both chasing something enormous.
She glances once — just once — toward the McLaren pit wall.
Sees tension in shoulders.
Sees quiet confidence too.
Back to her screens.
Focus.
The second stint is where something settles.
The car underneath Lando stops feeling like machinery and starts feeling like extension. It rotates obediently. It listens.
He threads apex after apex, not forcing time, just allowing it.
The radio goes quiet.
Silence in racing is either very bad or very good.
Today, it’s good.
With twenty laps to go, the math begins to whisper.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
If nothing breaks.
If no safety car.
If no debris.
If no mistake.
He doesn’t finish the sentence in his head.
Louise feels the shift too.
The crowd changes pitch. The sound lifts slightly, anticipation rippling outward from the big screens.
Ten laps.
Her jaw tightens.
She hates certainty before it’s earned.
Five.
Lando’s hands are steady on the wheel. Sweat trickles down his spine. He doesn’t notice.
Three.
The engineer’s voice stays calm.
“You’re good. Just keep doing this.”
Two.
Louise feels her heart in her throat now, but her face remains perfectly composed.
One.
The checkered flag waves.
Black and white slicing the air.
He crosses the line.
For a split second, there is silence inside the cockpit.
The absence of pressure.
Then—
“P1! Mate! That’s it! You’ve done it! You're the World Champion!”
The words hit him like impact.
World Champion.
He laughs, but it comes out broken — sharp and breathless and disbelieving all at once.
“I can’t believe it,” he says, voice catching. “We did it. Thank you guys. Thank you so much.”
Hands start shaking on the cooldown lap.
He doesn’t remember half of it.
The noise swells around him as if someone turned the volume of the world up too high. Fireworks crack in the distance. Fans on their feet.
He parks in parc fermé.
For a moment, he just sits there.
Helmet still on.
Hands resting uselessly in his lap.
Then reality floods in.
He pulls the steering wheel off. Unbuckles. Climbs out.
The helmet comes off.
The grin breaks across his face uncontrollably — wide and boyish and entirely unfiltered.
Mechanics surge forward. Hands on his shoulders. Someone lifts him slightly off the ground. Shouts in his ears. Laughter.
He clings back.
Across the pit lane, Aston Martin is exploding too — green shirts hugging, shouting, constructors secured.
Louise stands in the middle of it, breathing hard for the first time all day.
It worked.
All of it.
Months of precision.
It worked.
On the podium, the symmetry is almost poetic.
Green. Orange. Green.
Aston drivers flank the center step.
McLaren in the middle.
He climbs to the top, movements slightly dazed.
The trophy is heavier than he expects.
The crowd is louder than anything he’s ever heard.
From below, Louise doesn’t try to hide the softness in her expression.
He scans the crowd instinctively.
Searching.
He doesn’t know for what exactly.
Then he sees her.
Not jumping.
Not screaming.
Just there.
Steady.
She lifts her head slightly when their eyes meet.
Small tilt.
Subtle.
Then she turns and gestures gently toward his family — catches his mum’s eye, his dad’s, the cluster of people who built him long before podiums existed.
His mum is crying.
His dad is trying not to.
He swallows hard.
For a second, the noise fades.
Just that image.
Her standing there in green..
The anthem begins.
He places his hand over his chest.
Confetti explodes overhead.
Bottles are thrust into hands.
He sprays wildly, laughing, soaked instantly.
The season crashes down on him all at once — the weight of it, the exhaustion, the relief.
World Champion. Again.
Below the podium, officially in green.
Unofficially everything else.
Louise smiles.
—
Back in the pit lane, celebrations blur into color and sound.
Orange bleeding into green.
Champagne soaking concrete.
Cameras flashing relentlessly.
He moves through it like someone slightly underwater.
Congratulations. Hugs. Microphones. Laughter.
At some point, through the chaos, their eyes meet across the divide again.
No dramatic run.
No public display.
Just recognition.
We did it.
You did it.
Last light of the season stretches long across the marina, gold bleeding into violet.
The floodlights begin to hum again as night reclaims the track.
For one suspended second amid the chaos —
He is the World Champion.
She is exactly where she said she would be.
And the last light of the season holds them both in it.
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
Autistic coded girlies…
Born to be silly, forced to lock in and kick ass in fights.
