#ultraln4

[norareplaceme]

02.03.24 Bahrain, Part 2

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH2

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~2000, jump to CH1 + cross-posted on ao3,

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: explicit language.

Cosette arrived early by race standards, but the afternoon heat was already stifling at the track. She'd come to complete the pre-race photogrammetry, a ridiculously high-definition 3D scan she needed before the mechanics swarmed the cars for prep. With so much camera gear, it was better if the garage wasn’t packed with people.

She captured Lando’s car first, then Oscar’s. The click of her equipment cases closing coincided with the arrival of mechanics assembling for their pre-shift stretching ritual. The paddock was lively in a way she hadn’t anticipated from watching it on the screen: plenty of laughter lilted between the whirring of drills, but underneath it, Cosette felt the entire McLaren garage holding a collective breath — as if when they exhaled, they’d knock the cars off the track and the weekend would be forfeited.

She’d only managed to snag four hours of sleep between her nighttime ultrasonic scan and this afternoon’s photogrammetry — Simon had warned her that this was the worst part of the job — and now she was already scouting out a place to crash. Technically, she was on call but off the clock, allowed to leave the track and sleep off an hour back at her hotel. But she couldn’t be bothered with the taxis and entrance procedures. She figured it’d be easier to just find a semi-private corner.

The McLaren employee hospitality unit looked promising; plenty of tables, and no one would mind if she snagged one for herself. Four TVs lined the wall, two showing live angles of the McLaren garage and two prepped for the race coverage, both on low volume. Fresh coffee grounds mingled with industrial chemicals at the garage's busy coffee bar, where espresso machines hissed above the low chatter of employees.

Cosette knew most employees would be working full-on from now and through the race; there weren’t many on a schedule like hers. She figured hospitality would be quiet enough, especially at spot she found in the corner, where she pulled out a chair against the wall and flipped another to prop up her feet. She set an alarm for an hour and a half to lights out. Grabbing a napkin from the coffee station, she scribbled a quick note, then pulled her baseball hat over her face and headphones over her ears. Only in this created isolation of hers did she notice how exhausted she was. Aside from her work itself, the paddock demanded being “on” 100% of the time and her social battery was rapidly depleting. She crossed her arms and sank into “Jasmine” by Common Souls, hoping this quick rest would get her in top form for the race itself.

Bahrain: The first race of the 2024 calendar.

It was Lando’s sixth year in F1 and he did everything he could to set himself up for success. Organization didn’t come naturally to him, but his commitment was unquestionable. He followed his trainer’s breakfast regimen; he took a cold shower (though he longed to crank the heat) and slept with an eye mask and white noise. He doubted he’d keep up that particular habit for much longer, although the white noise reminded him of falling asleep to the static of the TV when he was younger. Headphones in, muscles stretched, he jogged through the hotel and into the car waiting to take him to the track. Only in the stillness of the van did he allow himself the briefest moment of panic, sharp and bitter. It was always there, buried under routine and resolve. But here, alone and away from the cameras, he let it speak. What if he couldn’t do it?

He tightened his jaw and cracked his neck. Back to business.

His race days were scheduled down to the minute: media prep, interviews, engineering meetings, strategy sessions, sponsor obligations, fan engagements, warmups. He had minutes to listen and minutes to speak (only what his media manager wanted him to say), minutes to eat, get massaged, shake hands, hold a microphone, and sign hats. Minutes to wave to the camera. And eventually, the suit, the helmet, the silence. It was strange, but somehow nestled in the tight cockpit was the most comfortable he’d be all day. That is, until it was lights out and he’d instinctively lean into the chaos that followed.

But Lando wasn’t there yet; he had to get through the whole pre-race schedule first. Lando often wished they’d just let him drive, none of this other nonsense. But being at the top of the world came with its duties, he knew, and he remained grateful for the opportunity, despite all the times he had to force a smile.

It was a good year, he could feel it. Maybe it was physical maturation, maybe it was the years grinding through race after race in so-so McLaren cars, but this year he felt some magic every time he drove. He’d grab the wheel and the car listened. He felt strong, physically and mentally. He didn’t want to place too much pressure on himself — just grab points and make the team proud. Make everyone proud. But in the back of his mind he imagined himself standing at the top of the podium in his first ever Grand Prix win.

Lando’s next appointment was a meeting with a media manager in the McLaren hospitality unit. He, Oscar, and their handlers gathered at a table as the manager clicked away on her laptop. Oscar nodded. Lando replied with a quiet, familiar “Mate.”

The media manager, Lauren, folded her hands. “So you’re pleased with your starting position,” she began. “Let’s keep the tone optimistic; say you both have a promising chance to score major points. You don’t need…”

Hang on, Lando thought. Was that—? He peered behind Lauren to the back of the room. The black baseball cap hid most of her face, but the tattoos gave Cosette away. Lando stifled a chuckle as he observed Cosette slumped against the wall, clearly asleep. Unenthusiastic about meeting me and dozing off on the clock? On race day? Bold. Maybe she just hated her job.

Lando watched — in glances as he vaguely tried to follow along with what Lauren was saying — as Cosette’s head tipped forward and her hat clattered to the floor. Oscar’s handler was in the middle of asking an animated question, so no one else seemed to notice the woman in the corner, who maintained her slumber despite the interruption. Lando caught another glimpse of her face, this time relaxed entirely, the glare from yesterday dissipated and he realized that she looked quite young. Her skin was pale and smooth and her cheeks were full, with a small chin to make a heart shaped face. A few front strands of hair fell forward to frame her face. It was a contrast to her tough exterior with her tattoos and snarling expressions. Maybe she wasn’t so uptight after all — just sleep-deprived and stubborn. He could work with that.

“— that should really be all you need to know for today,” Lauren said with a tone of finality. “Everyone good? Lando?”

Lando snapped back to the meeting. “Yep. Ready.”

As the five stood, Oscar glanced between Lando and the sleeping Cosette in the corner, one eyebrow raised in quiet amusement. Lando just shrugged. But as the group filed out, he caught his handler by the arm. “I’ll catch you in a sec, yeah?”

The handler looked unsure, but nodded and stepped outside.

With calculated nonchalance, Lando crossed to Cosette's corner, lingering at the mini-fridge beside her as though inspecting the selection. Closer now, he spotted a napkin on the table beside her, scribbled in all-caps:

”COSETTE MOULIN, ON-SITE REP, NDT TEAM. ON CALL, OFF CLOCK. WAKE ME IF YOU NEED TESTING. IF IT CAN WAIT, [phone].”

Lando smiled at the note; its brevity, the severe slanted handwriting. He listened for a moment to the muffled sound of music from her headphones, then picked up her hat off the floor and set it on the table beside her note. He took mental note of the number and jogged out of the breakroom to rejoin his handler, creating a new contact in his phone as he walked to his next appointment.

Cosette drifted back to consciousness as her phone alarm buzzed in her lap. She picked up her hat off the table — Did I take it off in my sleep? — and stuffed the note in her pocket. She rubbed her eyes, smudging her makeup. No time to fix it now. Cursing, she took off in a half-jog to the McLaren garage and assumed her backup position beside the data analysts, Andrew and Jeremiah. She’d only met them a few times, but they’d read her silences for what they were: caution, not coldness; and stuck around long enough to find common ground.

Jeremiah was a slim Black man with cheeks that rose with his smile and eyes that crinkled as he laughed. American, too, from Chicago, and only a few years older than Cosette’s 26. The pair gabbed about their common taste in music, and Cosette made sure to get Jeremiah listening to Eva’s EPs on Soundcloud. Andrew, meanwhile, had a thick, Popeye-like build. He maintained a scruffy brown beard, mismatched with his ginger hair, and was never seen without his McLaren hat from his first season on the team. He was a bit older — in his late 30s — and a father to two girls in grade school. But he was just as inked as Cosette, and the two could spend hours talking tattoos, favorite artists, and their thoughts on the industry.

Across the paddock, Lando finished his final preparations, pulling out his earbuds and zipping up his racing suit. As race time neared, he and Oscar walked into the garage together, fist-bumping McLaren employees and throwing finger guns at the social media intern’s iPhone. Cosette watched Lando as he approached their bench, dapping up Jeremiah and Andrew. When he came to Cosette, he held out his fist, which she matched unsurely. “Hey, sleepyhead,” he said under his breath with a grin. Cosette’s brows furrowed, and Lando moved on.

When the race got underway, Cosette could hardly look up from the graphs in front of her, but the whine of the cars whipping past the pitlane, the roar of the crowd and frantic discussions between engineers tested her focus. She had a notepad on her lap, pen in one hand and calculator in the other, and she lifted her hand to wipe sweat off her brow every few minutes.

What she’d never have been able to predict was the low, thrumming vibration that climbed from the soles of her feet up through her spine, the unmistakable signature of raw horsepower ripping away from the pit box. Her head would be full of equations, trendlines, error tracking — until the tremor pulled her back into her body.

Holy shit, she thought, every time. There’s a fucking person in that beast.

Still, the details of the race only came to her in fragments: the cheers and groans of the pit crew and the tense, technical updates between Lando, Oscar, and their engineers over the team radio.

After two hours of intensive focus, the race was over and the garage fell into a muted rhythm. Oscar held his starting spot in 8th, while Lando finished 6th, one spot higher than his starting position. It was a passable result; better than last year’s season opener, certainly, but every race held a certain expectation for a podium. No matter how remote the chance.

The drivers eventually returned to the garage, stopping by their drivers’ rooms to change out of their racing suits, and rejoined the crew to confer about the cars’ performance. Cosette waited until the stand-up meeting, where the drivers, engineers and mechanics would discuss any damages or changes. When the decision was made to hold off on repairs and expedite the tear down, most of the McLaren crew broke off into social groups, leaving the track for dinners, parties, or much-needed sleep.

Now was Cosette’s time to take a final 3D scan of the cars for her colleagues to compare to the one she’d done earlier. It was her last official task for the race weekend. She’d been invited to dinner with the team, Jeremiah and Andrew promising to keep her company. After that, a flight home for a few days, before leaving once again for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. Her work went by without incident, accompanied by a calmer mix of Noname and James Blake. She was in the middle of packing up her cameras when her phone buzzed in her pocket, frowning as she checked the unknown number.

Looking forward to seeing you in Saudi. I’ll do my best to keep the car off the walls to give you more time to sleep in, but no promises — Lando

The fucker had gotten her number from hospitality. Shit.

sitting on 20k words + a long plot planned, so buckle up lol <3 and i would love to hear what you think of the story so far! -- nora

next chapter out Monday! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍 tag: @onewithnomightypowers

[norareplaceme]

05.05.24 Miami, Part 2

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH14

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~1300 / 36,381 total, jump to CH1 / CH13 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Explicit language, drinking, drugs, injury, blood.

⚘ short but dense one + posting a day early bc I'm busy tomorrow ⚘

The boat rocked lazily along the canal, bass thudding through the wooden deck; partygoers shouted and laughed, drunk and high beneath the endless clouds blanketing Amsterdam. Cosette found herself at ease among them. King’s day is goated as hell, she thought, sloppily pleased with herself.

She’d had five to eight drinks, a menagerie of tequila shots, champagne flutes, and some finicky heather-sage cocktail made with Dutch gin. In one hand, she held a glass tumbler; in the other, an orange pom-pom she’d nicked from someone’s costume. Her feet were bare, her balance questionable. The drink was long gone, sloshing now in her stomach as she twirled barefoot along the wooden bench, sure to find splinters later. For now, it didn’t matter.

Lando was on the other side of the boat, laughing at something he’d said to a circle of friends — cracking himself up, shoulders shaking, one hand braced on a railing as he bent over. He looked like he was having fun; she didn’t feel much of anything. The detour to the bathroom had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t remember the walk below deck or back, but the drip at the back of her throat lingered with a bitter, artificial aftertaste.

Bram, who’d dubbed himself “The Drugs Man,” had greeted her with a dimpled grin and a rolled-up €100 bill. He’d had several packets of goodies spread out on the bathroom counter like party favors. The mirror was scratched, crumpled paper towels littered the floor, and the space claustrophobic with its low ceiling and flickering lights. His dark eyes had traced up and down her figure.

“First line’s free if you show me your tits.”

She didn’t laugh or slap him, just lifted her shirt for a few seconds, then leaned forward and snorted the line hard and fast before pushing past him, her fist slamming against the door to swing it wide.

Lando didn’t need to know about Bram.

Glass on a boat was a concern rich people didn’t have, Cosette figured. She rocked her hips absentmindedly along with to the beats Martin Garrix spun from his table at the center of the crowd. Because of course the man she was seeing was best fucking buds with Oh, you know, just Martin Garrix. Her fingers numbly clutched the tumbler, the ice sloshing against the glass walls with each movement. She didn’t see the fine web of cracks in the crystal, spider-thin, blooming on the curved face like the curling petals of lilies. At some point, maybe five, ten minutes prior, it had fractured. Maybe against the railing, slammed down while laughing. But it remained in her hand, beautiful and tentative. Beautiful things often broke in her hands. But sometimes they didn’t shatter all at once: sometimes they held on, like this fractured thing, still catching the light.

Lando, spotting Cosette above the crowd, excused himself from his conversation and jogged across the deck. He stood below her, eyes tracking her movement, arms lifting rapidly every so often when he sensed a stumble incoming. He caught her forearm with his hand after one too many near misses, encasing her wrist entirely with his fingers. “Cosette,” he called her name quietly. “Careful. That bench isn’t stable.”

She waved him off, moving to release her wrist with a flick of casual defiance. But he held on a little too long, a little too firmly, a tension that tipped her off balance the instant she resisted.

That’s when it happened.

Cosette lost her balance, pitching forward slightly, then lifted her other hand to catch herself on the railing. The glass tumbler crushed against the steel, shattering the rest of the way in Cosette’s hand. Not with a dramatic clash, but a subtle, wet sound as it pierced the thick skin of her palm. A razor-sharp shard was launched in the impact and flew through the air, slicing clean along Lando’s nose. A red line appeared almost instantly.

She stood frozen as blood traced down Lando's face, the sounds of the party continuing around them: laughter, music, the slap of water against the hull, but she couldn't hear any of it over the roar of her own panic.

"Fuck," he breathed, more confusion than pain, as he pulled his sunglasses off and stared at the crimson on his fingertips like it belonged to someone else. There was a moment where the two of them silently watched the blood drip off his chin onto the wooden deck. Conscious thought returned to Cosette and she jumped down from the bench, careful to avoid the splattered blood. She didn’t even feel the nick on her own palm, overwhelmed by the feeling of her heart dropping in her chest as she watched the red stream. Her fingers fluttered near his jaw, trembling under the heavy load of guilt.

Someone behind them called out, "Eh, what’s happened?" but Lando waved them off without looking, his attention locked on her face. Blood trickled from his nose, over his lips, staining his fluorescent orange hoodie, but he was studying her like she was the one who was broken.

Her lip quivered, unsure what to say. Bram in the bathroom, his sick smile as he looked hungrily at her exposed chest. Tomoya’s messages she left on read, swiping the message app closed as Lando slept beside her. “You’re bleeding,” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, like she was reading from a script.

“You are too,” he said, nodding at her palm.

She looked down to her hand: much less blood, a cut a band aid could mend. Nothing like his.

Someone, she couldn't see who, shoved orange napkins their way, the cheap kind that dissolved instantly, and they stood there blotting uselessly while the boat swayed.

Cosette always held onto broken things a little too long. Maybe just to prove she didn’t mind the edges.

So did Lando. Only, he thought if he held tight enough, they might not break at all.

As the medics wrapped the bandage around his head, Lando felt the rest of the world fall away as the final pin clicked into place and the lock turned, the door open to a mental clarity he had been stumbling for in the dark. He shut his tired eyes, retreating into his mind where glimpses of the golden light hinted at something heavenly in texture, euphoric in taste. There was no other path he could take: he’d always end up here. And he felt righteous for it.

His body was stuffed full, in the dermis, under his fingernails, leaking from his follicles: his capacity for love, for empathy. Yearning so much it became physical, a knife at his throat and a cushion of air beneath his feet. A bloating need to feel, to be felt, until the edges of him blurred. Blood in his mouth, the mineral taste familiar as podium champagne, drying his tongue.

With a slow smile cracking the dried blood crusted in the corners of his mouth, he took Cosette’s bandaged hand in his own. Then he laughed. Not to her or to anyone in particular. Just at this — all of it. The life he’d arrived at. The orange confetti dusting the pavement and birds chirping on powerlines, announcing the sunrise, which appeared now over the colourful townhouses. The tantalizingly quick car that awaited him in Miami. The impossible lit-match woman tempting him like a lunge to the inside.

The door in his mind swung open on its own. No time for hesitation. Harmony of thought and action propelled his feet through the archway — or so he thought, for he could not feel the hands of Naivety at his back. He mistook the rush for truth. He smiled, unbidden, in the warmth of the blinding light and like a drunken man, he could read the sign but not understand its meaning. Or, he just didn’t care.

You have stumbled into an unhealthy obsession.

thoughts??? -- nora

next chapter out Monday, June 16! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher, @graceln4

[norareplaceme]

05.26.24 Monaco, Part 2

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH21

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~850 / 46,657 total, jump to CH1 / CH20 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: None.

Lando stared in the mirror, his hair dripping from the shower — hair product lid in one hand, jar in the other — yet he remained motionless. On the streets beneath his Monaco apartment, the buzz of an energetic crowd was mounting, despite the race start being hours away.

Yesterday saw Lando qualify fourth on the grid. Not high enough, he thought. But his lackluster quali performance wasn’t what was sticking in his mind; it was Cosette, just a few meters away, asleep in his bed.

His Q3 lap was nothing special the most special qualifying circuits on the calendar. The pitwall had put him in unfortunate traffic that disrupted his lap, but a better driver could have pulled some magic out of it. Not me, his mind told him, the thought pinging back and forth across his brain like a trapped fly in a glass.

Cosette hadn’t met his eyes when she’d entered his apartment yesterday, her hand limp in his own as he grabbed it. She’d been looking out the window, to the balcony and the sea in the distance, her body still as she sat on the couch. He’d said they needed to talk, and the look on her face made him wish he’d said anything else, anything at all; there was a finality in her gaze, looking past him even as she met his eyes.

But she hadn’t spoken, just nodded solemnly, and he’d told her all about his lunch with Zak and their boss’s promise to allow the relationship to continue. She’d brought a hand to her mouth, then looked back out at the water, and it was then he’d noticed the marker all along her arms, a child’s coloring book of her tattoos. He couldn’t stop himself from bringing his hand to circle her wrist and pull her arm closer to his body, bringing his other hand to trace along the flowering honeysuckle on the soft skin of her forearm, every flower a different color, the lines a suggestion rather than rule.

I’ve seen what’s happening online, she’d said, or something like it, her voice soft, airy in a way that seemed to cloud the clarity of the voice that had since become familiar. I’m sorry for my part in that.

He’d shook his head at that, quick to absolve her guilt, but he’d struggled to come up with any reply. The fact was, it had been bad online, and he had seen all of it — every article, post comment. It nagged at him, every hour, all social media muted but he’d pull it up obsessively anyway. Angry comments, hurtful comments, mostly to Cosette. Calling her ugly, plain, whorish, fat. Every insult loaded a new pain on his chest like a stack of bricks on his sternum.

But of course, he had his own brand of hate. Legions, all lined up to take one more anonymous dig at him. Insinuating he was a playboy party animal who spent more time screwing pit crew and smashing glass in his face than driving the car. That he was a wasted seat.

And in the back of his mind, in that moment and every moment since his lunch with Zak, was the blaring, looming question of Cosette’s drug use. If her partying edged into a dangerous and reckless habit. If she was safe — if she was hurting inside, if she turned to substances when she could have turned to him. If there was more to her than what he’d been allowed to see. If it was all his fault.

But when his index finger traced down her forearm, to the now-purple rabbit on the inside of her wrist, she had let out a laugh. You still want this? She’d asked, tucking her legs under her on the couch, turned to face him, her motions lively, manic. He couldn’t help the smile that formed on his lips.

The answer was yes, and he’s said it then, as fast as he’d thought it, which was near instant. He pulled her in, hands everywhere at once. Across her back. Under her shirt. His thumb caught in her belt loop, anchored there. Then his hand was at her chin, tipping her face up, fingers sliding into her hair. Yes, he still wanted this. There was no other possible answer that made any sense to him.

Condensation dripped down the mirror, drawing Lando’s focus back to the present. He dug his fingers into the curl creme. Yes to Cosette, to being with Cosette, to time with Cosette, he thought, each affirmation a reassurance to his clouded mind.

The hatred online. The race at three. The fans in the grandstands wearing his merch. The combined effort of thousands of McLaren employees to get his car to this track in fighting condition.

Lando stepped back from the mirror and turned to leave.

Yes to Cosette’s body against his own, to Cosette in his apartment, in his bed; yes to her partying and her intensity and whatever version of herself she allowed him to see. If that was all she could give, he thought, it was enough.

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

follow #ultraln4 to keep updated <3

[norareplaceme]

05.05.24 Miami, Part 1

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH13

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~2600 / 35,073 total, jump to CH1 / CH12 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Explicit language, drinking.

I wrote + edited the back half of this chapter while listening to a lot of Nick Hakim. If I were to suggest one song to listen to while reading, I'd say "Vertigo" off COMETA, but that whole album is fitting.

Jeremiah sped across the pitlane with a frenetic urgency.

“Did I hear that right?” he asked, ducking to Cosette’s height, voice pitched low. His expression was nothing short of scandalized. “Lando Norris is going to ‘Fly you to Amsterdam?’”

Cosette let out a small huff of laughter, her grin slow and wicked. She took a step back and leaned against the pitlane wall, one foot propped against the concrete, the lingering scent of champagne, rubber, and fuel tickling her nostrils.

"We might’ve gotten a little closer last night," Cosette said, her lips curving into a predatory smile as she paused for effect, "Latex close." finishing with a slow, deliberate wink.

Jeremiah’s jaw dropped a couple inches. Impressive, given how low it had been to start with.

But hearing her own words made her bravado falter. “Shit, I sound insane,” she said, quieter now. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, to be honest.”

Jeremiah blinked again, slower this time, then slumped beside her. “Damn girl, you’re going to have to catch me up on a lot,” he muttered. “Wanna grab dinner?”

The conversation with Jeremiah had cracked open a part of her she’d kept carefully ignored the past few days. Between bites of steaming-hot xiao long bao she'd been forced to explain her relationship with Lando and felt words fail her completely.

Because the night before, when they’d fucked, it had been like a circus act — Cosette moving through some practiced choreography, a routine designed to dazzle, to distract, to dominate. She hadn’t let herself feel Lando, not really. Just performed what she knew men liked.

And yeah, she thought, I’d say he fucking liked it.

He’d fallen asleep easily afterward, curled on his side facing her, long lashes casting stupidly delicate shadows across his cheeks. Meanwhile, she’d tossed restlessly, searching for some specific combination of angles and pillows and breathing patterns that might unlock sleep.

Watching him, she’d felt a twist in her chest as imperfect memories of past lovers flickered through her mind. She thought of Tomoya, who slept like a starfish, a hand on her lower back. And Scott, who stole the covers. And the men before them, a faded procession of faces she couldn’t clearly recall anymore. They didn’t matter. They weren’t supposed to. But this one — this one was already harder to shake, and that terrified her, kept her awake, made her fingers twitch, just a little. And worse, Lando hadn’t asked for the performance. Hadn’t needed it. But she’d given it anyway.

By three in the morning, she felt like a stranger in her own skin. A blow-up doll in a sleek, high-rise fantasy set in a city twelve time zones from Atlanta. A boy with too much money and far too much softness, still asleep in her bed like he didn’t know what she’d done. Like there was still a version of the night where it had meant something. Whored yourself out again, Cosette. Great fucking job.

At just past 4 a.m. — she remembered checking the clock — she rolled onto her side for the hundredth time. That’s when she heard a soft, sleepy whine from Lando behind her. A moment later, a large palm slide across her stomach, pulling her backside flush with his chest. She’d held perfectly still, uncertain. But he let out an exhale, breath hot against the back of her neck. She wasn’t even sure if he was conscious.

Cosette looked down at his hand resting on the bare skin between her shorts and tank. His palm was rough with calluses against the softness of her stomach, but the contrast felt grounding rather than discomforting. She brought her own hand toward his, then hovered close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the fine hairs on his knuckles. But she hadn’t let it land, just considered for a moment. Even that was more than she thought she deserved.

She drew her arms back, breathing in what remained on the pillow beside her: expensive hotel soap mingled with his cologne, sharp citrus layered over something darker, leather and musk. She'd always known his surface, bright as grapefruit, warm as ginger. The question was what lived underneath, and if she’d ever let herself get close enough to see it. Somehow, she fell asleep. Her breathing lined up with his, bodies synced in an unconscious rhythm.

And then the morning came.

There was something about waking up beside a lover — not a hookup or a one night stand. She felt a weight, the turmoil of her late-night thoughts abandoned as she looked into Lando’s eyes, Mediterranean blue, sleep-crinkled and amused. His mullet had crumpled into a full-blown faux-hawk, and the image — this rich, famous idiot with bedhead — burrowed under her skin and made itself at home, blood carrying it to every corner of her body until she was full of him, saturated.

He hadn't even said anything, done anything, just let her see him unfiltered while she forgot to keep her distance, and now they were both exposed, both defenseless. That was the moment she'd felt truly inhabiting her own body, real and present, heart pulsing warm and steady in her chest. Like she'd stepped back into her skin after watching herself from the outside the night previous. When she’d thought, Maybe this can work. Maybe I deserve this.

In the weeks that followed the China GP, curiosity, hope, and desire were present in Cosette’s mind, never obsessively, but softly in the spaces between conscious thought. She confided in Eva — who’d helped her get here, and needed to know what came next. Jeremiah knew, which meant Jess knew, but none of them had told Andrew. The man would combust if he knew his favorite driver and technician were falling for each other.

Cosette wanted a second round. A chance to try again, not as a projection, but as herself. But between Lando’s packed schedule and her own, with car improvements inbound for Miami, they’d barely found time to talk. Their texts were sporadic and logistical, but whenever his name lit up her screen, a smile tugged at her lips, easy and automatic.

LN: kings day is the 27th, a saturday. do you think you could leave the mtc maybe a few hours early, say 3 on friday? then you could fly out that night from heathrow

CM: yeah, that works :) will you be on the same flight?

LN: ill be in ams the prior thursday through monday. sunday night ok for you to leave? or too late for work?

CM: you of all people should know i can operate on shockingly little sleep

LN: !

LN: if you get an email from Amanda, that’s my assistant. she’ll be reaching about booking details

LN: what type of accommodation are you okay with?

Cosette watched with amusement as the typing bubble appeared, vanished, then reappeared.

LN: We could share a room, if that’s alright with you. But I’m happy to book two rooms.

She bit her lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

CM: hmmm

CM: yeah im thinkin we wont need two xx

As the plane lifted from Heathrow, Cosette was happily settled in her first-class seat, gin and tonic in hand, phone in the other. She’d queued her flight playlist with care, choosing Amaarae’s “Counterfeit” for takeoff. The Ghanaian-American singer’s high, dreamy voice filled her ears.

Rich bitch, rich bitch

Na-na-na-na-na

Maybe not subtle, **but fuck, it felt good. She followed it with 454’s “GEORGIA,” a nod to home. Her body moved as much as the plush seat would allow, head bobbing lightly to the beat.

Don’t hate on the player but hate on the game

Might take a plane and kick back in the A’

It was a short flight, just under ninety minutes. Between music and two more G&Ts it passed in a blink. The third drink left her a bit unsteady, enough to knock her hip, hard, against the seat ahead as they deplaned. It was the bright type of pain that flashed like a stubbed toe but it dissipated as she walked through the airport.

Outside security, a tall blond man with an impressively groomed beard held a sign bearing her name. He wore a suit with a skinny black tie and a wool overcoat. His polished shoes glinted against the layered grime and dust of the atrium flooring.

“Ms. Moulin,” he said, his voice polite, clipped, professional. “Right this way.”

He’d answered her questions: how long it would take to get there, what part of the city was she staying in — but offered nothing else to fill the silence of the drive. The leather seats creaked softly as she shifted in her seat, the rich smell filling the car's interior. Outside, the city sounds were muted through the tinted windows: distant horns, the whir of bicycle wheels as cyclists drifted past in dedicated lanes, bells chiming at intersections. She leaned forward from the backseat, drumming up some conversation. Maybe she was still tipsy. Does drinking at altitude do weird shit?

“You can talk to me, you know. I don’t bite.”

The flirty tone left a bad taste in her mouth as it left. Why the fuck am I about to flirt with the driver Lando hired to pick me up? Fucking slut.

Maybe she just had a thing for drivers. Maybe she was just nervous to see Lando.

From his spot in the hotel lobby, Lando watched Cosette before she even noticed him. He was halfheartedly playing a game on his phone but really focused on the revolving door at the entrance, awaiting her arrival. He ached to see her again, to touch her — knowing here, away from racetracks and paparazzi, he could. Every time they’d crossed paths at the MTC, a crowd or a videographer was never far behind. He’d been caught staring more times than he could count, like when Oscar nudged his arm and nodded toward a photographer by the trophy wall, pulling Lando’s attention away from Cosette’s retreating figure.

Lando stood from the armchair, striding to Cosette with a hand raised in a wave. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure how to break the silence, but then he met her in an easy hug, reminded once again of her scent — jasmine, ambergris, and this time a little lime.

"Good flight?" he asked, taking her carry-on.

"Three gin and tonics good," she said, and he laughed. “Do you people just fly first class because the flight attendants get you plastered?”

"Christ, you're going to be fun tonight." Lando replied quickly, a semi-flirtatious response surfacing over a flicker of unease. Flashes of Cosette in London, hungover and bleeding. Cosette in his lap, the taste of champagne thick on her tongue, pulling back from a kiss, looking him dead in the eyes spitting cruel words on purpose. He shook the thought from his mind.

He took her out to dinner, somewhere fancy, subdued with dim lighting and tablecloth covered tables that muffled the conversations of neighboring tables. She turned down wine without explanation, and a slight tension in between his brows relaxed. She’d ordered the lamb — thankfully she hadn’t gone for the fish — and Lando found himself captivated by small details: the precise way she held her knife, the soft sound of satisfaction she made at the first bite, how the candlelight caught the angles of her face as she leaned forward to speak.

She told him about Eva, her friend who'd be at Miami. About her research at university, her voice taking on a different quality — animated, passionate. Cosette glowed with a pure joy he recognized instantly; it was the same look she wore when she let music carry her. The way her eyes lit up explaining non-destructive testing, how her hands moved as she described the physics — he stored each detail, mapping the way her mind worked, grateful for every glimpse she offered.

The elevator back to the hotel room was slow, torturously so. Lando could see her reflection in the polished steel walls — she winked with a tilt of her head and a smile that sent blood to his cheeks and somewhere lower. He could feel heat radiating off her in their proximity. She hadn’t touched him, not yet, but he felt the pull as if she had.

The moment their door clicked shut, shoved him back so hard the handle dug into his spine, her mouth finding his with desperate hunger. "I've been thinking about this all through dinner," she breathed against his lips. His body reacted just as quick as he would have in a car, clutch into gear. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, not rough but possessive, and flipped her so her back hit the wall. Her pulse thudded beneath his fingertips, the rhythm something sacred.

"God, Cosette," he groaned against her throat. There was more he’d meant to say, but the words were lost in the way her tongue dragged down his jaw, the clasp of her fingers around the back of his neck. He tugged her to the bed, his grip greedily digging into the flesh around her hipbone, and she let out a startled yelp that made him stop for a moment to search her eyes. She didn’t waver, instead wrapped her arms around his neck, jumped into his arms, her legs locking around his waist with a fluidity that told him everything he needed to know. They stumbled together, barely coordinated, half-laughing into each other’s mouths as they crashed toward the bed. Hands fumbled at fabric, tore at zippers. And when skin finally met skin, she arched into Lando with a gasp that turned into his name — and fuck if that didn’t undo him. He wasn’t sure what had changed, only that something had settled in her, could see it in the way she met his gaze, and held it, like it mattered, like she meant it. And when Cosette breathed against him like that, heavy, exhausted, certain, he could finally breathe too.

They lay tangled together, her head on his chest, and Cosette listened to his heartbeat slow back to normal. Beneath her, Lando's hand slipped from her back as he drifted off. But still, she couldn’t sleep. She didn’t toss or turn — not this time. The restlessness was still there, coiled under her skin, but it no longer felt like a swarm of bees pounding at her insides.

The hum of the air conditioning wove itself into the road noise below, cars gliding along hushed boulevards, drunken patrons leaving bars and hailing cabs in Dutch and English, orchestrating a delicate accompaniment to Lando's soft exhalations as his chest rose and fell beneath her cheek in a cadence that seemed to slow her own racing thoughts, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers like honey through cloth. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Cosette felt comfortable with the silence: not the oppressive kind that demanded to be filled with words or movement or performance, but a warm and undemanding lull enveloping them in velvet, letting her simply exist in this moment without needing to be anything other than exactly who she was. It’s perfect.

Thinking the Miami section is going to be many parts (for obvious reasons). Buckle up! -- nora

next chapter out Wednesday, June 11! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher, @graceln4

[norareplaceme]

05.05.24 Miami, Part 3

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH15

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~2000 / 38,296 total, jump to CH1 / CH14 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Explicit language, mention of drugs.

Wheel guns fired in rapid, high-pitched bursts; sharp, pneumatic whines preceded the clatter of lug nuts releasing and locking under monstrous torque. The mechanical orchestra continued in a steady rhythm: jacks up, four guns off, four guns on. A sound as familiar as his engine at lights out. Lando sat in his car, running tests with engineers, their words placed in the spaces between the four impact wrenches at work on Oscar’s car during pit stop practice. It was nicer hearing the work from outside of the car. No split-second panic if something jammed. No race unraveling in a tenth of a second.

No, now he was content, or as content as he could be on a Thursday. Media day. He’d been nearly torn to shreds by reporters — That’s not kind, he corrected himself. They’re just doing their jobs. But some of these journalists, the sensationalists, made themselves easy to hate.

They’d teased, poking at his weekend in Amsterdam. Life of the party, aren’t you?

They’d pointed to the bandage on his nose, feigning ignorance. Oh, what happened there?

They’d been blunt, calling him reckless, undisciplined, self-indulgent, distracted. Shouldn’t you be focused on racing?

Yes, Lando thought, I should be. I am.

At least I think I am.

It had been an extra-long media prep meeting that morning in the McLaren hospitality unit. Lauren, the team’s media manager, dismissed Oscar and his handler after the standard rundown. Oscar gave him a sympathetic look before heading out. Then it was just him, Lauren, and the carefully curated list of responses and acceptable attitudes.

The photo was everywhere. He’d read one too many articles or opinion columns about how he wasn’t fit to be an athlete, he was wasting his seat, wasting the car. He could only be thankful Cosette’s face hadn’t made it into the frame, just the shoulder of her leather jacket in the corner. Nothing identifiable.

He didn’t want to fight it. Just memorize the phrases and get through the interviews. Normally, he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, reveal his feelings. But this felt different. The cut on his nose was healing fine, but the real wound was deeper: the realization that even his private moments weren't really private anymore.

“Not embarrassed,” he said, smiling like it didn’t matter. “I've got a lot of friends, so it was a good weekend, but already the next morning, I flew straight to Miami.”

He could smile through a lot of things, he knew. They could say mean things on social media, in news articles. By the time they said it, it barely registered — he’d already told himself worse, and believed every word. Always, always.

In what had now become her paddock routine, Cosette scanned her badge at the Miami turnstiles, sunglasses hiding her gaze, baseball cap obscuring her features and headphones booming. This time with Kendrick Lamar’s “untitled 02 | 06.23.2014.” Every line was three references and two double meanings and the backing, delectable. Bass-heavy when it needed to be, atmospheric when the lyrics called for it. If Cosette ever wanted to clear her head, Kendrick was a good choice. Or benzos.

It’d been a stressful week. Lando had pulled her into a big hug in Amsterdam before sending her off in a taxi to the airport, still wearing the bloody orange sweatshirt. He smelled of sweat and the cloying musk of his cologne as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on her head. See you in Miami, Muppet, he’d said.

Fucking hate that pet name, Cosette thought.

She pulled her cap lower, blocking out the Miami sun. She wished she could block out her own thoughts. But there was no escaping what followed her everywhere these days — guilt, like a fork jammed in her spine where she couldn’t reach. It plagued Cosette; whispered in her dreams, crafted nightmares with blood on her hands and a menagerie of victims at her feet. A deer. Lando. Herself, but doubled, her own face staring back with lifeless eyes. It didn’t help that she heard Lando’s name at work, worked on his car, walked by his face plastered across the MTC. No escape.

At least the work itself had been busy enough to fill her focus. Miami was shaping up to be their biggest upgrade package of the season, practically a new car from the ground up. Every time she looked at her checklist, another component demanded inspection: the floor redesign that had kept the aero team up for weeks, the sidepods that had been through far too many simulations, the front wing geometry that looked like origami made of carbon fiber. Even the barely-visible brake darts represented months of wind tunnel testing.

She had a fuck ton of work to do before practice, and that was exactly how she liked it. Better to lose herself in rhythm of the ultrasonic scans than think about Amsterdam and the look on Lando’s face as he touched the blood on his nose.

So, music. Loud and in stereo. Familiar melodies and beats she couldn’t tune out. She strutted down the paddock, backpack slung on one shoulder, ID slapping on her chest as she walked. Her gaze was unfocused — so much so she nearly missed the familiar figure in her path, waiting outside the McLaren garage.

The woman’s hair was gathered in five bantu knots that formed a crown atop her head. Electric blue strands spilled from them, trailing past her shoulders and swayed slightly, as if animated. She wore a bodysuit that was stitched together from matte panels and sheer mesh. The fabric, a muted storm-blue, was slashed with thick, raw seams and metal studs that caught the light like shrapnel. Stiletto nails gleamed in violet chrome. Thick rings encased every finger, gold stacked upon gold, and from her ears, long metal earrings swung like pendulums counting down the seconds to some unknown reckoning.

Eva stepped into the light with a squeal, pulling Cosette into a tight hug. She smelled like vanilla and cherries.

“Holy fuck, dude.” Cosette gushed, taking a second look at Eva’s outfit.

Eva twirled. “Mhm, you think?” She asked.

“Can’t think,” Cosette marveled, fanning her face and sticking out her tongue, panting. “You look too hot.”

A third voice called out from the left. “Now hold up,” Jeremiah began. “Is that the Eva?” He approached Cosette and Eva, a woman walking alongside him. She was implausibly curvy with silk-pressed hair that framed her face in a long bob. Her fluorescent green skin-tight midi dress clung to every curve, the ribbed stitching reminiscent of a moto jacket's detailing.

Jeremiah stepped forward to pull Eva into a quick hug, before gesturing to his companion. "And this beautiful woman right here," Jeremiah announced, clearly enjoying the introduction, "is the Fatimah Simone.”

"You're wearing the hell out of that dress,” Cosette said with genuine appreciation. “Lando wishes the fluoro looked that good on him.”

"Jeremiah been running his mouth about y'all being Team Norris," Fatimah said with a knowing smirk. "I respect the loyalty, but let's see if your boy can actually drive this weekend.”

Jeremiah leaned in with a finger to his lips. “Shh! We’re not supposed to have favorites.” He said under his breath, just so the four of them could hear, “But Number 4's got it bad for a certain technician,” pointing at Cosette, who rolled her eyes, then checked her watch.

“I’ve probably got ten minutes to spare. Want to grab a coffee?”

At the McLaren hospitality unit, they found a corner table away from the bustle of team personnel. Eva beamed, coffee in hand, eyes bright as Jeremiah leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Alright, so midnight Eastern. Your track drops," Jeremiah began, pulling out his phone. "My boy Marcus at that Chicago station? He's on board. One play guaranteed, then daily rotation if the numbers are good.”

“Sure, but what about scheduling?" Fatimah cut in, scrolling through her own phone. "We talking morning drive time or some graveyard slot? 'Cause stream counts don't care about your artistic vision if nobody's awake to hear it.”

Jeremiah grinned. “One step ahead, babe. Knew you would ask about something like that.” He rubbed her shoulder, and Fatimah set her phone down and rested her elbows on the table.

“Marcus promised me a prime afternoon slot,” Jeremiah continued. “Plus, Cosette, didn't you say Jess finally landed had that F1 TV connection?”

"Jess finally worked up the nerve to talk to that Mercedes engineer she's been eye-fucking all season," Cosette let out with a laugh. “What was her name? Michaela? Whatever, turns out Michaela's cousin runs cameras for the broadcast, and she convinced him to get some shots of Eva in our garage during FP1. Maybe even throw in a lower third if his manager's feeling generous.”

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Fatimah said, leaning back with satisfaction. "TV exposure, targeted demographic, cross-platform synergy. That's how you build a fanbase. You’ve got this, Eva.”

Jeremiah took Fatimah’s hand in his own, drawing circles with his thumb. “I love my marketing-minded, powerful, sexy, intelligent girlfriend.” He hummed.

Eva tilted her head, intensity flickering in her eyes. "Look, I respect the hustle, but I'm not just trying to get plays. I'm trying to change something. Music that makes people think, makes them uncomfortable."

"Emotion don't pay rent, baby," Fatimah quipped, but not unkindly. "Though I'll admit, your whole vibe is gonna photograph like a dream on that broadcast." She paused, waving her hand towards Eva. “As long as your Friday fit is as fire as this one.”

Jeremiah held up his hands. "See, this is why we make a good team," He made some strange hand motion in the center of the table, pointing between them. "Eva brings the artistry, Fatimah brings the strategy, and I'm just here making sure everyone plays nice. Should we, I don't know, rob a bank or something?”

That got a laugh out of everyone. Cosette liked seeing this side of Jeremiah: it was clear his confidence was much higher with Fatimah at his side.

Cosette brought a hand to her chin, her index finger grazing her lips. "There's... one more thing we could do. For the Atlanta show."

"What's that?" Eva asked.

"I could get Lando to come.” She said with a certainty she wasn’t sure she had.

Fatimah's eyes lit up. "Now you're thinking like a businesswoman. Celebrity endorsement, social media buzz..."

"And I still want people connecting with the message," Eva shot back, not backing down. "But you're right. More ears is better than none — I'm not precious about it. If using Lando gets my music to people who need to hear it, then we do what we gotta do."

Cosette looked between her friends, old and new, feeling the significance of what she was about to promise. "Alright. I'll ask him.”

Jeremiah pumped a fist in the air.

“But,” Cosette paused. “Not until after the race.”

“While you two are doing whatever it is you do in the garage," Eva pointed at Cosette and Jeremiah, then spun to face Fatimah. “Wanna do a photoshoot? A serve this hard must be documented.”

Cosette chuckled, but her gaze was drawn to the McLaren garage. She wondered how to approach Lando without making it seem like she was using him. She wondered if she already was.

chapter releases will be a little off for about a week -- terrible workload rn at my job. but follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher, @graceln4

[norareplaceme]

21.04.25 China, Part 1

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH11

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~2200, jump to CH1 / CH10 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Explicit language.

Twenty minutes before sprint qualifying, the McLaren garage pulsed with urgency. Mechanics swarmed the cars in a blur of papaya and polished carbon fiber as broadcast cameras stood sentinel in the pitlane, glassy apertures unblinking, capturing everything with mechanical hunger. Fresh from a pre-race massage, Lando strutted to his pre-race playlist. With his race suit unzipped to his waist and sipping water through a straw, he went unnoticed amid the pit crew’s frantic focus.

He hated to admit it, but after five years, races started to meld together. He knew the shapes of each track by heart, could trace them in the sand if he wanted. But the scenery, the countries, all faded into landmarks. Mountain outside of turn 3. Skyscraper down the long straight.

Only one thing broke the mold this time: an argument on Oscar’s side of the garage.

Lando slowed as he saw Cosette locked in a heated exchange with an engineer — Craig, he realized. She gestured wildly at the floor of Oscar’s car, her eyes narrowed, brows furrowed. Oscar stood between them, his head whipping back and forth like he was watching the final at Wimbledon. Eventually, Oscar raised his hands and backed away, leaving the argument to the other two.

Lando joined his teammate. Neither Cosette nor Craig noticed his approach.

“It’s within threshold,” Craig said flatly, arms crossed, eyes flicking over a tablet. “Not worth holding the car up. We’re out of time.”

Cosette let out a huff in frustration. “That crack will propagate under load. The whole resin layer’s compromised.” She pointed at the car’s floor, jaw locked. “Oscar will be flying into Turns 7 and 8 — it’s going to delaminate.”

Craig didn’t even look. “Data say otherwise,” he said, with a shrug.

Lando watched fury flash across Cosette's face. “Fuck your data,” she said. Yeah, that’s the Cosette I know, Lando thought.

“The model,” she continued, “Can’t simulate 5G cornering under vibration. You know those simulations are ass outside of standard parameters.”

“It’s too late now,” Craig said, turning to walk away.

“It wasn’t too late when I told you about this hours ago,” Cosette snapped. “If Oscar’s losing grip in Sector 2, it’s on you.”

That made Craig pause, but only for a breath. “We’re not pulling the floor,” he said, then vanished into the garage.

“That’s the girl you’ve been seeing?” Oscar asked Lando, nodding toward the aftermath of the argument.

Lando gave a low snort. “Hardly.”

Oscar chuckled.

“I mean,” Lando started, eyes fixed on Cosette as she squared up to an engineer twice her size, age, and seniority. “I want to. But she’s just… Hard to reach.” He trailed off, distracted as Cosette kneeled beside Oscar’s car, her hand trailing along the carbon fiber.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “But you still can’t stop watching her.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Kinda hard not to notice.” Oscar glanced at him. “She gets in your head a bit, huh?”

Lando didn’t answer right away, thinking of her rejection. Maybe I just wanted a fuck, Lando. “Yeah,” he said finally, quiet.

A voice echoed over the garage: “Fifteen minutes till quali, people.” It was their cue to get in the cars.

Oscar clapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck, mate.”

He wasn’t sure if Oscar meant with the session or Cosette.

Two rights. Lift on entry, tap the throttle after the apex. Hairpin. Second-gear, then rip out. Gear up, up, one more. Flex through seven and eight. Two slow left-handers. Hairpin. Fourth-gear corner. Finish line.

Again and again, lap after lap. Lando made it through Sprint Qualifying 1, then SQ2.

Two rights, lift on entry … Fourth-gear corner. Finish line.

But it all went to hell in SQ3 when rain slicked the painted track, racing lines were no more than lost ideals, and every car struggled to keep it on the track, let alone set a competitive time.

Forget the rest. Feel the car.

Every twitch of the chassis sent messages up his spine. His fingers gripped the wheel, his forearms burned with tension. He felt the slide before it came, hands snapping the wheel to regain grip. The force ran up through his legs, locked in the stiff, unyielding coffin of the cockpit. Taking corners faster and faster with each lap.

To him, it was beauty: the point just before the grip gave out, when everything was unstable but still held. Pushing the edge until it frayed.

And as the checkered flag waved him through, the radio crackled.

“That’s pole,” Will said.

“Yeah, baby!” Lando shouted, breathless. “Beautiful. Simply beautiful.”

Only after climbing out of his car in parc fermé did he learn that Oscar had qualified eighth. He caught his teammate’s eye after weigh-in.

“Great job, mate,” Oscar said, holding out a fist bump with one arm, the other holding his helmet against his side.

Lando flashed a smile. “Yeah, it was a mega lap. Could hardly keep it on the track.”

“Same. The car felt great before the rain, but once it hit I had no grip… worse than usual.” Oscar dragged a palm across the back of his neck. “Maybe Cosette was right about that crack.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, flinging sweat and rain onto the concrete. He saw her again in his mind — kneeling by the car, fingers brushing the flaw she insisted was there.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Part of him hoped Cosette was right, that her technical expertise would be proven. But the racer in him wanted the lap to mean something pure: driver to driver, skill to skill, no mechanical disadvantages putting a question mark beside the merit of his win. He'd always been drawn to that myth of racing purity, even knowing it was mostly fantasy.

That familiar doubt crept in, just as it always did. Maybe he hadn't driven well enough. Maybe Oscar would have been faster with a perfect floor. Maybe his pole was just circumstance. The voice came back. You’re never good enough. Never, never.

The door clicked shut behind Cosette and the silence of the hotel room rang in her ears. Her shoulders were drawn up to her ears, tension radiating down her spine. She rolled them back, but it didn’t help.

She tossed her bag onto the bed and pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets. It wasn’t just losing the fight over the floor — it was how she’d let Craig’s dismissal her get under her skin. And worse: the spike of cortisol every time Lando’s car slid in the rain. It was unmistakable as it happened. Not fear for the team, the car. Fear for him.

Cosette was losing it. Control. In the garage with her equipment, in her own body, her emotions. But she didn’t have much time to assess before her phone rang. The call with Eva, she thought. Is it that late already?

“Twin!” Eva’s voice burst over the call, bright and animated.

“Girl,” Cosette replied, “Set your phone up on a table or something. I don’t wanna be looking up your nostrils this whole call.”

Eva obliged, revealing her bedroom in the background. Cosette couldn’t help but notice the clothes strewn across the bed and fast food bags on the floor. Eva’s got to be really fucking stressed.

“I’ve missed you, babe! How are you?” Cosette said, pumping energy into her voice she didn’t know she had.

Eva smiled, responding instantly to Cosette’s energy. “Do you want the good or the bad first?”

Too exhausted to make a decision, Cosette waved a hand at the camera. “Either.”

“Good: the song is finished! And it’s fire as shit.” Eva announced, grinning wide.

Hearing Eva’s confidence blew some energy, real this time, back into Cosette. She sat up straighter.

“The bad: I couldn’t get a venue in Miami.” Eva continued, her expression dropping dramatically. “Those hoes didn’t see the vision.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry, dude.”

“It’s chill. I got a spot at The Masquerade.” Eva said with a casual shrug, but Cosette could see the excitement building behind her eyes.

Cosette jerked upright, her fatigue forgotten. “No way. That’s fucking incredible!” She imagined Eva on stage at the Masquerade, an Atlanta club with packed audiences, and couldn’t help but grin.

“Yeah, just a few songs mid-DJ set. But it’s not nothing. It’s the 10th, the Friday after Miami.”

Cosette didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.”

Eva blinked. “For real? But your job, it’ll be — “

“Fuck ‘em. I’ll make it work.”

Eva’s face softened, revealing just how much she wanted Cosette to be there. “I love you more than anything.”

Cosette sat against the pillows, the video call still open with Eva talking about what she’d make for dinner — something quick and spicy. But Cosette barely heard it. Her phone felt too heavy in her hand. Cosette watched as her friend’s eyes drifted off the frame, already thinking of the next thing.

It was a decision made in a split second. In the loneliness that scratched across Cosette’s chest in long, aching marks.

“Wait, E —” Cosette blurted, just as Eva was turning away.

Eva’s brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“I was awful to Lando. God, I — Awful.”

Eva nodded, her eyes holding a kind patience.

“He wanted more. And I told him I just wanted to fuck him.” Cosette’s breath hitched, quick and uneven, and heat rose to her cheeks. “Just, the look on his face. I keep replaying the moment. I don’t know what I want —”

“Sure you do.” Eva's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, steady and certain.

Cosette paused. Eva looked right back at her.

“You want him,” Eva said, leaning into this screen. “But not just to fuck. You want him to see you. So tell him.”

Cosette's stomach dropped. “What if I ruin it?” She asked, then looked down at her hands. “Ruin him.”

“Look, at least be real about it.” Eva said, her voice softer now but no less firm. “No more playing around or whatever. No siren shit. Be you.”

As Cosette got ready for her dinner that night, she repeated a mantra in her head. I don't want this to be just one night. I want you, Lando. She studied her reflection in the mirror as she thought it, syllable by syllable, nearly mouthing the words. Careful not to say them aloud, as if that might make them too real too soon.

Lando was the only thing on her mind as she pressed the elevator button: his easy smile as he handed her that first coffee, the hurt on his face at the words she’d said. Cosette let herself hope, just a little, that things could be fixed between them. Lost in the possibility, she barely registered the elevator's soft chime.

The doors had already begun to slide open when a voice from inside the elevator pulled her back to the present.

“Cosette?” Lando said from inside, surprise evident in his tone. “Are you coming down?” He was dressed up, clearly on his way to a celebratory dinner for his pole position.

The carefully rehearsed moment collided with reality. Her mind went blank as the elevator doors jutted inward, beginning to close, but they both reached out instinctively. Their hands brushed for a moment and the doors relented, sliding open once more.

But she couldn't move inside. Every ounce of her focus went into forcing the words past the knot in her throat, to say the words she’d been practicing for the past hour, though she hadn’t expected to speak them so soon.

“I don’t want this to be just one night, Lando. I want you.”

The words hung between them, and only then did she realize the error in her phrasing. The unintended implication. One night — she wondered. “This” night? Like right now? Fuck! What had she just suggested? Cosette’s heart beat in her chest so loudly she worried Lando might hear.

Lando went very still. He blinked once, twice, then swallowed.

Then he moved with the fluid precision that made him dangerous behind the wheel, covering the distance between them in one long stride, maybe two, stepping out of the elevator. His hand found her shoulder: the other, her hip. Gripping a little tighter than was comfortable. His mouth was on her neck before she could breathe, before she could think.

Not like this. The thought cut through the haze of sensation, the heat blooming in her chest, across her skin, where his thumb traced along her hipbone. This was exactly what she always did: let her body speak when her words failed. Hid behind skin sliding on skin. She’d wanted — she’d tried — to be different, to offer something real besides want.

But with every inch of her body leaning into him, she knew she wasn’t going to be the one to stop this.

Behind them, the elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, the empty car abandoning the pair as they stood in the carpeted corridor. Two bodies moved a silent, shared rhythm; limbs rushed to encapsulate the moment, the terms of a nascent relationship being traced by lips and signed with sighs. There was no taking back what would come next.

we gettin to some spicy places now -- nora

next chapter out Thursday, June 5! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

[norareplaceme]

07.04.24 Japan, Part 2

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH9

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~3200, jump to CH1 / CH8 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Drinking, explicit language.

Cosette slipped into her brown leather jacket, feeling the weight settle across her shoulders. It wore like a second skin, creased in all the right places, but still carried that subtle scent of luxury. She'd paired it with a silk shirt in the same rich hue, in a way that signaled intentionality, control. Monochromatic, but never boring. Then mid-wash blue jeans, a brown leather belt. Gold Casio watch because she liked knowing the time without reaching for her phone. Gold hoops that caught the light, drew eyes to her neck. Brown mascara and burgundy eyeshadow added depth to her gaze without shouting for notice.

Cosette tilted her head, considering her reflection, before taking a quick photo and sending it to Eva.

CM: approved?

EV: gagged

It wasn't that Cosette needed validation, not really. But Eva had an eye for these things; could spot the difference between trying too hard and not enough with a glance. And tonight, with Lando, she needed to strike the perfect balance. Casual enough to suggest she hadn't overthought it. Pulled together enough to make him wonder what else she took such care with.

With Eva's blessing on her outfit, all that remained was to wait for Lando’s text. Cosette leaned against the back of her couch, tapping her foot absentmindedly. She made it forty seconds — she’d counted — before surrendering to the ritual comfort of the cabinet above the fridge, her fingers finding the Maker’s Mark bottle with ease. She poured a drink, neat, pressing the cool glass against her cheek between sips. The liquid warmed her throat, her stomach.

Cosette’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, pulling her from her thoughts and back into the room. She picked it up, expecting Lando’s profile photo, but instead saw Eva’s.

“Eva? What’s up?”

“Cosy,” Eva began, her voice low and trepidatious. The old nickname hit Cosette like a warning shot: Eva only pulled it out when she had some real shit to say. “Just lemme say one thing. I’ll be fast.”

“Sure.” Cosette said, bracing herself against the kitchen counter.

“Give him a chance. A real one.”

“Who, Lando? I have. I said yes to this party thing, didn’t I?” Cosette traced a fingertip around the rim of her glass. The answer was weak, and she knew it.

“Don’t give me any of that bullshit.” Eva quipped, her voice dropping to a lower register. “You know what I mean.” Her friend waited, clearly expecting Cosette to speak*.* She wouldn’t.

When the silence stretched with Cosette refusing to acknowledge the probing, Eva's voice returned, softer now. “I know you. I love you. But I know what you do.”

“And what is that?” Cosette snapped. Her words were clipped; her tone deliberately flat, all to hide the worry sneaking into her vocal chords.

“You use people,” Eva said. She’d let all the air out of her chest while she said “use,” so the next word came out weakly, nearly defeated. She took a quiet breath. “Then you toss them away when you’re finished.”

Cosette drew in a sharp inhale. The rush of defensive anger was familiar, comforting even. She welcomed the heat of it and opened her mouth to let some pour out. But Eva spoke first, her voice now tinged with a sadness that was far worse than anger.

“I’ve seen you do it over and over. Don’t deny it. I’m the only person you’ve kept around.”

I know, Cosette wanted to say, her tongue sliding into place to speak the words. But I don’t know how to stop it.

Before Cosette could formulate a response that wasn't a lie or an admission, the doorbell sliced through the moment with an electronic, tinny sound that echoed through the flat with startling clarity. She couldn’t help but compare the sound to Eva’s voice over the phone. Just frequencies in a narrow band. No warmth. Had Eva been here, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I’d have heard her better, Cosette thought. Listened better.

“He’s here,” Cosette said.

She ended the call before Eva could answer, knocked back the rest of the whiskey, then rinsed with water and spat it in the sink. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she met her own eyes in the reflection of the microwave door. They looked darker than usual, pupils dilated. Greedy.

Lando stood on her front stoop, head tilted to the ground, seemingly inspecting the concrete. Cosette let her eyes wander across his features: the slant of his jaw, curve of his brow bone. His elf-like ears beside the crisp lines of his fade, the defined curls of his mullet.

“Hi,” she said, softer than she’d intended. His blue-green eyes met her own and for a moment, neither said anything, their breath falling in sync.

“Ready?”

Cosette nodded. She used the brief time it took to walk from the flat to his parked car take quick note of his outfit, pleased to see they had complemented the other without planning. Simple forms done well. He wore a white, long-sleeve button-up shirt, worn open at the collar with a few buttons undone and loose-fitting, light blue jeans.

Once at the car, he opened the door for her. Meeting me at my flat, Cosette thought, instead of honking from the street. Each kind gesture added to a running tally her subconscious kept. She didn’t know if there was a threshold, or a line she was afraid he'd cross. Kindness as a trap.

She slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool beneath her fingertips. The hum of the engine was a gentle pulse between them, and for a moment the silence felt charged, as if waiting to be filled with something important. Once he’d started driving, Lando reached toward the cupholders, fingers brushing hers as he passed over an aux cord.

She connected her phone, then thought for a moment. “You cool if I play some more amped stuff?”

“That’d be mega,” he said, his words unhurried as he focused on the road.

Cosette scrolled through Spotify. She had playlists on playlists and firmly believed she was the target audience when the company released the update that allowed users to group playlists into folders.

Finally: Party > “party pregame w/ ppl i dont know.” Crowd-pleaser. Upbeat pop, rap, a touch of funk, bass-heavy R&B. Subtle energy rise, track by track. Smiling, she hit play as KAYTRANADA’s “GLOWED UP” started, Anderson .Paak’s voice gliding over top of ultra-wide 808s.

She turned in her seat, knees pointed to the shifter, and looked up at Lando. “So, give me the rundown. What's the host’s name again? Oh, and who to avoid and who’s chill.”

“Shall I have my assistant prepare a dossier?” He laughed. “Just kidding. And you look amazing, by the way. But it's my mate Cole, he’s just signed with Chelsea and wanted a place to crash nearby.”

“Chelsea? FC?” Cosette watched as Lando nodded, still looking at the road ahead. “Are you serious right now? Jesus, a warning would have been nice.”

Lando turned to look at her, worry clearly flashing across his face, but disappeared just as fast as it had appeared when he caught Cosette’s smile. She shook her head. “I’m joking. It’s fine. So, how’d you meet him?”

The drive continued with virtually no silences, Cosette and Lando’s conversation flowing naturally and underlined by the music. She asked him about how it felt to be in the car, the differences between racetracks; he noticed when she moved along to a song, asking her to tell him about the artist, the production. She dragged her fingers across the seat leather, adjusted the air vents. This second time in the car she noticed things she hadn’t the first. She was present, this time, not spiraling in her mind.

The speakers were fantastic. Out of the corner of her eye, Cosette caught Lando’s small smile every time she leaned over the center console, fiddling with the audio settings. Raising the treble and dropping the low-mids when a song sounded muddy, taming the high-mids when a vocalist got fizzy.

But most surprising of all, she found herself lowering the volume to hear him better.

“Your bass is way too heavy,” she’d said after the first song. “It’s sucking power. If you drop the bass and up some of the mids, it’ll sound bigger. Boomier, even, just from the power stuff.” He’d just laughed gently.

“Cut the bass? Hmm…” He paused with a sly grin. “But then how else am I supposed to make you move like that?” That got a snort out of Cosette, and an eye roll to cover her blush.

The car came to a stop in a long lane of brick townhouses, each identical, with perfect flower boxes framing their windows. Lando shut the engine shut off, cutting Denzel Curry’s “HOT ONE” mid-verse, before A$AP Ferg’s solo. Still, she was in a good mood from her hype mix — the most likely reason why she’d accepted Lando’s hand as he offered it to help her step out of the car, his large palm enclosing hers.

As they approached the building, he didn’t let go. Hand holding? Not what she’d expected, but she liked catching the moments when Lando was bold. The side she saw from the pitlane, the persona the crowd roared for.

Lando squeezed her hand as he opened the door to Cole’s apartment, the music swelling to full volume, mingling with the chatter of thirty or so twenty-somethings.

The apartment was stunning: an expansive open kitchen with black granite counters was lined with alternating ice buckets of orange-label Veuve Clicquot and San Miguel. Beyond, the living room stretched out beneath two-story floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Figures dotted the main space, with some chatting over the kitchen island, others on the couch cheering on a soccer match, and a few circled near the windows.

She barely had time to take it all in before someone caught Lando’s eye, waving as they approached.

“Lando! Glad you could make it, mate,” the tall blond said, in a thick Northern accent Cosette struggled to decipher. Living in the UK for three years now still hadn’t meant she was fluent in all accents. The nasal vowels were so clipped and flattened, his consonants carrying the weight of his voice. Plus, his monotone, low voice didn’t help her carry along with what he was saying. Lando went in for a classic bro-hug, and she could hardly hold back a laugh at the man’s awful haircut. One of those fuck-ass bowl cuts these Brits were so fond of.

“Cole, this is Cosette, she’s an engineer with McLaren.” Lando introduced her, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the sounds of the party.

Cole nodded and extended a hand. “Lovely to meet you, Cosette. If you’re gaggin’ from the drive, we’ve got some drinks on the counter and more in the fridge. Take whatever you like.”

The night blurred into introductions and conversations she wasn’t entirely clued into. Instead she focused on the lukewarm champagne in her hand, feeling the micro-vibrations of the bubbles rising to the surface. The taste was too smooth, too easily drunk. Lando’s occasional but intentional touches; his arm slung behind her on the couch, fingers barely grazing her jacket. Leaning across her to hear someone on the other side, a hand on her knee to steady himself. A warm palm at the small of her back as they stood by the window, barely there, but Cosette stilled when she felt it, hyperaware. Pressing a little more as he tipped his head back and torso forward in laughter, a little less as he leaned into the circle to crack a joke. His fingers dropped when another person joined their group, breaking the two apart.

As she’d found a moment to step away from Lando, between her second and third drinks, Cosette had found a quiet corner in the upper loft to pull out her phone, scanning her unreads. Nothing from Eva. She sent a few messages, saying she’d like to talk more, she appreciated her friendship and advice, asking about progress on her song and venue booking. She’d given herself one minute, then two, to wait for Eva’s response: when none came, she headed back downstairs. From across the room, she and Lando made eye contact, like opposite poles of magnets mathematically destined to find the other. He’d caught her expression, certainly, she hadn’t been quick enough to conceal it. But she’d caught the crease in his own eyebrows, the defensive posture, as he stood across from some man she didn’t recognize.

And, as an unspoken escape from whatever both were feeling, they approached one another from opposite ends of the flat, meeting in the center.

Hellos and self-deprecating jokes. Laughter in a comfortable circle of friends. A rhythm was forming and his hand lingering longer each time. Lando including her whenever possible, even if she could see him eyeing her glass throughout the night, monitoring how many refills she’d gone for. It wasn’t Cosette’s environment: too many conversations, too little sweat and altered states of mind. Faces seen too clearly and too closely. Names she had to remember. But, despite her hesitation, Cosette found herself pleasantly surprised by the party. Maybe it was just the champagne, but Lando’s warmth at her side had felt comforting, not suffocating.

The drive back played like an outro. Her slower playlist kept the energy up while allowing for a reflective mood, filled with tracks like Frank Ocean’s “DHL”. Loosened now by four or more pours (for Cosette, none for Lando), their conversations leaned more personal, nostalgic. Still, almost reflexively, she bounced his questions off to answer something only vaguely related, or hit him back with another question instead.

When Lando had pulled up to her flat, he’d left the engine running, turning the music down to a hush. Streetlight cast long shadows across the dash. Cosette lingered for a moment, hesitating to reach for the door handle, instead running her fingers along the zipper of her jacket. Lando was watching her, just like he had in Australia, in a way that should feel cocky, but wasn’t. He looked present, focused on the moment, on her; watching what she’d do next. An open invitation. But leaving the car on? Cosette wondered, He’d have shut if off if he were coming inside.

Cosette knew one way to change that. She leaned across the center console, sliding a hand up his neck until her thumb rested just below his jaw, and pulled him toward her, though pull was probably the wrong word. The moment she’d laid her fingers on his skin he’d leaned in with a low sigh, meeting her in a hungry kiss. His eagerness was evident in his speed, their noses nearly colliding as he brought his face to hers. It was easy. It was good. Lust always was.

Lando pulled back from her with a half smile, biting his lower lip. He looked down briefly, bringing his hand beside her thigh to unbuckle her seatbelt. Cosette responded in kind, climbing across the console, settling her knees on the outside of his thighs.

“Turn off the car,” she whispered into his ear, placing light, teasing kisses along his neck, then biting his earlobe lightly. Two sounds, then: a moan she could feel reverberating through his chest, and a key turning in the ignition, the music cutting and the silence of the quiet neighborhood locking them in.

Just as Cosette was angling to lean back into the kiss, Lando brought a hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing softly along her cheekbone. She froze for a moment, her eyes darting between his, trying to catch his meaning. His gaze flicked over her face — her lashes, her mouth, the faint smudge of mascara under one eye — as if he were memorizing her.

His face settled into an expression that could only mean comfort, stillness. A breathless suspension, the quiet between heartbeats. A settled look that made Cosette’s muscles soften, her lips part. A soft pull that felt inevitable, like gravity.

And in a barely perceptible voice, all breath and no force, Lando murmured, “I don’t want this to be just one night, Cosette.”

In his gaze she was exposed. Let him see it, how fast a look like that could tear her apart. She wasn’t built for softness. Wasn’t made for the kind of love that lived in certainty and kindness and patient hands. Stillness as stasis.

So she pulled his hand away from her face, a little too forcefully. She leaned in again, as she’d intended, and kissed him harder this time, rolling her hips in his lap. And felt his body respond, whatever tenderness he’d had a moment before snapped savagely in the fervor her physicality. She brought a hand to his chest, holding him back against the seat, and mumbled against his lips. “Maybe I just wanted a fuck, Lando.”

Cosette dropped her hand to the door handle. Cool air sliced the heat they’d generated. She paused, one hand on the doorframe, her figure backlit in streetlight. A breath, a shift of weight — like she might turn around. She hadn’t thought, she’d reacted, and it had been vicious. What have I done? But then her spine straightened, and she vanished.

In the car, Lando smacked a hand against the steering wheel. He tilted his head back, bringing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

He left the car door open. A punishment. Let the fucking awful April weather get in my car, he thought, Let it get in my bones. Let it cool him off. Let the mist settle into the upholstery and dot his lashes. He wouldn’t watch Cosette walk away: he couldn’t give her the satisfaction. Just stare straight ahead, he told himself, right where she’d been. In my hands. Yeah, brilliant. Like that’s helping.

Because he’d watched, practically in slow motion, as the switch had flipped in Cosette’s mind. The switch somewhere deep in that fucking mess of a brain that shut him out, shut everything out. He’d said the wrong thing, he knew it the second her body tensed. I mess everything up, the familiar refrain in his mind began. Every single time. Always because of me. Always.

But if drivers were good at anything, it was reaction time. The briefest moment before lights out — the anticipation, no way to predict the timing. And he’d caught the millisecond, less than that, the microsecond, before the switch had been thrown. Faster than a blink, lighter than a thought. And in that moment all he saw in her eyes was fear.

Panic.

That’s what stopped him from giving up on her. Just that. Because he’d lived with fear long enough to know you could never outrun it, only learn to walk beside it.

Sometimes you see the wreck coming and keep your foot on the gas anyway — because champions aren’t wired to swerve. They’re built to find the one line that leads to clean air beyond the smoke. Hesitation costs more than courage ever will.

Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

sorry this is a bit late! i felt this chapter needed some extra attention to really nail the emotional beats. i hope the wait paid off <3 -- nora

next chapter out Thursday! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

[norareplaceme]

21.04.25 China, Part 2

ULTRA: Drowned in Reflection CH12

Elegant rot. Sacred speed. Ruin as ritual.

Word Count: ~1600 / 32,473 total, jump to CH1 / CH11 + cross-posted on ao3.

Summary: What if all of Lando Norris’ fears, insecurities and flaws had a name — and a smirk, and a playlist full of rage? This is a story about desire, ambition, obsession and the art of losing (or refusing to).

Disclaimer: ☆ This is fiction. ☆ I don't know these people, I don't work in F1. Lando Norris (2024 season) is used here purely as an archetype for storytelling. With that in mind, read on!

Warnings: Explicit language.

A phone alarm pierced the fog of Lando’s dream, stirring him awake in a hotel room he didn’t recognize. He reached to the bedside table to switch it off, hoping to let the woman beside him sleep a little longer. The thin top sheet across her bare shoulders rose gently with each silent inhale. Echoes of her words the night prior resounded in Lando’s mind: I don’t want this to be just one night, Lando. He heard her sighs, her moans, her laughter. I want you. Those words were all he needed. Proof he could be more than an errant fling, could be someone worth the effort. Someone good enough.

He sat up, rolling his neck to ease the stiffness, then scanned the room for his clothes. A shoe by the door, the other halfway across the bedroom. Cossette’s heels were placed neatly beside the closet. He’d slipped them off as she sat perched on the edge of the bed, placing kisses up her thighs.

Lando hadn’t realized in the moment, too distracted by the desire puppeteering his actions, but in the clarity of the morning he recognized a mirrored pattern. He’d been in there before: on his knees before Cosette, her feet held gently in his hands. The first time there had been blood. And again last night he’d been at her feet, begging for something — and even if he hadn’t uttered any words aloud, he knew in his heart he’d been pleading, as sure as he was of his own pulse. Begging for recognition, fulfilment, satisfaction. Pleasure.

His shirt lay crumpled below the window, thrown there by Cosette. He remembered her hands yanking at the fabric, remembered the button that snapped loose and launched onto the carpet. They'd laughed, as if neither could truly believe the moment they found themselves in.

It was a £400 shirt. Lando decided to keep that fact to himself.

He could leave now, take the chance to skirt an awkward goodbye and slip out the door while she slept. But that wasn’t who he was and it wasn’t how he wanted this — whatever it was between him and Cosette — to be.

He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, squeezing once.

“Cosette,” he murmured.

As her eyes fluttered open, Lando braced himself for the expression she’d make as she took in his face. Readied himself for a look of disgust, or worse, disappointment. Waited for the circuit breaker to flip that shut her off from the world.

But it never came. Her gaze held an easy calm, if a little unfocused from sleep. She smiled first and something in Lando’s chest gave way.

“Morning,” she rasped. He felt almost possessive to hear her voice like that, as if only for his ears.

“Morning, muppet,” he whispered back. He wasn’t sure why he kept his voice so low: maybe to protect the intimacy they’d built, delicate in its infancy. “I’m off to the track, yeah?”

She raised her arms in a long, luxurious stretch, her toes flexing beneath the sheets.

“Mm,” she hummed. “I’ll be there at eight.”

Cosette closed her eyes and Lando took that as his cue to leave.

Back in his own room, Lando took a hot shower. Something his trainer would kill him for. As the hot water worked to ease the tension in his muscles, his mind was drawn back to the night prior.

Cosette sat on the bed, cross-legged, watching him with a slight tilt to her head. He stood in front of her, suddenly nervous, and felt a shiver ripple across his skin in the air-conditioned chill of the room. Her gaze dragged across his bare chest in a slow arc of curiosity and want. “What?” he asked, breath caught halfway. She lifted her lips into a small grin, coy and fearless. “I’m just waiting to see what you’ll do next.”

He pulled her shirt off then, pausing to take in the view of her body, committing it to memory. Saving her geometry in the same place in his mind as he stored track layouts. He placed a light fingertip across each of the tattoos now visible, stark black ink on her skin. Some new, some old. One tattoo had caught him off-guard. A deer, maybe, flattened and lifeless beneath the arc of her ribs. Not grotesque, but unmistakably dead — roadkill, he realized. Then she’d kissed him, silencing the question before he could ask it.

He wanted to know her. To understand her. Instead he was left grasping at disconnected images, half-answered texts.

A hungry motivation flared within his chest. He’d study her the way he’d learned how to race: care, unrelenting attention. Obsession.

After, they lay on top of the sheets, limbs tangled and skin slick with sweat. He traced his fingers along her skin, following the lines of ink. But when he reached the snake along her hipbone, she’d caught his hand, held it still, then held it close.

He stepped out of the shower and caught his reflection in the fogged mirror. Water dripped from his chin and lust flickered in his eyes.

Sprint race at eleven. Qualifying at three. He couldn’t let himself lose focus.

He’d dropped to finish P6 in the sprint, Oscar right behind in P7. He barely had time to register the disappointment amidst the tightly choreographed schedule of the sprint weekend. As soon as he stepped out of the car, he was back in front of a screen, buried in endless graphs and tables. The whole day dissolved into telemetry.

Sunday: race day. Lando lined up 4th on the grid with Oscar behind his left shoulder. Red loomed in his mirrors with the Ferraris sitting 6th and 7th. He'd made a bet that morning on how far he would finish behind the Ferraris — he reckoned 35 seconds.

He was wrong.

“Good effort, mate! P2.” came the radio, crackling through static and cheers. He could hear clapping in the background.

A laugh escaped before he could stop it. “Well done, everyone.” He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to decline. “Weird race, don't know how — but fantastic. Well deserved, thank you everyone.”

In the media pen, reporters compared him to Max with barely contained excitement. Your pace was astounding today, Lando. From the loudspeakers, he heard the TV announcer wonder whether Red Bull’s dominance in the Constructors’ Championship was starting to crack. Could McLaren be the ones to topple them?

Lando was being launched into another league when it felt like nothing in his race had changed: he’d managed his tyres, focused on his own pace, and somehow he’s crossed the line second. He’d packed his bags in the morning, convinced he’d be on a flight home by now, not standing one step below Max on the podium.

The champagne was still sticky on his skin as he returned to the pitlane to celebrate with the team. He spotted Cosette and walked over, admiring the wide smile she bore as she spoke animatedly with some engineers. Deep in his mind a rachet ticked forward one more jagged tooth, tightening — something. He felt a squeeze on his heart. I win, Cosette smiles. Cosette smiles, I win.

He was careful to maintain a professional distance, as hard as it was, and riding the high of the race, he said it before he could second-guess himself.

“Come with me to Amsterdam.”

Cosette blinked. Her face flickered like she wasn’t sure if it was a joke and she was meant to laugh.

“What?”

“King’s Day,” he said, eyes steady. “You won’t want to miss it. I’ll fly you out.”

For a second too long, she didn’t answer. He felt an urge to take it back, self-doubt drowning out the noise of the cheering McLaren employees, the spectators, the megaphones that carried the commentator's voices down the grandstands. All of the noise fell away and he heard her say again, Maybe I just wanted a fuck, Lando.

“Okay, yeah.” she said, her expression softening with each syllable. “I’d like that.”

And the tone of her voice — somehow smoother, breathier, took him back to the night they'd spent together. I want you, Lando. She'd told him, met his eye, assured him. Panted his name, slept by his side. I'm in this now, Lando thought. A hundred percent.

The champagne dried tacky on his neck, sweet turned acrid, his skin feeling foreign. **He thought of her tattoos: the roadkill flattened beneath her ribs, the crane that danced across her jugular, the snake she wouldn't let him touch. All those beautiful, dead things.

Every driver made their own deal with death before the lights went out. But Cosette was different. She would hollow him out from the inside, and he could see it coming. Could feel the first pieces of himself breaking off as he lost sight of her in the crowd.

And yet he'd never driven better.

Fuck.

she a soul snatcher <3 ( ☆ stream Rico Nasty's new album ☆ ) -- nora

next chapter out Monday, June 9! follow me or the #ultraln4 tag to keep up with the story 🤍

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher, @graceln4