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stzrgirl4norris · 17 hours ago

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A Case Of You - LN4

Lando Norris x Psychologist!Reader

Summary: When McLaren noticed their precious golden boy driver was struggling to take his Championship seriously, they decided to hire a new psychologist to "fix" whatever problem he had. Turns out, the problems were about to become even more real.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: smut, praising, degradation, softdom!lando.

(I am aware this is unprofessional and no psychologist would ever act in such way, this is purely for writing and entertainment purposes, I don't mean to disrespect anyone's profession or career 💙)

Lando didn’t want to admit it, but he had his knees shaking. As he walked the long corridor towards the room right at the very end, he was certain his legs were going to give out at any point. It wasn’t an unfamiliar path, he has done that for many, many years. But never after stupidly crashing against his teammate during a race in a fit of frustration. Never when he had everything to lose.

Zak Brown’s door was open, inviting him to come in. Lando felt like he was walking into his death sentence. He had no idea what waited beyond that door, maybe a lecture, screaming, someone telling him they would give the priority to Oscar, or that the contract wouldn’t be renovated - all those possibilities terrified his sleep.

However, coming into that minimalistic decorated room, he definitely did not expect to find a girl, sitting on a chair around the glass table, right in front of Andrea and Zak, catching a smile in both men’s faces.

“Well, hello, Lando! Come in!”

Usually, Zak’s fatherly voice would feel like a warm hug, but instead it sent shivers down Lando’s spine. Stepping into that room, he knew that whatever was waiting for him was a worse punishment than all the scenarios his anxiety drew in his mind.

You were sitting legs crossed in that chair, dressed in a fitted pair of jeans and exceptionally boring white t-shirt, a pair of ballet flats covering your feet. You didn’t stand up when the driver walked in, but gave him a polite smile.

“Hi, guys.” He didn’t sit, standing with his hands in his pockets next to your chair. “You wanted to talk?”

His eyes wandered towards you, waiting for you to leave and give the men privacy. But you didn’t move a single muscle.

“Yes, we did, sit down, please.”

Zak’s voice wasn’t scary. He seemed relaxed. Happy, even.

Lando sat on the chair by your side. He didn’t know whether to look at his bosses in front of him or to your cryptic figure.

“How are you, Lando?” Andrea finally directed himself to the driver, smiling like he was family.

“I’m good…” He was going to wait before saying something, but patience wasn’t Lando’s biggest asset. “Who is she?”

“Lando, this is YN.”

Zak introduced. You noticed how nervous the british boy was by your side, shoulders tense, neck rigid as if he slept on top of a hard mattress.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you.” You tried to give him your sweetest, most welcoming voice, to get him to relax a bit.

Funny thing is, Lando was sure he knew you from somewhere. Your face was strange, but your name sounded familiar. However, his mind couldn’t place the puzzle together.

“Hi?”

“She’s here to help you.”

And then it clicked. Lando has been complaining about his race engineer since race number two, definitely a bit more after Miami. He hated how bad he was getting screwed up with poor strategies this season, it was something he brought up every single team briefing, shamelessly. Suddenly, the brit gave you a big smile. Surely you must be everything he asked for, smart, intelligent, competent… And cute. It was his dream coming true. Maybe he should mess up a bit more if this was his “punishment”.

“Oh… I see… I feel bad for Will, though. Has he left already? I’d like to say goodbye, thank him for his work.”

“Will?”

Both Andrea and Brow had question marks all over their faces, thinking their driver had gone insane all of the sudden.

“Yeah… She’s my new engineer, right?”

Stella’s lips curled into an awkward smile, but Lando refused to believe he got it wrong.

“Look, boy…” Zak straightened his body to the chair, arms coming over the table, with that serious face Lando hated. “What happened on Sunday finally made Andrea and I sit down and talk. You and I have been together on this journey since 2019, you, more than anybody, know how hard we worked to give you a competitive car…”

Lando was breathing hard, unable to hide his discomfort, chest moving up and down quickly and rapidly.

“And now that you have it, you’re throwing your opportunities away.”

Andrea’s voice cut Zak’s speech with a sharpness that hurt. It was cold, too honest, too real.

“You’re unfocused, Lando. You get so desperate you make mistakes. I know that you want to win without changing yourself. I know that you’re a nice guy and don’t want to act like a douchebag. But right now, your self depreciation and lack of confidence is shoving you down a dark hole.”

Zak continued, finally managing to let out the words he carefully composed. You looked over to the driver on your left side, he was trying his best not to show any emotion, and failing, because you could see the ghost of a tear forming on the inside corner of his eyes, and his hands rubbing his knees with pressure.

“That’s not what I–”

“It’s time to face the harsh truth, Lando. It’s time to wake up.”

He looked from Andrea over to you. Eyes settling without the joy they had before.

“What the fuck is she doing here?”

“I’m your new psychologist, Lando.”

Lando looked over the men across from him and let out a sarcastic chuckle, a dry laugh, dismissive.

“You hired me a twenty year old therapist?”

In Lando’s mind, there was no way you were good at your job. You looked young, too young to have experience. He probably had more years of dealing with anxiety than you had working. There was no way McLaren would put their trust in someone like you.

“YN was working with Ferrari last year, I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

His mind was clear. He did hear about you. You were a legend in Ferrari, Charles and Carlos always mentioned how sharp and good their team’s ��psychologist” was. Lando always thought it was a dumb concept for a team to have a therapist, but no one ever mentioned saying a bad word about you. Until you made Vasseur cry in a meeting after he decided to let go of Carlos Sainz.

You were the golden girl, the genius behind the well being of the team, that was, of course, until you told the boss something he didn’t want to hear, then you were cut like disposable garbage. You didn’t take it to heart, you understood it perfectly. In fact, you didn’t expect a different behavior from the men in this sport.

When Zak Brown got caught in this tricky situation between Lando and Oscar, your name was the first one that popped. You were the solution to all his problems. A weapon. And even though you told both team principals that you can’t just fix people, it’s more complicated than that, they still viewed you as the secret to get Lando to focus again. Bring him back to his juvenile confidence and personality that wasn’t depressing or too harsh.

You knew Lando. Not directly, but you, sometimes, got the chance to observe him and draw very shallow conclusions. You didn’t see a boy who was lazy, or fragile, you saw a driver who cared too much and put so much pressure on himself that he lost his passion for the sport. Your goal wasn’t to fix Lando’s attitude, you wanted him to gain his sparkle back, and if that meant he would leave the job or McLaren for good, then so be it. But Zak and Andrea didn’t need to know that last part.

“I’ve heard she was fired from Ferrari, yeah?”

“It was their loss.”

Lando bliked, incredulous.

“I don’t fucking need a therapist, guys. I am just fine. Sure, yeah, I fucked up on Sunday, but I apologized and it’s not going to happen again.” His words were dry and uncaring, Lando was pissed. And then he turned to you, eyes frosty. “You can go make someone cry over Red Bull or Mercedes, I don’t care.”

“This is not a choice, boy. You are going to work with YN until the end of the season. The contract is signed, it’s done. This meeting is just to simply let you know.”

Lando sighed, hands running through his curls in frustration.

“This is a fucking joke.” Being fired would feel better.

“And if you don’t show up to talk to her at least once a week, we’re going to be forced to make Oscar a number 1 driver.”

No one out of the men noticed how you rolled your eyes. This type of behavior was everything you fought against. No one should be forced to talk or go to therapy, it was the opposite of productive. You realized you had a great deal of work ahead of you, not just with Lando, but with everyone on that team.

Lando was speechless, furious, and the smell of your perfume was making things worse.

“Are we done?”

Zak turned his attention to you, who were sitting still, unfazed by the display of feelings by the boy next to you.

“YN, do you want to add something?”

Lando rolled his eyes, refusing to look at you. Yet, you still turned your body towards him.

“I want to make a deal with you, Lando.” He hummed in response, staring at his feet like a child getting lectured by their parents. “Give me a chance for the next two races until summer break. You can meet me tomorrow, here, for our first session. Then, we can see each other every Friday before Free Practice and every Sunday after the race. After summer break I’ll let you choose whenever you want to talk, no forced sessions, I don’t want that. And if you absolutely hate me, I’ll let you kick me out before summer break.”

Lando took a deep breath, eyes closed. He firstly looked at the men in front of him, both physically unaware of your conditions, taken by surprise - which he loved to see. Then, his attention focused on you, with your perfect grin smile. Lando Norris loved a challenge, and he would love to prove to everyone that you were not the next Freud and he didn’t need saving.

“Ok, fine, whatever.”

You smiled, victorious. Zak clapped his hands, getting up from his seat, followed by Lando, who just stormed off the room without saying any proper words.

This one was going to be interesting.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · [next day] · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He’s late. Deliberately so. You knew it was on purpose, that he would do anything to get you to give up. But you could be as persistent and stubborn as him. There was no apology when the door creaked open, just the confident footsteps that weren't rushed. No guilt, no embarrassment, only sheer arrogance.

Lando Norris walked in like he owned the oxygen in the room, like he was doing you a favor by showing up at all. You didn’t move, didn’t even lift your gaze, keeping your eyes on the wall clock with mechanical indifference.

His eyes scanned the office, and you tracked every shift in his expression. The tiny furrow between his brows at the absence of any art, the twitch at the corners of his mouth when he saw only one chair, leather, black. Minimal. Impersonal. Surgical.

He failed to realize he was being read by the second he stepped in.

“No couch?” he murmured, finally. “Thought shrinks were supposed to have a couch.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who reclines easily.”

That got him a reaction - barely perceptible, though - only the curl of a lip and a faint twitch in his jaw. This was good, you wanted him slightly off balance.

Lando hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he sat, legs sprawled and arms folded, trying with his posture to adopt control. He wasn’t comfortable, he was performing. His breathing was calm, but his jaw was tight, a classic misdirection. He had been coached, media-trained, he knew exactly how to be a mirrorball, how to give people the exact version they needed to see.

Then, nothing. Not from him, not from you. The clock ticked; one second… Two…. Fifteen… Forty. By the time a full minute has passed, Lando started to fidget. Not enough to look restless, just enough to betray that he knew silence was a tactic. You, however, let it stretch a beat longer before speaking.

“They told me your problem was anxiety.” Your voice was smooth, analytical. “But… I just think you’re bored. Am I correct?”

His jaw tightened, eyes flashing to yours. That irritated him, mainly because you didn’t open the file that sat lonely over the table.

“You always diagnose people before they speak?” he shot at you, sharp edged.

“This is not a diagnosis.” You leaned back in your chair, hands folding together neatly in your lap. “I’m just stating what I see. You’re not here to talk, you’re here to check an obligation. Probably resentfully.”

“What, do you want me to cry?”

“Would that be productive for you?” You tilted your head.

“You tell me.”

You watched Lando with that same unnerving calm, enough to catch something charging behind his eyes.

“You like to provoke, Lando. I get it, it’s safer than being honest. That’s fine. Just know it’s not original.”

Lando let out a low, incredulous laugh and ran a hand over his face. He was amused, frustrated and profoundly annoyed.

“I get it…” he started. “You’re clever. Observant. Is that your thing?”

You didn’t answer, unfazed by his arrogance.

Lando shifted, legs drawing slightly closer together. Less performative now, less certain too. He didn’t know why he expected you to be… softer. Maybe the black turtleneck, maybe the voice… It was low, not quite monotone, but measured, like someone who doesn’t waste syllables. He couldn’t read you and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. You didn’t look impressed, not with the name or his status. You weren’t trying to fix him, not even trying to understand him. You were studying him., like a pattern. And fuck, he hated that.

“I’m here,” he said, eventually, shrugging. “Isn’t that the whole thing? I show up, you take notes and I nod when you say something deep.”

You didn’t blink.

“That’s the thing about taking notes, it implies compliance. But you walked in late, challenged the setting, and haven’t said a single word.”

“You haven’t asked a single question.”

You paused. Watched him.

“What do you want people to see when they look at you?”

Lando froze. Not because the question was profound, but because you asked it like you already knew the answer. And he didn’t.

“I don’t care what people see.” he lied.

The lie was in the deflection, the cocked eyebrow, the way his gaze slided to the wall instead of holding yours. Lando cared, desperately. In both the typical and nontypical way. He wanted adoration and control. He lived for the power over how the world digested him.

“You care more than you want to admit.”

Lando was bleeding from wounds he neglected. He wasn’t restless. He was untethered. That was different. He put himself on autopilot and called it ambition. You’ve seen this before, athletes who mistake identity for devotion, who confused success with passion. Lando was burned out and he was empty. And he knew it. But saying it out loud would shatter the version of himself he liked to pretend it was real.

The McLaren driver jerked forward slightly.

“Don’t make this about media or fame or whatever sob story you think I’ve got locked in here.” He tapped his temple like it’s all just noise. “I’m not your pet project.”

“I don’t work with pet projects,” you replied.

“I’m not suffering either,” he muttered.

“I never said you were” You leaned forward, elbows on the desk now, eyes locked with his. “You used to be very active on social media.”

“Is that your diagnosis?” he shot back. “Not chronically online enough for you?”

“No. My diagnosis is that you’re pretending you love a version of your life that doesn’t feed you anymore.”

Lando stood up suddenly. Chair scraping against the floor, loud and sharp.

“This is bullshit.”

You watched the door, but he didn’t walk out. Lando wanted to escape, but not necessarily the room. The problem wasn’t you, it was the implication that someone might see the things he worked so hard to bury.

“You’re not scared of failure,” you continued, voice like velvet draped over a blade. “You’re scared of regretting wasting all your best years for nothing. And you are definitely scared of letting all those people down.”

He opened the door without a word, slamming it a second later. The escape wasn’t convincing.

You let the silence settle again, knowing you’ll have much fun over the next few days.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[race weekend - austria]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Hospitality units always smelled like nerves wrapped in espresso. The chill of the air conditioning never quite masked the heat of performance anxiety, or the mechanical rhythm of branding disguised as purpose.

You stood in the far corner. Out of the camera’s eye and journalists, just watching.

Lando moved like a pattern– smooth, repetitive, curated to look casual. But there was nothing casual about the way his fingers wrapped his gloves. Same stretch, same angle. Peel. Rewrap. Tighten. Peel again. His brow furrowed just slightly when the tape didn’t lie flat. Left hand. Right hand. Repeat.

He hadn't spoken to you since the session. But, again, you didn’t expect him to. However, the thing about tension - real, buried, humming tension - was that it always found a leak.

You watched the next cue: pacing. Not frantic, but measured. Four steps forward, pivot, four steps back. Always the same distance, as if he needed to feel in control of something. His headphones were clamped around his ears like they were a shield.

You recognized it. The compulsions, the rituals dressed up as preparation. Superstition repackaged as focus. And you weren’t the only one watching. Oscar stood near him, arms crossed, sipping a bottle of water. Familiar and easy. The kind of closeness that came from years of knowing without having to ask.

“Every ritual becomes a prison if you don’t know why you need it.”

The silence broke like glass.

Oscar blinked, while Lando froze mid-wrap. He pulled his headphones down slowly. Not confusion, calculation. The air changed. The brit looked at you like you’d stuck a finger in a live wire just to see if he’d twitch.

“What did you just say?” he asked, low.

You didn’t repeat it. You just held his gaze. Oscar shifted slightly, as if he could already sense the storm brewing behind Lando’s collar.

Lando took a step toward you. Not aggressive, but he was trying his best to be intimidating, however, keeping it cool for Oscar’s benefit… And for his own.

“You really think it’s okay to psychoanalyze me in front of someone else?”

“I am not psychoanalyzing you.”

“Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with something between a laugh and a threat. “Because everything you say is just an observation, right? Unbiased. Clinical. Above it all.”

“Why are you angry?”

He stepped closer. Close enough that you could see the flare in his nostrils, the slight tremor in his fingers. He hadn’t finished taping his gloves, left one still loose, unfinished.

“You know what I think?” he asked, voice quiet now. “You like watching people suffer. You like peeling them open so you can feel powerful. That’s not therapy, you’re just a sadist with a degree.”

Oscar’s head turned sharply, looking away, he was uncomfortable to be witnessing this private moment.

“You tape your gloves the same way every time, wear your headphones like a shell, repeat the same pattern until it feels like certainty. That’s not preparation. You look like you’re about to enter the Coliseum.”

His face twitched. A flinch disguised as a smirk.

“You’re invasive,” he snapped. “Cold. A fraud.”

There it was. The crack. Small, but enough. And then he was walking away, jaw clenched, headphones swinging from his hand like a weapon he didn’t get to use.

Oscar lingered, gaze flicking between the empty space where Lando stood and you.

“Sorry about that, Oscar.” you said softly, for him and only him.

Oscar didn’t speak for a long moment, until he nodded. Half a shrug, half something softer. Like maybe he understood, or maybe he wanted to say something for a very long time. He followed after Lando. And you stood still, alone in the echo of tension you’d helped create.

Back in his driver room, Lando ripped the glove tape off like it had personally betrayed him. Meanwhile, Oscar leaned against the wall in the lounge, arms folded, a frown just under the surface of his quiet.

“You want to talk about it?”

Lando scoffed. “She thinks she knows everything. Thinks she can just say shit like that.”

“She didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lando turned, sharp.

“You do that thing with the gloves every single time. If the seam’s off, you start over. Every single time.”

“It’s called routine.” Lando paced, jaw tight.

“It’s called panic management,” Oscar said, soft but steady.

“She’s not a therapist,” Lando muttered.

“She is,” Oscar said. “And a good one.”

“Whose side are you on?”

Oscar didn’t reply. Just looked at him with those calm and familiar brown eyes that earned him a friendship over the years.

Lando exhaled, hard, giving up resistance.

“It’s not about the gloves.”

“I know.” Oscar nodded

And Lando didn’t say anything else. Because the gloves were just the tip of the iceberg, he just didn’t want to know what would happen when his cracks gave away completely.

Later that day, you found yourself in your hotel room, staring at the untouched file open on your laptop. Lando’s name at the top, followed by blank fields.

You could have written paragraphs. Pattern recognition, emotional triggers. But you didn’t. Because the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. You did strike without permission. You did expose him in front of someone he trusted. And you had felt something when he looked at you like that.

But he wasn’t wrong, and neither were you. You weren’t there to be liked, you were there to be honest. Even if it meant pressing a finger to the bruise no one else would touch.

You closed the laptop, silence settling around you, an enormous clue that you had to make things right.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After the race that weekend, the paddock was nearly empty. Race was over, the press was done, the champagne dried.

You sat in the reserved team debrief room, the one tucked behind closed doors, unbranded, meant for sponsors and strategy meetings. This time the lightning was cold and there were only two chairs.

You didn’t check the time. You already knew he was late. On purpose. He made you wait, and you let him.

When Lando finally walked in, his race suit was peeled to his waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin, curls damp from the helmet. He shut the door behind him like the silence was part of the conversation.

You didn’t move and he didn’t sit.

“You’re early,” he joked, humourless.

“I’m always on time,” you replied.

“Bet that gets lonely.” He scoffed under his breath.

“Still angry?” You tilted your head.

“Nope.” He leaned against the wall instead of taking the seat. Arms crossed in a casual posture, unlike his eyes. “I’m curious… You said last time I was afraid of losing control, of the illusion cracking.”

You didn’t nod. You didn’t confirm. Those weren’t the words you used, it was just his confirmation bias working in your favour.

Lando moved closer.

“You always talk like you’re above it all. But you’re just as invested in being unreadable as the rest of us.”

“That’s not the same as pretending.”

“Isn’t it?” His mouth curled into something that almost looked like a smile, if you tilted your head the right way. “You ever think the reason you see through people is because you’re terrified someone might actually see through you?”

You didn’t answer.

Lando sat, finally. Elbows on knees. Exchanging his gaze between his hands and then back at you.

“You watch everything. Like you’re writing it all down in that head of yours. Every flinch, every tell. You think you’re safe because you’re the observer.”

“Sure, yeah, observation is a form of protection,” you admit, quietly, but unmoved by his attempt to getting you to crack.

“So is control,” he countered. “So is ritual.”

You said nothing, allowing the silence to grow, not giving him anything else. You weren’t the patient here.

He leaned back now, arms draped across the chair, but the tension had coiled itself under his skin. You could see it in the muscle twitch in his jaw, in the faint red line where the helmet had pressed too tight. His foot tapped, tap-tap-tap against the floor before he caught himself.

“I came in sixth,” Lando said it like it meant something different in this room than it did out there.

“I know.”

“I should’ve done better.”

“Why do you think that?”

He gave you a raised eyebrow in response.

“That’s my job? I should do good at my job.” he muttered.

“Is this all racing is for you? A job?”

You noticed how he tried his best to stay in his place instead of getting up and leaving.

“I’ve been thinking, you’ve got all these stories, all this insight. But no one really knows anything about you, do they?” Lando leaned closer. There was heat inside of him now. He was attacking this conversation like a challenge. “So let’s trade…” he started. “Why did Ferrari get rid of you?”

The question dropped like a loaded gun on the table, but your breath stayed steady.

“What have you heard?”

“That you said something about Sainz or Leclerc that made Vasseur cry.”

You slowly leaned into his space, where the tension turned into static, just enough to let your voice’s vibration reach his skin.

“I told Vasseur that replacing Carlos Sainz with Hamilton wasn’t going to fix all Ferrari’s problems.”

“But replacing Leclerc would?”

There was silence, excruciatingly loud. You leaned back and met his eyes. For the first time, the green wasn’t angry, they were searching.

The implication hung between you. You didn’t need to say more, and, frankly, Lando wouldn’t ask. You cracked the door open, and he had to decide whether to walk through or close it forever. But he couldn’t even offer you a smirk. Instead, his voice dropped to something quieter, however, not soft or gentle.

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said. “I’m not here to be done with.”

He stared at you for a long time.

“Your presence is too much,” he stated. Then, after a beat, “But I don’t… hate it.”

It wasn’t a confession, but it was very close. The weight of something unnamed, curling in the silence like smoke.

“Lando, you need to understand that out of everyone in this team, I am the one you can be sure will always stand by your side.” You shot at him, emphasizing the correct words with precision.

He stared at you for a beat too long. Jaw tight. Breathing uneven, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream.

“And what if I don’t want anyone to stand by me?”

His voice was sharp, but there was something underneath it, like the truth didn’t sit right in his chest, so he spat it out before it suffocated him.

It stung, but you smiled.

“Well, you still have to endure me for another week.”

He didn’t answer, but this time, when he left the room, he didn’t slam the door. Instead, Lando closed it like he was leaving a secret behind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[Silverstone]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The rain at Silverstone didn’t just fall, it poured. As if the track itself was exhaling all the pressure of the weekend in one weather rebellious event. You watched the storm without blinking, your reflection a ghost on the garage’s monitor screens.

You were soaking wet after getting caught by the storm on your way to the paddock, not like you moved to dry yourself, or brought an extra set of clothes. You stood like you were part of the infrastructure, just another column holding up the roof, head tilted, jacket hugging your body uncomfortably.

And then he found you. Lando. You didn’t look at him, not at first, but you felt the moment he crossed into your atmosphere. That internal barometer dipped. The air tightened.

You were there. Of course you were. Like you anticipated the storm, the delay in free practice, to give you two more time to talk. And when he saw you, soaked through, still as stone, every word he rehearsed to annoy you fell flat. So he said the first true thing that came to mind:

“You don’t look waterproof.”

You arched a brow.

“No shit.”

His lip twitched. He wasn’t expecting a reaction. Not out of this.

He moved closer, not deliberately. But close enough that he could see the rain collecting in the hollow of your throat. See how you hadn’t bothered to wipe the mascara smudge beneath your right eye.

“I thought psychologists would rather stay dry in their boring glass rooms.”

“It’s nice to remind myself that I am not a robot sometimes,” you softened. Lando almost laughed at your stupid joke. “Why are you here?”

“Jesus, woman, does everything need to have a reason for you?”

“Everything usually does.” You looked him dead in the eyes, the green morphing into some kind of grayish-blue. “Especially to you.”

Lando let the tension between your words sit tight and occupy space. You said it clinically, objectively, but he felt a weird weight in it.

“Are all therapists hard to read like you?” he asked, not provoking, just out of curiosity.

“You are aware that I’m a human being, right, Lando?”

Your eyes locked. There were only a few inches between you. The sound of rain was hammering metal. There was so much noise around, the buzz of garage equipment, engineers in motion. However, the stillness between you was louder than anything.

He reached up, adjusting the strap on his fireproofs. It was a pointless gesture, something to do with his hands. You caught the tell.

“Does it help?” you asked.

“What?”

“The fidgeting.”

“Does watching me do it turns you on or something?” He chuckled.

“No,” you said softly. “That would be unprofessional, wouldn’t it?”

You weren’t sure when his hand brushed against yours. It wasn’t incidental. You could pretend it was, but that wouldn’t explain the way his knuckles lingered, warm and damp from the rain, grazing yours with the kind of reverence that didn’t belong in a place like this. In a garage that smelled like rubber and nerves and burnt ambition.

No. That touch was intentional in denial, criminal in restraint. The backs of your fingers barely touched, it wouldn’t even register on a thermal camera, but it set your blood to boil. You didn’t move away. Neither did he. His pinky curled ever so slightly and now the side of his hand was flush against yours. The contact was so small it could be dismissed, but so intimate it felt indecent.

Lando tilted his head, just a little, like he was trying to read a language only your body spoke.

“You always this quiet when someone touches you?” he murmured.

His voice was lower than it should’ve been. Close. Not quite a whisper, nor quite a dare.

“Depends on who’s doing the touching.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes. Something feral and curious. Something he hadn’t quite decided to like or hate yet.

Lando didn’t move away. His breath was shallow now. Your hand still against his. Your shoulder close enough to his chest that you could feel the residual heat radiating off his suit. You could’ve said a thousand things. You could’ve asked him to step back. You could’ve told him this was a line you shouldn’t cross. But instead you said:

“You’re not angry anymore.”

He laughed, a bit shy.

“No. Just…” He paused, then swallowed hard.“…tired of pretending I am not intrigued by you.”

Your throat went dry. And for a moment — just one charged, godless second — you thought he might do it. Close the inch. Close the lie that this was being professional.

You leaned in by a breath. He did the same.

“Lando?”

The engineer’s voice sliced through the air like a barbed wire. The moment collapsed in on itself. You both jerked back — too fast. Like teenagers. Like something shameful had almost happened.

Lando cleared his throat, then ran a hand through his damp curls.

“Yeah?” His voice cracked. He didn’t fix it.

“They need you in sim.”

He nodded. Didn’t look at you again — not right away. But when he finally did, it wasn’t angry. Or smug. It was longing.

You watched him go and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your hand still burned where he touched it. And his did too.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·[post-race session]· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The air in the room felt heavier after the race. Dense, like it had gathered the weight of everything unspoken between you and the british driver. This was the final session, the last one before summer break, the last time you’d see him. You had both been counting down to it. Dreading it, maybe. But for different reasons.

The clock on the wall ticked too loud. The afternoon light couldn’t reach the inside of the room. You had set everything up like always: notebook open, pen placed carefully on top, two glasses of water. Predictable. Safe.

And then the door opened. Early. You looked up only to find Lando. No easy smile, no cocky quip. Just him. Quiet, raw in the edges, like something tender had been scraped open beneath the skin. His hair was still slightly damp, curling loosely at the ends. He wasn’t wearing the usual team hoodie, just a soft, thick gray hoodie, too oversized to his frame. His eyes found you and didn’t move away this time.

“Hey,” his voice was lower than usual, rougher.

“Hi.” Your voice came out thinner than you intended.

He walked in slowly, almost like he was afraid of startling you. Sat down on the carefully pulled chair, closer than usual. The chair creaked. His knee almost brushed yours under the small table. He didn’t lean back like he usually did. No forced posture of indifference. He just sat there and folded into himself, hands clasped in front of him.

You studied his face — the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way his thumb kept rubbing over his knuckle. You recognized it. The exhaustion of someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” Lando finally said, barely above a whisper. “Kept thinking.”

You stayed quiet. You knew better than to fill the space.

His eyes darted to you briefly, then back to his hands.

“I’m tired of pretending it’s fun all the time,” he exhaled. “Like, I know everyone wants the show, the jokes, the stupid fucking memes, the smiling… But sometimes I wake up and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to… entertain.”

Your throat tightened.

He kept going, words spilling now.

“I used to love it. Racing, I mean. Not the circus. The driving, the feeling of… flying. But lately I —” His voice broke for half a second. “— I keep wondering if I’m losing it. If it’s slipping. Like, are these my good years or do I have none? Because, Oscar is fucking thriving out here, winning every damn race, and I feel so-”

He stopped himself. Looked away. You didn’t move. Not yet. You could feel the sharp edges under his words. The fear sitting behind the frustration.

“Average?” you completed, softly.

Lando flinched, just slightly. But there was relief in the honesty of it. He nodded once, eyes still averted.

You exhaled slowly. Let the moment hang.

“Lando...” Your voice was steady, almost a whisper, but firm. “Who you are is not measured by what Oscar wins. And it’s not measured by what they say about you, either.”

You watched him closely. His jaw tightened. His shoulders pulled inward, like he was bracing for the familiar storm.

“The public, the comments, the headlines, the noise… They turn every race into a ranking of your worth. They decide who’s rising and who’s falling. Who’s beloved and who’s mocked. But that narrative isn’t truth, Lando. It’s projection. It’s temporary.”

He blinked, hard. His hands rubbed over each other, fingers fidgeting.

“When you start believing that every mistake confirms what they say… that you’re not good enough, that you’re falling behind, that you’re a disappointment, you hand your identity over to people who don’t even know you. Oscar isn’t your measuring stick. And neither are they. You’re not broken because you care about how they see you… But you’ll break yourself trying to make them love you. They don’t get to decide your value. You do.”

His breathing slowed, as though the words were unraveling something tight inside his chest.

“You’re allowed to want more, Lando. You’re allowed to feel frustrated. But you’re not failing because someone else is thriving. That’s not how worth works.”

Lando gathered the courage to look over you. The look in his eyes was as if something had collapsed and bloomed all at once.

“I care too much,” he whispered. “I know I do. About what people think. About what it means. About being enough. And I fucking hate that I care.”

You swallowed hard.

You felt your own walls shift then. The carefully cultivated distance bending under the weight of his vulnerability. Then, very slowly, almost before you realized you were doing it, your hand lifted. You reached across the small space between you and your fingers found his, resting lightly at first, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to touch him. His knuckles were warm under your skin.

The contact was small, professional enough that you could pretend — if you wanted — that it meant nothing. But it lingered. Longer than it should have.

His head lowered slightly, almost imperceptibly leaning into your hand, like he was starving for that single point of contact. Like it anchored him.

The room was thick with something neither of you named. And for the first time since this had begun, you felt a door opening.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” he murmured. “Weak.”

“You’re not weak.” Your thumb moved, the tiniest stroke against his knuckle, deliberate now.

His eyes closed for a second. You watched his lashes flutter, his breathing slowing, deepening like he was grounding himself in your touch.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said quietly, barely audible.

You should have pulled your hand back. You didn’t. Instead, his fingers intertwined yours, fitting perfectly in between, charging your touch with heat. And you realized you didn’t want it to end either.

The door closed behind him and you sat there for a long moment breathing into the silence trying to collect yourself but your pulse kept rising, your fingertips still tingling from where you touched him as if his warmth had branded your skin and maybe it had. Maybe that was the problem.

You stood slowly. Your legs unsteady like you had walked too close to something dangerous and inhaled too much of it. The weight of the session still clinging to your bones, but there was something else now, something heavier, hotter, curling at the base of your spine

You went immediately back to your hotel. The elevator was quiet. The hallway even quieter. The muted beige carpet, the soft overhead lights, the stillness of expensive sterility, and, yet, your head felt loud, like static roaring under your skin.

You walked faster, as if outrunning the friction inside you. Then you heard it behind you. Your name. Not loud, but enough to stop you, like gravity, like an invisible hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you backwards. You closed your eyes once, briefly, because you already knew it was him.

You turned slowly. Lando stood a few steps behind. Hands in the pockets of that same thick hoodie. His hair a little more unruly now. His eyes locked on you, not playful, not teasing, just burning quietly, as if something inside him had finally slipped free and he couldn’t put it back.

“You shouldn’t be here” your voice came out low barely steady “This isn’t appropriate.”

Lando didn’t answer at first, he just stared and in that stare was everything you weren’t supposed to acknowledge. The unraveling threads, the slow smoldering pull that had been tightening between you for weeks, maybe from the very start. And you felt it humming under your skin, tightening your throat.

“I know.” he said, voice rougher than you had ever heard it, like sandpaper. “I know it’s not”

And still he didn’t move, didn’t leave, didn’t let you breathe.

You should have walked away. You should have shut it down. You were trained to. But you didn’t. Instead, you stood frozen, watching him watching you, and it felt like standing in the middle of a fuse burning too close to the detonation.

“Lando” you said again softer now, but there was a fracture in your voice, one you couldn’t quite control “Don’t do this.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the heat of him radiating in the small sterile space between you. And you hated yourself for not stepping back. Because part of you wanted to lose the grip you kept white-knuckled for so long.

“I’m not the only one doing something.” he whispered, “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny, to push him away with words, but nothing came out. Because the truth was bleeding too loudly under your skin. You wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you wanted to keep control, more than you wanted to stay professional, more than you wanted to stay safe.

Lando saw it in your silence and that was when he moved the last inch between you. His mouth crashed into yours, like something inevitable. Brutal, desperate. His hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish, like he was anchoring himself. And you answered it with a sharp intake of breath. Until you were kissing him back, hard, urgent, teeth and tongues clashing. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t tender, it was weeks of restraint collapsing in the smallest space possible.

It lasted seconds, or minutes, you couldn’t tell. But when you finally broke apart, you were both breathless, chests heavy, wide-eyed, like neither of you fully believed you had actually crossed the line.

“This shouldn’t have happened. This was a mistake.” you managed to say, but your voice shook when it left. And the way he looked at you made your stomach turn into knots, because he didn’t believe you.

“It’s only a mistake if you want it to be.” Lando stated quietly. Daring you to pretend and go against your urges.

You stared at him. Your back against the hotel door. Your heartbeat thundering in your throat. You wanted to pull him in and you wanted to slam the door shut on this whole thing. Both impulses fighting like wild animals inside you.

Instead you turned the handle, opened the door behind you, letting the warm dim light spill out into the hallway.

“If you walk in here,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “I stop being your psychologist.”

Lando didn’t move for a second but his eyes never left yours, sharp, unflinching, full of something dangerous and hungry.

“I never planned for you to be my psychologist after summer break, either way.”

And for a moment the world hung perfectly still between you.

You didn’t know who moved first, or if you even had time to decide, because suddenly he was in the room and the door clicked shut behind him. The space shrank around you like the air had been sucked out, and all you could feel was him standing too close, too warm, too dangerous.

Lando was watching you like you were something fragile about to break, but his hands found your hips anyway. It was like being pulled into a current too strong to resist, like your whole body had been waiting for this to happen no matter how many times your mind said no.

Your back hit the wall softly, but it was enough to make you gasp, and that sound broke him. Whatever thin thread of patience he had left, it snapped. His mouth was on yours again, hungrier, rougher, his teeth grazing your lower lip, and you let him, because you were tired of controlling everything, tired of carrying the weight of being careful and detached and safe.

Lando’s hands slid up under your blouse, fingertips skating over your ribs as if memorizing every line of you, like he didn’t want to waste a single inch. Your skin burned under his touch. You arched into him without meaning to, and you felt him groan, low in his throat, against your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re driving me insane,” he whispered, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and uneven. “I tried to be good. I really fucking tried.”

You didn’t answer, because your hands were already tugging at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one desperate motion. When it was gone, you stared for a beat at the way his chest rose and fell, his skin flushed with heat, the sharp lines of muscle under soft light. And then he was pulling your blouse over your head too, fingers quick and frantic.

“But you look so perfect for me,” he whispered almost reverently, hands sliding down your sides, thumbs grazing the soft curve of your waist. “Need to make you mine.”

The moment your skin met his fully, it was like setting fire to something too dry, too starved to survive. Lando pressed his body against yours, pinning you against the wall, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss down your throat. Slow at first, tasting you like he wanted to savor every pulse beneath your skin.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as his mouth reached your collarbone and lower, teeth grazing the swell of your breast. You hissed softly, feeling your control unraveling into ribbons falling at your feet.

“Lan…”

“Say it,” he rasped against your skin, his voice hoarse, possessive. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me, Lando. Right here.” You barely recognized your own voice when it came out, breathless and shaking.

He groaned at that, like the words shattered something inside him.

“I knew it,” he whispered, voice sharp with need. “I fucking knew you wanted this. Tell me to stop.”

He whispered again, voice raw. But you couldn’t, because you didn’t want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.

Instead, you pulled him closer, fingers curling into his hair, guiding him lower. Lando followed gladly, dropping to his knees like he belonged there, like he had been waiting for this moment as long as you had. His hands gripped your thighs firm enough to bruise, and then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and perfect.

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” he groaned, voice muffled against your heat. “All this because of me, baby?”

Your head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping before you could catch it, and his tongue worked you open with deliberate strokes, patient at first and then increasingly greedy. You bucked into him, your legs trembling under the weight of it all.

“God, yes… just like that,” you gasped, one hand slamming against the wall behind you, the other tangled tight in his curls, holding him there like an anchor, like you needed him to keep you from falling apart completely.

“Look at you falling apart for me,” he murmured, pulling back just slightly to meet your gaze. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

He groaned into you, the vibrations making you cry out again, and his fingers joined his mouth, two of them sliding inside you easily, curling up to find the spot that made your knees buckle.

“Lan… Please, I’m so close…”

His tongue flicked relentlessly against your clit, sending you spiraling faster and faster until you came hard against him, shaking, breathless, the world splintering at the edges.

“There she is. That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”

But he didn’t stop, not really. Even as your body trembled, he kissed his way back up your stomach, your ribs, your throat, catching your mouth again like he couldn’t stand not touching you for even a second. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he pressed you harder into the wall.

“I need you,” he rasped against your lips, and you nodded, because so did you. “You think I’m done with you? We’re only getting started.”

You barely made it to the bed, his hands on your waist guiding you backwards, his pupils blown wide, his breathing ragged as he stripped out of the rest of his clothes. You followed, shedding everything like armor, until there was nothing left between you except raw need.

He hovered over you for a moment, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing your lips like he was trying to memorize you one last time before you both crossed the line completely.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, voice shaking. “So messy. So perfect. Gonna save me, pretty girl?”

You didn’t give him a chance to hesitate. You reached for him, pulling him down until his body was flush with yours, skin to skin, heat radiating between you.

“You act so cold in that little office, and now you’re begging for my cock.”

You guided him to you slowly, his cock pressing against your entrance and then sliding in, deep, inch by aching inch, until he was fully inside you, and you both gasped at the sensation of finally, finally being exactly where you both wanted.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned into your ear, his voice ragged, desperate. “So fucking tight for me.”

He held still for a moment, forehead resting against yours as you both adjusted to the overwhelming intensity of it all. Then he started moving, slow, deep thrusts that made your breath hitch with every roll of his hips, filling you so completely it bordered on unbearable.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your nails raking down his back as his pace quickened, desperation bleeding into every movement, into every sound, into every gasp that filled the space between you.

“Tell me how much you need me,” he panted. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Please… fill me up, Lan. I want to feel you everywhere.”

The hotel room around you disappeared — the walls, the ceiling, the world itself — nothing existed except this, except him, except the impossible friction building higher and higher until you were both on the edge again.

“This pretty little cunt was made for me, yeah?” he growled, his voice dark, his thrusts rougher now.

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking apart as the coil inside you tightened. “Fuck… ruin me. I want you to ruin me.”

“Is that what you want? To get ruined? To be treated, finally, like you’re not above anyone?” You nodded your head frenetically, unable to hold back the sighs escaping your lips. “You shouldn’t be treated like a superior when you look this good underneath me.”

He whispered your name over and over, like a prayer, like an apology, like he couldn’t believe you were real, his voice broken and raw as his pace grew erratic, hips snapping into you with reckless desperation.

“Fuck, you’re perfect… you feel so perfect… so fucking tight around me,” he groaned, the words rasping against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Taking me so fucking well, baby. God, I can't… you make me lose my fucking mind.”

You clung to him with everything you had, nails digging into his slick back as the coil inside you tightened to a breaking point. His hand slid between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation, circling it with frantic precision.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice strangled. “Please. I want to feel you lose it around me. I need it.”

The pressure snapped, beautifully, violently. Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave you couldn’t control. You cried out his name, arching into him, your whole body trembling beneath the force of it, and it pulled him over the edge with you.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it. That’s my girl,” he groaned, burying himself deep one final time, his whole body shuddering as he came undone inside you. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

For a long time, neither of you moved, both panting, limbs tangled, hearts racing in sync, your skin damp with sweat, your bodies heavy against each other. His head fell into the crook of your neck as he tried to catch his breath, as though even now he couldn’t let you go.

You could still feel him pulsing inside you, the heat of him deep, claiming you in a way words never could. It was reckless. It was dangerous. It was everything you had told yourself you wouldn’t do. And still. You didn’t regret it.

But even as your breathing started to steady, you felt him twitch inside you, still hard, still desperate. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he wasn’t done, like stopping now would destroy him completely.

“Lando…?” you whispered, breathless, but he didn’t answer.

Instead, Lando pulled out slowly, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before slamming back into you in one ruthless, unforgiving thrust that made your back arch and your breath catch in your throat.

“Shh,” he rasped against your ear, voice darker now, something raw and cracked leaking into his words. “I’m not fucking done with you.”

You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, your entire body already overstimulated and trembling, but you couldn’t stop him — didn’t want to stop him.

Lando started fucking into you hard, fast, the bed creaking beneath you as his frustrations bled into every violent snap of his hips.

“You think you can drive me crazy like this and I’ll just stop after one round?” he gritted out, his jaw tight. “I’ve been losing my fucking mind over you.”

He cut himself off with a brutal thrust that punched the air from your lungs.

“It’s too much– I can’t–”

“No, baby, you can. I know you can, come on. Be a good girl for me.”

You choked out, dizzy, overwhelmed, your head thrown back into the mattress. His hands grabbed you from under your knees, forcing your legs up, folding you open for him completely as he pounded into you even deeper, rougher, like he needed to break you apart just to put you back together again.

“Look at you,” he snarled, his face flushed, sweat dripping from his hairline, eyes wild. “You’re so fucking desperate for me now. Such a good little mess under me.”

He growled deep in his throat, bending forward to bite into the soft skin of your shoulder, marking you as his. His thrusts became animalistic, grunts tearing from his chest as he fucked you like this was his only way to survive.

“Fuck…yes…take it. Take all of me,” he groaned into your skin. “You make me so fucking crazy, baby. You make me lose my fucking mind.”

You could feel yourself tipping again, that sharp edge pulling tighter with every brutal stroke, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every hard thrust. His dirty words filled your head, flooding your senses until you couldn’t think anymore. You were nothing but sensation, nothing but him.

“You’re gonna come again for me, aren’t you?” he demanded, voice strained. “Gonna milk my cock like the filthy girl you are.”

“Yes, yes. Fuck, I can’t—” you cried, barely able to form words anymore as the second orgasm slammed into you, harder than the first, your whole body convulsing around him.

He cursed under his breath, losing all rhythm as your spasming walls dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing deep inside you again, filling you until you felt the hot, wet rush of him coating your walls.

Lando hissed through gritted teeth, hands gripping you like he was terrified you might vanish beneath him.

The driver collapsed on top of you, panting, trembling, both of you soaked in sweat and flushed beyond repair. The world spun around you, but all you could feel was him. Still inside you. Still holding you like his entire sanity was hanging by a thread.

For a long time, all you could hear was your combined breathing, sharp and uneven, hearts still racing wildly against each other’s chests. His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

His lips brushed your temple, softer now, but no less desperate.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you,” he whispered, voice cracked and raw. “I don’t want to.”

But even as the words left his mouth, you felt him harden inside you again, impossibly fast, his cock still buried deep, twitching with need.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hips started to move once more, slow at first, a deep, grinding roll that made you gasp.

“You feel that?” he murmured darkly, his lips dragging along your jaw, voice thick with obsession. “Still so fucking tight. Still squeezing me like you’re begging me to fill you again.”

Your body was beyond exhausted, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, but the feel of him, the low growl in his voice, the way he looked at you like you were his entire world, it set you on fire all over again.

“Lando… I–”

“Shh.” His hand wrapped around your throat gently but firm, forcing your eyes on him. “No more thinking. Just take it. Let me fucking use you, baby. You need this just as much as I do.”

His thrusts turned brutal again, sharp, unrelenting, his frustration bleeding out with every savage snap of his hips. The bed groaned beneath you, headboard slamming softly against the wall in rhythm with his movements.

“Fucking hell… All this time I’ve been losing my mind watching you act untouchable,” he growled, the words pouring out like venom as he fucked deeper, harder. “Provoking me like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Wearing those tight little skirts, standing so fucking close… you knew, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, completely wrecked under him, your hands gripping his biceps like they were your only anchor.

“Say it,” he demanded through clenched teeth, voice shaking. “You knew what you were doing to me.”

“I…I knew,” you sobbed, your voice high and broken. “I wanted you to want me like this.”

“You wanted me fucking obsessed,” he snapped, hand tightening around your throat just enough to make you dizzy, his eyes dark with something dangerous. “Well, congratulations, baby, you got me. You fucking got me.”

He slammed into you mercilessly, raw and possessive, sweat dripping from his brow, his teeth gritted as he chased another high like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“You’re mine,” he hissed. “Every fucking part of you. This perfect cunt? Mine. These sounds you make? Mine. That sweet face when you’re about to break? Fucking mine.”

Tears blurred your vision, from pleasure, from overstimulation, from the overwhelming weight of his voice, his body, his claim. You felt like you were floating somewhere between pain and ecstasy, the brutal rhythm pulling you under again.

“Touch yourself for me,” he ordered, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “Come on. Rub that little clit while I ruin you.”

Your hand shook as you obeyed, fingers finding the swollen bud, barely able to keep a rhythm with the way his cock was splitting you open with every relentless thrust.

“That’s it. That’s my good girl,” he praised, voice breaking, filthy and loving all at once. “Look at you, taking me like you were made for it. You’re fucking perfect, you hear me? I don’t care what anyone says. Never letting you go.”

The pressure coiled fast, too fast, your entire body a live wire beneath him.

“Lan…I…Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Come again,” he demanded, snapping his hips harder. “Fucking soak my cock while I fill you up one more time.”

You shattered with a scream, your body convulsing violently, walls clenching around him so tight it dragged him over the edge with you instantly. His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, hips grinding deep as he emptied himself inside you once more, his growl low and primal as he spilled every last drop.

“Fuck yes, baby, take all of me.” his voice cracked into a moan, breath ragged as he collapsed on top of you, trembling.

For a moment, it was pure chaos, shaking limbs, wet skin, breathless sobs, broken words whispered into flushed skin. His fingers tangled into your hair, forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to crawl inside your body, like even this wasn’t close enough.

“You’re never leaving me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and soft, trembling from exhaustion and raw obsession. “You hear me? I’ll fucking lose my mind if you ever leave me.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only nod, clinging to him with what little strength you had left, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

When your bodies finally stilled, the room was drenched in sweat and shadows, the silence punctuated only by the harsh rhythm of your breathing. His chest rose and fell against your back as he held you, like if he let go, you’d vanish into the night.

Neither of you spoke. Words felt dangerous now. Fragile. Useless.

Lando’s fingers traced slow, reverent circles on your thigh, his touch softer than it had been all night, almost childlike in its tenderness. But beneath it, you felt the storm still simmering inside him, wild and unresolved, because this hadn’t been just sex. Not for him. Not anymore.

His voice finally broke through the quiet, low and hoarse, as if it physically hurt him to speak.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” You swallowed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. He shifted behind you, his grip tightening. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t go silent on me. Not after this.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “Please.”

The desperation bled through his voice in ways he couldn’t control — the thin veneer of control he always wore around everyone else completely shattered now. You were seeing him entirely raw, entirely exposed. No podium smiles. No charming interviews. Just Lando, young, reckless, obsessive, scared.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes. They were wide, feverish, and almost glassy. He already knew.

“I don’t know if I can stay,” you whispered. The truth tasted bitter in your mouth. “We crossed too many lines tonight.”

His brows knitted together, the panic blooming fast beneath his carefully masked expression.

“But you wanted this,” he rasped. “You wanted me. You want me.”

Your throat tightened.

“That doesn’t mean it’s right.”

“I don’t fucking care if it’s right,” the boy snapped, voice rising for the first time, raw emotion cracking beneath it. “I care about you. About us. Don’t hide behind your rules now. You think I can just go back to pretending after this? After finally touching you, tasting you, having you?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply, trying to hold yourself together as his words cut into you. Lando was right. You had wanted him. You still did. Every fiber of your body screamed for him. But that only made it worse.

“Lando… it’s not that simple.”

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as frustration burned in his chest. He sat up abruptly, scrubbing his hand through his damp hair, pacing at the edge of the bed. The sheets slipped down your bare body as you watched him, your pulse pounding.

“You’re scared,” he said bitterly. “You’re fucking terrified.”

“Of course I am!” The words tore out of you louder than intended. “I’m your psychologist, Lando. I have a professional obligation—”

He spun toward you, eyes sharp and dark.

“Not anymore.” The air went still. You blinked. He softened almost immediately, his chest heaving. “Don’t make this the end. Don’t let tonight be… nothing.” His voice broke. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll never tell a fucking soul. Just don’t walk away.”

The weight of his desperation suffocated you. His words, his eyes, his entire body language screamed one thing louder than anything else: I need you.

But your mind was already pulling away, because you saw the inevitable consequences spiraling ahead like some cruel domino effect that neither of you could stop once it started.

Lando reached for your hand, gripping it like a man gripping a lifeline.

“You don’t have to fix me anymore. Just stay.”

You let him hold your hand, let him believe — for one more fleeting second — that this could somehow work. That this night could exist safely outside the world you both belonged to. But deep inside, you already knew.

You squeezed his hand softly, your voice barely a whisper.

“I need time.”

His face fell, just slightly. He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding like he understood. But you saw the panic still swirling under his skin, fighting for breath.

Later, while the early dawn crept through the thin hotel curtains, casting pale blue shadows over his sleeping face, you stood at the edge of the bed and watched him. Peaceful for once. Quiet. Unaware. His curls messy across the pillow, his bare chest rising and falling with slow, vulnerable breaths.

You memorized him like that.

By noon, the letter sat on the office desk.

“Effective immediately. Due to personal and ethical conflicts, I resign my position.”

You didn’t check your phone. You couldn’t.

You disappeared into summer break like a ghost slipping through the cracks of a world that had grown too dangerous. Away from paddocks. Away from McLaren. Away from him.

And yet, as the days stretched long and silent, as you stared out at unfamiliar skies in unfamiliar cities, you knew his hands still lingered on your skin, his words echoing like a heartbeat beneath your ribs.

You had left. But he wasn’t done.

Neither of you were done.

#f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #f1 writing #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #f1 #lando norris smut #lando norris x you #lando x reader #lando x y/n #lando x you

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