🪑im sat

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: Drug use, explicit language.

The sun has long since set over Monaco, leaving the paddock humming in an artificially lit post-race haze.

“It’s been a great month with Lando,” Cosette tells Eva, her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. She leans against a temporary barrier, picking at her cuticles until one bleeds. It’s late afternoon in Atlanta and Eva has just finished her final shift at the Waffle House: the streaming checks have been rolling in from her first single, its listens vastly boosted by Lando’s celebrity, and Eva is now able to quit her day job to focus on an album.

Cosette believes herself when she says she and Lando are happy. They managed to carve out time for themselves amidst the busy race calendar, tacking on a few days before or after races, finding pockets of the world where they could be alone, together. A standard day at the track now started with the pair walking hand in hand down the length of the paddock. Lando would squeeze her hand every time they passed a crowd or wall of photographers, brushing his thumb across the inside of her palm when shouting rose above the din of the crowd. Vitriolic words spit from the mouths of those who knew nothing about the two of them.

Holed up in his apartment in Monaco, late nights drinking on his balcony — and even later nights when Cosette would go out clubbing, kissing Lando goodnight at his apartment door, only to return when the sun came up the next day. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, Cosette would crawl into bed beside him where he’d pull her into his arms in a tired daze. In the morning he’d have coffee and pastries delivered from his favorite bakery.

Lando lined up fourth in Monaco and finished the same, as did the other top ten drivers.

Cosette texts Eva from Lando’s kitchen counter to tell her she’s listened to the demos of the album. im so proud of u, dude, she writes, along with her thoughts. Eva replies with a quick love u, babe, but their texting is sparse after that, with Eva busy writing songs.

A cabin in Canada, Cosette’s head in Lando’s lap by the fire. Days spent on the lake: jet ski races that Lando took more seriously than Cosette; jumping off the back of the boat in increasingly absurd poses, one photographing the other in a flash on film. Ambien shaken into her open palm in the darkness of the hallway, Lando dead asleep in the bedroom behind her, swallowing them dry every night they stayed in the woods, and he’d laugh in the morning and call her my sleepyhead when she woke up groggy and struggling to remember the nights before.

Second in Canada, Max won.

Cosette leaves a message for Eva, sitting on the dock with her legs dangling in the lake below. I’ve missed you, she says, Can we catch up soon?

A penthouse in Spain, his arms around her, listening to the city fall asleep, yet unable to do the same herself. She’d slip from his grasp to go to night parties on the beach. Ketamine, then, from strangers who recognized her as the girlfriend of Lando Norris. She promises to tag them in the party photos they take after she’s snorted their gifted powder and neglects to mention she doesn’t have social media. The Ambien in the taxi back to the penthouse when she starts hallucinating the sound of Eva’s voice next to her in the cab.

Second in Spain, Max won.

But that time he’d been on pole. It’s only your second pole, Lando, they’d all said, trying to console him. Spain’s a bad track for the polesitter.

Cosette and Lando had an argument that weekend — Lando asking when she’d gotten to bed, showing her the tabloid photos of her out of her mind on the beach in just a bikini and sheer wrap. You look totally fucked, he said, You know the team’s going to see these photos, right?

They took separate cars to the track the day of the Spain race. He didn’t speak to her before lights out, Cosette watching from the other side of the garage as Lando strategized with the engineers. By that time she’d started doing lines on race days to stay sharp. But all it did that day was make her hyperaware of how deliberately he avoided her. This is the man you’ve been sleeping beside for over a month now. The paparazzi flashes followed them wherever they went. This is the man you’re risking your job over. The pit crew seemed to stop talking whenever she walked into a room. This is the man you can’t stand to see get hurt. Zak Brown stared at her from across the pitlane, a hand over his brow to block the sun. This is the man you will hurt.

The night after the Spain Grand Prix he’d fucked her in the shower, hard, in a way that left her sore and she wasn’t sure that she liked it. He was angry; she could tell, in the way his brows pushed in and his gaze was distant, mouth parted slightly. It wasn’t about her, she told herself, but maybe it was. His grip on her hip, there to steady her against the tile, had left a bruise.

She wanted access to his brain then, a little door, wanted to be able to reach what he'd stopped telling her — but he had become guarded, the change so subtle, so drawn out, she’d missed it until the scalding water was dripping from his hair and he'd gone so quiet inside himself she barely knew him anymore.

The scent of him lingered on his pillow long after he’d left for the airport, already headed to the next race in Austria. Citrus, leather, musk: a familiar, easy pleasure to inhale. If Cosette closed her eyes she could imagine him by her side as if nothing had changed. Light seeped in from the edges of the blackout curtains. She extended a hand to his half of the bed, smoothing her palm over the sheet, pretending she felt a phantom warmth there, that he’d come back in a few minutes with pastries. She began adding all of the silences she’d missed, times when Lando had been seemingly lost in thought, unable to concentrate on their conversations, their intimacy. The times she’d caught him at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring to the carpet as if in conversation with the fibers underfoot.

Together those silences had usurped their laughter, their love. Cosette felt herself treading blinded in the dark, arms outstretched to grasp him, treacherous pits just a misstep away. She committed herself to take this risk, for Lando, and if she were to finally reach him, she would hold him tight, bunching the fabric of his racing suit into her palms, and maybe, just maybe, he’d remove her blindfold.

this one's kinda chaotic timeline-wise, but i just wanted to get it out 🤷

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

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

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: Alcohol, Explicit language.

A waiter curved his arm around Cosette’s shoulder and set a steaming platter before her: seared seabream on a bed of braised tomatoes and olives. As he carefully placed the fish in the last open space on the tiny table, his sleeve pulled back to reveal tan skin against starched white linen. Cosette caught a glimpse of a tattoo in tall, cursive script hidden beneath the hair on his arm. Conversations in French, Spanish and Italian drifted from the street onto the patio and sea salt scented the air. Cosette couldn’t quite believe she was in Monaco.

She glanced up to say thank you, careful to look up at him through her eyelashes, the whites of her eyes large beneath her pupils. He nodded, the mustache on his upper lip lifting slightly. Gianmarco — she’d later learn was his name — slid his hand across her bare shoulder as he stepped away, light as a feather.

Jeremiah sat beside her, fast in conversation with Andrew and his wife, Margret, who sat across the table. The wind funneled down the narrow street, lifting their napkins. One nearly sailed to the next table, but Andrew caught it and set it gently in the lap of Amelia, his younger daughter, who didn’t seem to notice. She and her sister Gracie were preoccupied: their mother had pulled out some markers from her purse and a pocket coloring book, which they’d quickly let fall to the floor when they noticed Cosette’s tattoos. Please? They’d asked, little fingers pointing to the alligator on her arm. Cosette had just laughed and held her arm out so the girls would have easier access to their new canvas.

The restaurant wasn’t busy — not yet — the trio had some spare time in the afternoon before they’d be expected back at the track to finalize the garage setup for practice tomorrow. It was Andrew’s turn to pick the activity, and if there was anything the man wanted to do, it was eat. He’d spent the short flight from London chatting endlessly about this amazing Italian restaurant he’d eaten at in his first year in Formula 1, a meal he’d shared with his former mentor. He’d made a habit to return every time the paddock swung back to Monaco and more recently started bringing his family along.

Cosette glanced down at the plate the waiter had just placed as Jeremiah portioned it to share . The mottled grey scales of the fish faded from slate along its back to pearl-white on its stomach, now shiny in oil, flesh falling off the spine with nothing more than a nudge from Jeremiah’s knife.

“Cosette,” Jeremiah said as he placed the fish on her plate. At first she thought he was simply announcing her share. As he continued, she turned to watch him.

“I have to apologize for what Fatimah did,” he said quietly.

She pressed her tongue against her teeth. Andrew was pointing at something down the street, Margret laughing. The sea salt in the air suddenly felt cloying. She'd wanted more time — wanted to see where the thing with Lando went before someone else decided for her. They hadn’t spent time together since Atlanta with their busy schedules. Cosette’s bed felt cold in the mornings, even if she’d been sleeping better alone.

“Fatimah and Eva got pretty close at the race in Miami. They really connected.” Jeremiah’s hands revolved in mirrored semicircles as he spoke, hovering around some invisible orb. With each passing word the orb seemed to balloon, and its radius threatened to intersect with Cosette’s wine glass. She picked it up and took a sip, then set the glass back down, further this time.

“Well shit,” Cosette started, the white wine leaving her lips dry. “At least things worked out for Eva, right?”

And it had. Eva’s song rocketed up in listens after those photos blew up — nothing near top 100, but far more than she could have expected without the extra press. Her Instagram had new comments seemingly every minute, F1 fans speculating on Eva’s connection to the McLaren driver. Cosette was in a few photos, always smiling beside Eva. Those posts were the most scrutinized.

Jeremiah let out a breath through his nose before he smiled, the corners of his mouth sliding upwards. “Fatimah, and Lord knows I love her, but she can be a little much at times. She’ll do anything to help a friend.” He glanced around then, eyes dragging across the far distance in thought. “I just don’t think she realizes who she’s hurting in the process.”

Cosette shifted in her seat, the wicker suddenly feeling rough against her thighs. Fatimah’s actions had made her choose between her career and Lando. Between the roof over her head and a man who’d threaded himself through her nerves in a matter of weeks. She didn’t know how but she felt him, always, and missed him, usually. When she missed him a little too much she’d sink a whiskey, pop an Adderall, then sweat it out at a club.

What was much worse was that Cosette already knew what she’d choose. Already felt the shameful relief that came with it, the clean break. Hated that she was too weak to risk what could be if they kept trying, how much more it could hurt six months from now. This pain, at least, she could handle.

Cosette realized Andrew was watching this conversation unfold. He caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, a slight tilt to his head. Cosette gave him a small nod and he relaxed. Cosette let her shoulders drop and folded back into herself, focusing on the cool stem of her wine glass, the steady press of her feet against the pavement.

“Really, Jeremiah,” Cosette placed a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“If she’d talked to me — if she’d asked, I would’ve stopped her.”

Cosette wanted nothing more than for the subject to be buried, scraping at her thoughts to pry off some happy distraction other than the conversation she knew she’d need to have in the next few days. Anything other than Lando’s face when she told him she wanted nothing more than a fuck — the way his expression broke, slowly and silently, his eyes giving in first, the rest following in a soft succession she knew she’d never forget. All they’d shared since and she’d be ending it now anyways, proving her own lie true. Nothing more than two people fucking.

Andrew cleared his throat. “Are you two going to be all right?” He leaned in. “I know you don’t think I can tell what’s going on, but I was young once, too.” Andrew placed an arm around Margret, who nestled her head against his neck. “We snuck around in the early days, didn’t we, love?”

Margret nodded, her smile just like her daughters. Cosette had put her head like that against Lando in Atlanta. Her ear in the cavity of his collarbone beside his shoulder, her eyes shut, his arms around her waist, hands clasped tight in front of her stomach.

It became clear the others were waiting for her response. Cosette glanced at passersby on the street, their heels clicking on the pavement, then refilled her glass of wine.

“I’m going to end things,” she said finally, her tone even, if not a little quieter than she’d intended. Jeremiah and Andrew’s smiles dropped. “But it’s alright. It’s not like we’ve been together long.”

“How long?” Margret asked.

Cosette exhaled, shaking her head. “God, it really feels like a long time.” She folded her hands in her lap, causing a small protest of the girls. “Not even two months. Two fu—” She caught herself. “Two months.”

The adults were making all sorts of half-formed platitudes, clearly unsure of what the right thing to say was. Love doesn’t need some magic duration before it comes, and fuck if that didn’t sting. It’s a tough decision. We’re here for you.

And as they continued, Andrew launching into some story about how quickly he knew he loved Margret — which Cosette was zoning out from — her phone buzzed, lodged between her thigh and the chair. She pulled open her phone beneath the table. It was Lando.

can we meet? it’s important. i’m at my flat, if you can come over.

Cosette locked the phone and as she did so, she caught Gracie peering up at her, big eyes unbidden.

“Are you going to say something back to him?”

Cosette's throat tightened as she looked down at the young girl beside her. “Mhm,” she murmured, “I will.”

Later, as everyone had made their way out of the restaurant, Andrew corralling the girls down the street, Jeremiah and Margret taking photos of the restaurant, Cosette felt a hand tug at her elbow. It was the waiter.

“You forgot something, miss,” he said, placing a slip of paper in her palm, his fingers lingering on the inside of her wrist. It was his number.

Cosette’s gaze flicked to his eyes, the curve of his lips beneath that mustache. "Almost got away," she said, folding the paper in half. She squeezed his hand, her touch warm and lingering, before slipping free. Something for later, she thought. Someone for after.

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

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: Alcohol, Explicit language.

Zak Brown leaned against the conference table with his arms folded, glaring down at Cosette. He let the pause stretch, clearly relishing his command of the room. Wants us all hanging on his every fucking word, Cosette thought. Fucking prick. The head of HR sat across the table with an assistant in tow, typing away on his laptop.

Zak sighed. “You’re American, a real American. From the South. That’s why I like you.”

It took everything for Cosette not to roll her eyes. And you’re from San Fernando Valley. What do you know about the South?

“So you’ll understand me when I explain it like this. McLaren is like a football team. Our football,” he pointed between the two of them, “Of course.”

Even the HR head looked uncomfortable, her smile thin and unconvincing.

“Now, Lando’s our quarterback.” Zak stepped back to face the window, his gaze drifting to the reflecting pool outside. “I’m the coach. I’m calling the shots, he’s executing. He’s throwing touchdowns. We all cheer.”

Cosette nodded, as she guessed Zak expected her to.

“And you?” Zak placed a hand on the back of her chair. “You’re an equipment manager.”

The sound of the assistant's typing filled the silence. Cosette wasn’t sure if this was the part where she was supposed to defend herself.

“We love what you do. We really do. But you’re not the quarterback. He’s not replaceable. You are.”

The HR head opened her mouth as if to speak, but Zak pressed on.

“So you have a few options. You’re just six races into your first season in the paddock. It’s amazing, right? I’m sure you want to stay there. I know I do.”

Cosette kept her face neutral. Get to the point.

“But ya just can’t be sleeping with the quarterback and managing his equipment.” Zak grinned like he'd made a clever joke.

The HR head cleared her throat. “Be engaged in a physical relationship with Lando Norris,” she clarified.

"Right-o," Zak said, as if the matter were already closed. “Now, if you want to be Lando’s cheerleader, that’s fine. But you’re going to have to do it from the sidelines.”

“He means you’ll be demoted to Woking. No more travel.”

Zak moved his hand from the chair to Cosette’s shoulder. His palm was clammy.

“This is an important moment for you, Cosette. Your career is taking off. Don’t let a silly fling tackle you to the ground.”

Cosette left the meeting. They'd given her the weekend to make a decision. She returned to her desk, finished her simulations, sent her emails. Walked to her car with her jacket folded over her arms. Parked outside her flat and checked her mailbox, tucking a few letters under her arm. Straightened the crooked doormat as she unlocked her door.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind her, she threw the letters to the ground and chucked her keys down the hallway, a laugh escaping her lips as she heard them crash against the floor.

A raw sound tore out from within her, halfway between a whine and a roar. She dropped her bag to the floor with a thud. It wasn’t enough.

Her hands shook and her face was pulled tight into a sneer. She covered the distance to her kitchen in a few strides, reaching to that familiar cabinet above the refrigerator, feeling the cool neck of a glass bottle gripped tight in her fist, the amber liquid sloshing violently as she slammed the bottle onto the counter — hard, too hard.

“Shit,” she shouted, and though the glass held, a shock ran through her system as though it had broken.

Lando’s orange hoodie. Blood blooming dark against the fabric. A wide bandage across his face, already seeping through. His eyes heavy, shadowed, lingering on her as the sun crept up over Amsterdam.

Cosette pressed her palms flat against the counter, breathing against the cool of it. The image wouldn’t leave — his face, the bandage, and the stupid, lopsided grin he’d worn anyway when she touched his arm.

She poured two fingers of whiskey. The decision was already there. She’d just been pretending it wasn’t.

She drank, nodded once, and set the glass down.

Zak Brown took a bite of his filet mignon. “So, you like your women a little wild?” he said, still chewing. “I didn’t see it in you, Lando.”

Lando stiffened in his chair and looked around the restaurant. The closest occupied table was too far to hear. He glanced over to Will, his race engineer, who sat with his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. Will drew an index finger idly across his chin and lower lip. Lando realized his own leg was tapping beneath the table and willed it to stop.

“We’re not going to say who you can and can’t be with, right, Will?” Zak offered.

Will nodded, but didn’t meet Lando’s eye.

“But,” Zak continued, “You can’t be with Ms. Moulin.”

Lando slammed an open palm to the table, the impact a little louder than he’d intended. “That’s —”

Will cut him off. “If it were anyone else, Lando…”

“Anyone else? What does that mean?”

“It’s just —”

“Now,” Zak interjected, “What Will means is you just can’t be with her, at least not travelling with you to every track. She’s a distraction.”

Lando leaned toward Will, ignoring Zak entirely. "No, Will, tell me what you meant."

Will looked to Zak. Something passed between them—then Zak flagged down the waiter for the bill.

Will sighed. "She's already faced some disciplinary action with the company."

“Drugs,” Zak interrupted, as he uncapped a pen, eyes scanning the bill. “She’s failed drug tests. Multiple. We’ve referred her to support groups, mandatory counselling, rehab. She doesn’t have many options left.”

Will wouldn't look at him.

“So, she’s struggled with substance abuse.” Lando shot back. “That doesn’t make her a bad person.”

“Right.” Zak said, tearing off a piece of bread. “But it does make her an unstable one. Untrustworthy. Every time, she’s lied, even though she knew what the results would say. She’s been written up for skipping out on counselling. She doesn’t want to get better.”

Lando blinked, fighting to keep his expression flat. He’d known she drank, had suspected the drugs, but this — failed tests, warnings, last chances — this was different. The urge to leave, to call her right now, nearly pulled him to his feet. His hand strayed to his phone in his pocket.

“Go ahead. Call her." Zak settled back in his seat. "Ask her what she took today. What do you think her test results would be right now, Lando? Do you think she'd pass? She's one positive away from dismissal.”

When Lando didn’t reply, Zak leaned toward Will and murmured something Lando couldn’t hear. Will’s shoulders went rigid. He looked at Lando, hesitation flickering across his face, then stood.

“Restroom,” Will muttered, not meeting Lando's eyes.

Zak waited until Will disappeared between the tables before stretching his arm across the back of the booth, boxing Lando in.

Lando chewed the inside of his lip. Flickers of Cosette: her smile in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand. The weight of her head on his chest in the dark, city light painting her face. His fingers in her hair. Her on her knees, hands working his belt loose.

This was one of those moments where Lando could let indecision and anxiety overrule him, blocking the words he’d formulated, flipping synonyms and testing tone until the words never came at all. This could be one of the many times he said Okay, Fine, Sure, just as he did to his trainer, engineer, agent, producer, photographer, boss. He watched Zak pick broccoli from between his teeth and decided: not this time.

“In my contract, I can leave at any time.” Lando watched as Zak straightened in his seat, arms crossing. The air in the booth changed.

"I know I'd take a salary penalty. And a non-compete on open-wheel racing." Lando held his gaze. "I can do that."

"What are you saying, Lando?" Zak's voice had gone carefully neutral.

“I think you know what I’m saying.”

Zak held his eye for a long moment.

“Well, it’s settled then.” Zak said in a flat tone, a disapproving look on his face, just as Will returned to the table.

“What’s settled?”

“Lando’s played his trump card. Cosette will remain in the garage.”

“And the relationship — “

“Will not be interfered with.” Zak said as he made to stand. “Lando, I can’t say I’m happy with how — “

"I don't care," Lando said, and meant it.

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

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: Alcohol, Smoking, Explicit language.

Lando didn't sleep until Monday night. He'd been out all night in Miami after the race, then straight to Augusta to play golf with Jack and some friends. He even shot his highest score — his winning streak seeming unstoppable.

In a video interview Lauren arranged with Racer, he was asked if McLaren could challenge Red Bull for the title in 2025.

“With the progress we're making, with the developments that we've had, there's no reason to say no,” he began, eyes unfocused at the edge of the screen as he chose his words. Too strong. “But I do know it's a whole other task to do it consistently, every weekend.” He glanced back. The interviewer's gaze was flat across the screen.

“I still think we're the third-best team at the minute.” He said after a pause the interviewer clearly expected him to fill. Red Bull, Ferrari, he thought. Then us. “And I'm confident with how the team is doing with our rate of development that by next year we can challenge a lot more often for wins. In the big picture, hopefully, a challenge for a title.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. Lando Norris, World Champion. The victory was only days old, and already the impossible felt within reach. He'd fantasized about the WDC, just as every driver had, but it had always been a distant dream. Now the picture sharpened. He couldn't stop his leg bouncing in that restless, twitchy rhythm for the rest of the interview.

Then, Atlanta for Cosette’s show. A date, more or less, at least in his mind. He’d driven by Atlanta’s gold-topped Capital building, taken in the wide streets and disjointed architecture. He tried to imagine Cosette growing up here, tried to grasp some new connection to her through the streets she knew. He wasn't sure he could.

Voices drifted from inside the venue, soundcheck underway. Lando found Cosette halfway down the alley near the artist’s entrance, cigarette pinched between her fingers. She wore a beige halter crop top and baggy cargo pants, sweat darkening her neckline and beneath her arms. It’d been over 32 degrees, much hotter than he expected for May. She ground the cigarette into the pavement with her boot when she saw him.

They hadn't spoken since Miami. He suspected she was still pissed about the club.

Apparently not, he thought, as she grabbed his hand and squeezed it lightly.

“Hey,” Her voice was low, smile restrained. “I’ve missed you.”

Lando glanced down to their intertwined hands, his thumb beside the spider tattooed on her skin. Like nothing had happened. It occurred to him they'd never said sorry to each other. Not once. "Me too," he said, meeting her eyes. He opened his mouth to say more, to apologize, but the words wouldn’t come.

Cosette pulled the door open, bent to grab the beer bottle propping it, took a swig. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and offered it to him. He shook his head.

Inside: a grimy hallway plastered in signed posters. To his left, the shuffle of equipment, the occasional "One, two, three, check" of sound engineers. To the right, laughter behind a closed door, someone — Eva, probably — running vocal warmups.

Cosette pulled him into a kiss the moment the door was shut. Her lips were hot; she tasted like beer and cigarettes and cinnamon. His body reacted before his mind, tongue tracing salt down her neck.

His mind was a few steps behind, stuck processing the emotions they’d yet had to work out. Sadness, for how she left him alone on what should have been a night they shared. He wanted to see her by his side, beaming up at him, eyes on his, for no one else. Shame, for assuming he deserved that from her, from anyone. She didn’t owe him her admiration, but Christ, he wanted it.

And Lando felt he had it now, her attention, her attraction, if not yet her admiration. Her lips pressed firmly against his, her hands ran through his hair. He pulled her body tight against him and sighed into the kiss.

“Oop!” Came a high-pitched voice from their right. Lando stepped back quickly to see Eva standing before them.

“I hate to break this up,” she continued, “But I’ve gotta show you where you’ll be standing,”

“Hey, Eva,” Lando said, feeling the start of a blush forming, “Thanks for the invite. Good luck out there.”

“Anything for my homegirl,” Eva squeezed Cosette's shoulder, then pointed a stern finger at Lando. “You treat her right, you hear me?”

“Yes ma’am,” he affirmed.

Cosette laughed, bright as lemon zest over a martini.

Eva had found them a spot on the wings of the stage, out of the crowd's line of sight. Maybe we can just enjoy this, Cosette thought, pretend we’re normal.

Eva walked out into red lights that glided up her body. She wore a corseted bra and a belted jean miniskirt with plaid boxers peeking out the top. Mary Jane kitten heels, knee-high black socks, and her hair swung side to side in long passion twists with every step.

Bite-back bitch, got bees in my thighs, Eva rapped, her voice strong over the crowd noise, syllables crisp, flow intoxicating.

Drippin’ honey, it's mine; swarm the track, spit shine,

Sting-sharp tongue, they don’t touch what’s mine,

Everything hit at once. Cosette drowned in it. Eva on stage: gorgeous and untouchable, voice cutting through the crowd like it was easy, like this hadn’t been Eva’s dream since childhood, finally manifest in her city, their city.

The crowd's energy thrummed through the floorboards. Smoke coated the air, thick in her throat. Lando's cologne cut in her nose: citrus, leather, musk, familiar now. His arms locked around her waist, her spine against his chest, his breath hot on her neck. Every nerve ending lit up, skin prickling, heart pounding against her ribs. She wanted more. Blood rushed in her ears. Not enough. Never enough. I always want more.

Clip me short, chip my part, crop my art, call it smart, sell my sound, sell my skin, sell my voice, box me in, ugh

Say you want me? Open wide. You want it raw? Gag on my pride.

She turned, pulled Lando down to her, and kissed him until she had no breath left.

I’m the bigger the better the, uh

Put your ego through shredder, the — yuh,

Bigger, the better, the — yuh

She didn’t know then that Fatimah — Jeremiah’s girlfriend — had called Red, Eva’s producer. She didn’t know then that Red had called the venue photographer, Devin. She didn't know Devin had been poised with an eye to the wings, to her and Lando, waiting for a TMZ-worthy photo.

And he sure-as-fuck got one.

There was no flash to alert them to the photographer’s presence. The crowd noise blanketed the rolling shutter, one photo after another captured to card.

Lando’s head dipped down, mouth open, eyelids heavy.

Her arm snaked around his neck, fingers splayed across his jaw, his neck.

His hand at her lower back, gentle. Another at her hip, firm.

Lando Norris was unmistakable in the frame, his features clear and sharp in the stage light. Though her face disappeared into the shadows of the wings, the elaborate ink covering her skin marked her as plainly as a signature.

Neither of them knew the camera had caught it all. They were too consumed: ears ringing, skin sliding against skin, sweat-slicked and dizzy from the kiss.

Hours later, Cosette heard Lando’s phone buzzing on the hotel nightstand. She glanced at Lando — still asleep — then at the notifications, blue light cascading across her face as message after message flooded the screen. Mentions of the photo. Mentions of her. Jack telling Lando to stay off social media. HR stepping in.

Cosette shuffled herself as quietly as she could to switch the phone to silent. She flipped it screen-down so any notifications from the outside world prodded hopelessly into the nightstand, silently amassing a disaster.

She watched Lando sleep beside her, peace across his features. She curled up beside him, careful not to touch him, not to wake him.

For another four hours, Cosette told herself, He can have his peace.

She never closed her eyes, just lay there in the blue darkness, his steady breaths marking time until whatever fragile thing they'd built finally broke.

Tkay Maidza is my muse for Eva (face + rap/production style), with her song "Grasshopper" the main inspiration behind Eva's song. Plus TiaCorine's "ATE."

Eva's outfit at the Miami GP is modeled after Maidza's outfit in this shoot: https://notion.online/notion-90-tkay-maidza/ while Eva's concert outfit is this iconic set from Doechii's "Live from the Swamp" tour poster https://www.prints4u.net/product/doechii-live-from-the-swamp-2025-north-american-tour-poster-print/

-- nora

tags: @onewithnomightypowers, @shadycloudphilosopher

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.

Note: It's been a fuckin long time since the last chapter release. Oops! But I'm back and motivated to continue the story. I also took the time to heavily edit all the previous chapters. No plot changes but it should be a more enjoyable reading experience for anyone new here.

Winning a Formula 1 Grand Prix was unlike anything Lando Norris had ever felt before. Driving past the finish line, chequered flag in his mirrors, he felt as if his chest were about to burst. Maybe confetti would come flying out. Who knew? he wondered. Anything's possible now. I’ve won!

Every sentence he spoke into the radio exuded excitement. Hell, every thought was capped by an exclamation point. He could die, in this very moment. A heart attack, instant death. A tsunami to take them all. A meteor — repeat of the dinosaur extinction? Any way, it wouldn’t matter, and he’d feel content. Happy. Peace. Every good feeling in the world rushed through his veins and nothing mattered, yet everything shone. No, that was just the tears in his eyes blurring his vision. Fuck, he thought, I’ve got to get this car back to parc fermé in one piece!

He yelled in his car — quite a lot — just to himself, not over the radio. This feeling, this fucking feeling, whatever he felt right now, it was everything. This was what life was for, wasn’t it? Everything building to get a chance to feel this, even just once? Lando wished time would slow so he could take it all in. The sounds, the roaring crowd and congratulations over the radio, his winning car’s engine purring happily as he brought it to a slow stop. The sights, the colors, the blue sky. But it all passed maddeningly quick: he was out of his car, as if floating, accepting hugs and congratulations from the other drivers. Then he was being lifted above the bouncing McLaren contingent, hands all along his backside, his team cheering so loudly it made his ears ring.

He couldn’t keep the grin off his face through the entire podium. When he lifted his trophy into the air, triumphant, the crowd roared back. For him. He looked at the trophy aloft in his hands, backlit by the sun, a visage nearly holy.

Then: the pitlane celebration. The moment after camera’s shutter closed to capture the official team photo, the mechanics mobbed him, laughing maniacally with yet more champagne strewn in the air. He hoped the whole team would get drenched, honestly, it was as much a celebration for them as it was for him. McLaren’s last first place finish was at Monza, 2021, when Daniel and him took the 1-2. Now that was a party.

Shit, he realized, Where’s Cosette? He felt briefly guilty when he realized how little he’d thought of her since those last few laps of the race. The high had eaten away everything else.

He spun around, eyes searching the crowd, maybe a full 720 before spotting her. There she was, laughing alongside Jeremiah, as she often was. Do I make her laugh like that? he wondered. He jogged in her direction, stopped now and again by coworkers, but he always kept an eye toward Cosette, not wanting to lose her again.

Adrenaline was a funny thing. It made your muscles sharp and it should make your mind alert. But right now, Lando’s brain was woefully disconnected from his body as he brought his hands to the sides of Cosette’s face, leaning down to kiss her. Thankfully, his reaction speed was killer, as it had to be, and he swerved to plant a smooch on the top of her forehead. He could only pray there were no cameras pointed their way; but of course there were. There always were.

Fuck! thought Cosette as Lando kissed her forehead. What he doing? Is this some hard launch?

Then Lando dropped his hands from her face quickly, leaving her cheeks to cool in the absence of the warmth of his palms. He patted awkwardly, robotically, on her on her shoulder, then with a strange expression, held up a hand to Jeremiah for a bro hug.

“What?” Jeremiah said, feigning hurt. “No forehead kiss for me?”

Lando laughed, but Cosette could see his eyes scanning the pitlane for any photographers.

“So,” Cosette began, hoping to draw Lando’s attention back to the group. “How are you going to celebrate?”

A wide grin spread on Lando’s face, his smile seemingly so energetic it pulled his face back and forth a little, as if he were shaking his head, incredulous. “I, uh…” He brought a hand to his face, dragging his fingers down the left side of his face, forehead to chin. “Party?” Then he shook his head for real this time.

It brought a smile to her lips, watching Lando’s emotions and thoughts ripple across his features in micro expressions that usually told a truer story than his words.

“Yeah. Party.” Lando said, with finality. Then, his voice pitched up an octave. “Aah, I can’t believe this! Just — “ And he was cut off by Andrew, who clapped him so hard on the back it seemed to knock the wind out of him.

“Hey!” Cosette yelped with a laugh, “Don’t hurt our Grand Prix-winning driver!” She locked arms with Andrew, granting a little more space to Lando, who gave her a grateful look.

When his gaze lingered, everything else fell away. The shouts of the team, clammer of the crowd, popping of champagne bottles and shutter-clicks of cameras. Everyone around them faded to abstract blobs as Lando seemed to shine in high definition. His eyes, crinkled by a smile that seemed to have never dropped since he stepped out of the car, were a deep ocean blue in the bright daylight and Cosette realized he looked young — quite young. As if the joy displayed on his face was so pure, so distinct, it could only come from a child. And he was just 24, wasn’t he? Cosette was just a few months short of 27, and their gap suddenly felt vast. Or maybe she'd just never felt that pure. Not once in her life.

He made plans, eventually, with Max and his friend Jack, who she’d met a few times. There was a line of people who wanted to spend the evening with him; would he even invite her? They hadn't put a name to whatever this was. Neither had brought up the word ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’ in any introductions. So, Cosette pulled up Eva’s contact, writing to see which clubs her friend might be interested in hitting up. And maybe, they could bring along Jeremiah and Fatimah. But before she managed to hit send, a new message popped up at the top of her screen.

LN: heading to E11EVEN w/ max, jack + gasly. you want to join? let me know and i can get you on the list

E11EVEN was a fucking massive deal, Cosette knew. Always a dozen celebrities in attendance, usually athletes.

CM: my friend eva’s still here for the night, could she come with?

Three dots appeared, then dropped. It was a few minutes before the reply came.

LN: she’s on the list :)

Cosette pulled a dress from Eva’s overstuffed suitcase, the fabric swaying from her pinched fingers.

“I feel like we need to look classy for this, E.” Cosette said, eyeing her skimpy outfit in the mirror, a mini dress made entirely of half-dollar coin sized reflective disks linked together in a mesh-like pattern. The dress was held up by a halter-neckline, which left her shoulders, arms and most of her back exposed. The fabric — if you could even call it that — hung her curves closely, offering strategic coverage. Eva had to help Cosette apply skin tape to the sides of her chest to keep the dress in place.

“It’s a fuckin’ nightclub!” Eva said with a smile. “Plus, if your man wanted classy he sure as shit wouldn’t be with you.” She slapped Cosette’s ass, prompting a shriek-turned laugh from Cosette.

“And,” Eva continued, “I’d swap that beige thong for a black one. If you’re giving everyone a view, may as well make it a goddamn hot one, right?”

And that was how Cosette found herself standing in front of the bouncer in what felt like little more than a black thong and nude nipple covers. She stood on her tip toes to gain an extra inch on her four-inch heels to glance at the list he scanned through, praying they’d be let in before yet another car honked her way.

After a moment, the bouncer lifting the velvet rope with little embellishment. The thumping bass hit her chest before her ears as she and Eva stepped into the club, hand-in-hand so as not to lose each other. It smelled like an over-pumped smoke machine and the sickly sweet taste of weed pens. She and Eva continued to where Lando had texted he’d reserved a table, weaving through drunken dancers. Finally, she spotted Lando looking at his phone, behind yet another velvet rope in a VIP section. He wore a black button-up, black jeans and a backwards baseball cap. Fuck, Cosette thought as she glanced down at herself, I’m doing too much. He looked up from his phone, the screen going dark when he caught her eye. Cosette watched as his eyes travelled down, then flicked up again. There was a certain look that flashed across his face, an expression she’s seen once before, but where?

In London, she realized. It was how he’d looked at her as he’d picked her up of the street. The look rapidly wiped from his face as his signature grin took over and Lando waved Cosette and Eva inside.

Fuck, Lando thought. There was no follow-up thought: all logical processes stuttered as he took in Cosette. Her dress wrapped her body like a present and he wanted to rip it all off. Some small part of his brain registered as the DJ transitioned from one song to the next, the crowd responding with a scattered cheer, and brought him back. This was not the time for Cosette to look like that, and not the time for him to be all over her. As much as he wanted to. It was a private celebration, more or less, but he wasn’t so naive to not realize how public it was: Patrick Mahomes and Travis Kelce were here, along with all the paparazzi they entailed. He’d received a carefully-worded text just after dinner from Lauren, his media manager, who’d stressed the importance of a tasteful night out. Her words had been encouraging, (Enjoy yourself, you deserve it!) and instantly followed by caution (Don’t let tonight end up the papers. Keep the focus on your win!) Classic compliment sandwich.

So, finally close to Cosette, with her friend Eva trailing behind, Lando forced himself to keep his eyes above her shoulders. He leaned forward to bring his mouth close to her ear. “You look amazing. I’m glad you could make it.”

He felt her pull back a little, but he placed a hand on her shoulder to keep her close. “I’m sorry but I won’t be able to spend much time with you,” he said, struggling to raise his voice over the music. “There’s cameras everywhere.”

She pulled back then, and he let her slip from his grasp. She walked past him without meeting his eye, heading straight for the bottle of Fuenteseca on ice. He watched, from afar, as Cosette poured two shots, handing one to Eva. Cosette met his stare, then lifted the shot glass in a small, pointed toast — one meant only for him. Then she knocked back the shot and ducked under the VIP rope, headed for some other section of the club. Lando didn't see her for the rest of the night.

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.

Note: It's been a fuckin long time since the last chapter release. Oops! But I'm back and motivated to continue the story. I also took the time to heavily edit all the previous chapters. No plot changes but it should be a more enjoyable reading experience for anyone new here.

Nine hundred meters to the Turn 1 braking point, give or take. A third-gear right-hander with a tricky exit — the backend tended to slip out from under the car. It’s a prime spot for overtaking, which Lando fully intended to make use of in the Miami Sprint race.

Lando snaked around the outside, trying to find a gap past Stroll. There, he thought, **as a pocket opened. There’s loads of space. Just as he turned the wheel in, cinching his overtake, a big shunt knocked the air out of his chest. He felt the rear slide out from under him and thought, for a moment, he could save it. Then a snap rippled through the car: Fuck, the suspension, he realized. He was sideways, briefly, watching as the Aston Martin retook him, malachite green glinting in the Miami heat, and behind it, he spotted a marshal waving yellow flags as his car continued to spin.

Then everyone was long gone, and his car was stopped on the track.

He pressed his radio button. “I’m out. I got hit.” His voice was monotone, carrying only the energy it needed. No anger tinged his vowels, no disappointment tailed his consonants. Better to let the situation lie. He couldn’t let his thoughts run into what could have been.

“Okay,” came Will, his engineer. “You sure you can’t take it back? I haven’t seen.”

“No, I’ve got suspension damage.”

“Okay mate. Remember to switch off.”

He’d already done that. He removed the steering wheel and lifted himself from the car. Christ, he thought, I’m pointed straight at the grandstands. A few thousand pairs of eyes stared at him, out at Turn 1.

There wasn’t much to do now but to head back to the pits. He hadn’t asked how Oscar had fared, hadn’t cared, honestly. He hadn't even asked who’d hit him. Didn’t matter.

He walked down the pitlane, past all the garages, until he reached McLaren. Just as he ducked into the shade, the procession of remaining cars rolled down the pits, following the safety car at reduced speeds. Some fucking start.

Once inside, he spoke to Will, who gave him a pathetic clap on the shoulder. Lando eyed the broadcast camera pointed his way. Nothing more interesting to look at? he wondered. In a few moments, the camera swung away.

“Just unlucky,” Will said, with a tone of finality. In the background, he could hear cheers and engine roars as the sprint got back underway. “That’s all it is. Sorry, mate. There’s always the race tomorrow.”

At least that was true: Sunday was the Grand Prix, where he’d have another chance to win. But today was done for. Lando cracked his neck and unzipped the front of his racesuit, letting the sleeves fall from his waist. He spotted Cosette huddled over a screen beside Andrew and Jeremiah, the trio speaking under their breath, mumbling numbers together like a hive mind. He’d been staring a little long, he supposed. But what the hell was he supposed to do? Stand here and watch them race without him?

From across the room, Cosette flicked her eyes up, meeting his instantly. She smiled, just a bit, in that way she did without showing her teeth. Where her lips pursed a little and her mouth went more wide than curved. A look of pity.

Fuck it, he thought, then walked over to her. She watched as he did so, her smile turning a little more real. A little more happy. Good.

“You have a sec?” He asked as he approached, stepping lazily over wires and oil stains on the garage floor.

Cosette opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Jeremiah waved his hand. “You’re good, Cos. We got this.”

Andrew nodded in affirmation without looking away from the screen. Cosette removed her headset and stepped back a few paces, leaning on the banister that separated the garage from the viewing area in the back.

Cosette felt the banister press into her lower back behind her. She stepped back from her post. With one less car on track, Jeremiah and Andrew could handle it. Besides, Lando was there, asking for her, and looked like he needed a hug. Or maybe she just wanted to give him one; she ached to touch him, caught halfway between comfort (a hand on his shoulder), and desire (fingers running through his sweaty, balaclava-mangled hair). She sucked in a breath, willing her thoughts to return to the present.

“Bad luck,” she said with a shrug. Once again, I can never fucking say anything useful.

Lando didn’t move. “That’s what Will told me.” His lips were a flat line, eyes slightly unfocused, and she could tell he was stuck in his own head, could nearly see the tickertape text running along his pupils with what-ifs.

She shifted slightly, drawing one foot over the other. “What’d you do, drive under three ladders on the formation lap?” Cosette asked with a sly smile, then tilted her head. “Black cats on your boxers?”

Lando laughed, then spun, placing his palms against the banister so his body faced away from the track. Cosette could feel the change in his posture, the tension gone from his torso. She wanted to lean her head against his shoulder. They hadn’t seen each other since Amsterdam.

“It’s frustrating, sometimes. A lot of the time.” He said, his voice lighter this time, more detached. “This sport’s just — I don’t know, managed luck.” He said with a sigh, then went silent. But it was clear to Cosette the words that had started to spin in his mind again, she could see it in the way his brows tensed and jaw clicked.

Cosette spotted a broadcast camera pointing their way, the operator crouched in the pitlane to get the angle. Trying to get a little more of Lando’s misery, no doubt, or anger.

A thought crossed Cosette’s mind. She could step forward, block the camera to give Lando some breathing room. And a second idea surfaced: if she stepped out to face Lando, but placed herself a little more to the left, she’d force the videographer to sidestep to get Lando back in frame. Push the angle sharper into the garage. Right, Cosette thought, lips curling, To Eva.

She moved then, stepping forward with a sigh, then turning to face Lando. Blocking the camera. And, creating a great fucking line of sight to her friend.

“That’s life, though. Managed luck.” Cosette started, her voice uncertain. “You can buy a lottery ticket every day and never win. Or pick one up off the sidewalk and win a million.”

“Hm,” Lando said, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“You’d probably have given the first person, the one who buys a ticket everyday, better odds, right?” She continued. Maybe that wasn’t resonant, Cosette thought. A million’s nothing to him.

Lando nodded slightly, then ran a hand through his hair, looking dejected, staring at the concrete. “I’m going to head to change,” he said. “No point wearing this suit anymore.”

“Wait,” Cosette stopped him. Keep the camera here a little longer, Cosette. For Eva. “My friend, Eva, you met her briefly. She’s having a show next week. You said you were headed to play at Augusta, but if you could make it to Atlanta for the evening—”

“What night?” Lando's voice picked up slightly.

“Next Friday, the 11th.”

He was already nodding as he spoke. “My flight’s for Thursday, but I can push it.”

"Really?" she asked, not quite believing it would be that easy.

"Really," Lando said, and she caught the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Behind them, the announcers boomed over the loudspeakers. “And there’s Lando in the McLaren garage, chatting with an engineer. He seems in good spirits, despite his DNF.”

Cosette watched as, on a few seconds delay, her own face appeared on screen, her eyes wide, scanning. Spotted Lando just starting to walk away. And Eva in the back, the camera’s focus snapping to her for a half second. Just long enough for people to wonder, Cosette hoped.

Cosette had seen the crash in the data before on the broadcast. It was how she’d known it wasn't catastrophic, just an unfortunate nudge at the worst possible moment. Even knowing that, her heart had still lurched into her throat when she saw Lando’s car spinning on the screens. That same feeling clawed at her now, lighter but equally unsettling. Another date. Another favor. Was she using him, trading his attention for Eva's career? The words rumbled through her mind, the sentiment as sharp as it was familiar. Yes, I am.

It was what she did. Always.

Oops been a while! Can't promise a regular release schedule, but I'm back :) -- nora

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 🤍

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 🤍

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 🤍

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 🤍