Ego
Or, a 2,500 word fanfic of Lando Norris discovering AO3 and getting off to fanfiction that nobody asked for but I wanted to write, anyway. :3
-
Lando Norris is a cunt and should lose his seat
Why the fuck do people keep hyping this kid up
Driver of the Day????? ARE U KIDDING ME???? WHEN CARLOS DEFENDED LIKE THAT??? Wtf
Lando exhales through his nose, slow and long, before smiling to himself and closing out his private Twitter browser.
The reception to his performance at Austria is expected, and it's a little amusing to read that that's the worst these strangers on the internet seem to be able to come up with.
He's gotten better, certainly, at not running his mouth with reckless abandon. Charlotte would be proud of him, if she still worked for McLaren.
He leans back in his seat, the jet preparing for takeoff. The articles were nice to him. Damon Hill had good things to say about him. P5 to P4, thanks to the penalties. It's a good fucking day.
-
It's a little masochistic, a little narcissistic, to peruse the internet for his name as much as he does, but he’s a Silverstone winner now. He’s really enjoyed the things written up about him.
Besides, that's how Lando learned to get over caring so much in the first place. Just a few years back, he used to agonize over a slip of the tongue, used to wring his hands and fuck up his hair in worry over what the pundits would say about him because of a careless soundbite.
He dealt with some of the worst of it when Daniel became his teammate, and even at the end, he had to learn how to stop flinching whenever he saw the word 'sympathy.'
Now it's different. It helps, of course, that Daniel taught him how to get over it, grow thicker skin, and deal with the worst of it.
"Let it roll off you like water," Daniel said. So Lando did.
It's a slower news week though, and he's bored, so he searches up his name and scrolls through all the posts on the first few pages of his Google search.
And then he sees it, a link to something called 'Archive of Our Own,' and decides to press on it with his thumb.
It opens to a page that appears to be. . . stories, written about. . . them. Drivers.
Drivers with other drivers. Drivers' names next to 'Original Female Character(s)'.
It's fiction written by fans about them.
Lando looks around his living room, at the stalled Netflix homepage on his television screen. He really should be on the sim instead, but mostly, he's tired, and would rather do some other mindless thing.
He scrolls through and sees one that says 'Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz' with an E in a red square. Beside it, a link leads to 'Formula 1 RPF'.
He toggles onto a new tab and types in 'rpf meaning,' which shows the definition: real person fiction. Well, he gathered as much.
The tags are interesting, he'll give it that. 'Blowjob', '2023 Formula 1 Season', 'Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot'.
He opens the story and scans it quickly, the morbid curiosity of wanting to know how fans see his relationship with Carlos overriding the fact that it's fucking weird to be reading what is essentially smut about himself and his friend.
This story seems to have them written like they're secret lovers, that they have been since Carlos' McLaren days, and absolutely doesn't take into account that both he and Carlos had girlfriends at one point.
He snorts when he reaches a line that has him saying, "Carlos, please, you're so big, please fuck me."
Lando frowns at the screen. His skin is starting to itch. Why do people think he'd say that to Carlos? For one thing, Carlos doesn't even have a big dick. Lando knows—he's seen it himself. Changing in a hurry tends to lead to that, flinging bits about while they finish golf.
"Cariño," the Carlos in the story says, and that's when Lando loses it, no longer able to contain his laughter. He's honestly tempted to send a screenshot off to Carlos, but then he'd have to explain how he found it in the first place, and he doesn't feel like doing that just now.
So instead, he clicks back and scrolls down some more.
There seems to be a pretty steady stream of people who are invested in Max and Daniel, and also Max and Charles, based on the list of pairings that he sees, which he can like, understand. He doesn't blame the fans at all for that, considering how many antics they get up to in the name of PR.
They know that shit sells. Lando’s just getting a full proper look at what that actually means for fans.
Yeah, that’s right, he tells himself. This is just homework. He’s doing recon to see what else they can do to boost their socials.
He takes a little more time to read through the page properly. It lists the number of words in the story, the ratings that imply just how explicit the story is, and something called a ‘kudos’ which he figures means that it’s the same as likes on Instagram or whatever.
He stops at one that has him and Daniel, and curiosity gets the better of him. It’s short, too, roughly 1,500 words. It’s listed as Explicit, but the summary is what gets him.
“Daniel knows exactly how to congratulate Lando properly for his win at Silverstone.”
Lando leans back into his throw pillow and holds his phone a little closer to his face.
The story is set in the new Hilton hotel, and this must have been written by a fan who was actually there because the description of the room itself is eerily similar to the room he himself stayed in just last week.
This story seems to get the way he and Daniel talk a little closer to reality than the previous one he perused.
It’s so strange to be reading this, to have his mannerisms laid out in text, to see how a fan describes him through this fictional version of Daniel.
Lando can’t seem to exit out of it, though. The Lando in the story is happy, of course, about winning. But the Daniel in it—seems desperate. For him.
Lando’s fucking hooked.
Daniel wants to reach out, wants to mess up Lando’s curls even more, never mind the fact that it’s sticky with sweat and champagne. Lando hasn’t even changed out of the clothes from the fan stage yet, but all Daniel wants to do is undress him, bury his face in Lando’s armpit, and inhale deeply, abolish any sort of space that separates them.
Lando puts his phone down. His heart rate has kicked up a little. This is fake. This is fake. This is fake.
He gets back to reading. This is fake. Like, it’s all made up, but the details that this fan throws in… well. It has Daniel staring longingly at his moles, and the way his clothes hug his thighs and—
And now, the Lando in the story is turning around and tipping his head to the side and saying, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Lando draws his knees closer to his chest, curling his arms in and reading intently.
"Mate, I'm really—I'm having a hard time right now and I think I should uh, go," Daniel says. He starts to scramble. He doesn't even know why he thought visiting Lando in his room would be a good idea.
Daniel turns to leave but Lando steps in closer, frowning.
"What's going on?" Lando asks, his eyes searching Daniel's face for any sort of answer. Daniel needs to go. He needs to go right fucking now, but Lando has his hand wrapped around his wrist and he looks wounded by Daniel's abrupt one-eighty.
Daniel hangs his head in shame.
"I want to—to kiss you, and I need you to let me go before I do that."
Lando doubts that Daniel would ever actually say that, but somehow he’s not inclined to laugh about this the way he was with the other story.
Lando’s hand remains where it is, fingers strong and unyielding.
“You—you wanna kiss me? Are you drunk right now?”
Daniel wants to fall into the floor beneath him, have the marble or whatever the fuck this tile is made of to rearrange its molecules so he can become one with them. That's better than having to repeat himself. That's better than having to admit out loud that he wants to fuck his ex-teammate who is ten years his junior.
Lando pauses here. He's realizing that the AC isn't quite cold enough. How'd that happen?
He readjusts himself on his couch. There's really no point in reading on but now he wants to know what happens. Morbid curiosity really is getting the better of him.
His screen lights up again when he raises his phone and unlocks the screen to where the story is still there, taunting him.
He exhales. He reads on.
"Yeah, Lando, I wanna kiss you," Daniel says, his voice steadier than how he actually feels.
Lando's eyes narrow, and he tilts his head, regarding Daniel like he's lying, like he's fucking with him. And, yeah, okay, fair, Daniel's said enough gay-sounding shit around him for him to be suspicious, but that was all for the cameras.
There aren't any, here. There's no reason for him to be playing gay chicken.
Lando's hand tightens around his wrist.
"Prove it, then," Lando says, raising his chin, like a dare. Like a fucking dare.
Daniel could easily leave. He isn't much bigger than Lando but he could have pulled away earlier. Except—except now Lando is taunting him. Telling him to put his money where his mouth is.
Lando's heart is racing now, torn between wanting to close out of this story and reading on, just because he's gotten this far. He might as well finish it.
Daniel steps closer, and even if this isn't exactly how he'd fantasized about kissing Lando for the first time, but somehow it's still fitting. Lando is so handsome like this—blush high on his cheeks, all the way down to his neck.
He cups his hand under Lando's jaw, and brushes his thumb over the stupid fucking beard that he hated at first but now loves—
Lando frowns. Was his beard really that bad?
—and presses his lips to Lando's. It's tentative at first, exploratory, hesitant in its early press, but then Lando moans, gasps against his mouth, and Daniel takes that as his cue to seal his lips in closer and slide his tongue against Lando's.
It becomes frantic then after they both cross the threshold into each other's breaths. Lando's hands grasp at Daniel's shirt, and the next thing Daniel knows, he's being guided to the bed, collapsing on top of the pristine duvet without ceremony.
Lando clambers on top of him and straddles his hips, and Daniel can already feel himself getting hard in his jeans.
Lando stops reading.
He stops because all of a sudden, he can feel himself getting hard, too.
He glances between his legs as if looking will make it go away but it’s futile. He can see his half-chub starting to tent his shorts. Fuck. What the fuck?
But then again—he’s alone right now. No one is around to see this.
He feels juvenile, like he’s thirteen all over again trying to sneak porn on his older brother’s laptop and then learning how to delete his search history. Except that porn sort of made sense, to him, at least. He was watching girls with big boobs getting railed by these buff men.
This is—this is different. Kind of concerning. He’s sure none of the other drivers have ever done this.
But the more he waits, the more impatient the little voice in his head gets, wanting to know what happens in the story. He sighs, resigned, and opens his phone back up.
“Lando, Lando, wait,” Daniel says, pulling away and desperately trying to catch his breath. “I—There, I proved it to you. Are you happy?”
“Yeah, I was, until you stopped, you muppet,” Lando frowns. “Why’d you stop?”
Daniel swallows the spit in his mouth—Christ almighty, that’s spit that also came from Lando’s mouth. “Because if we keep going, I don’t think I’ll be able to hold myself back.”
Lando leans over him, and Daniel has to suppress the shudder that courses through the entirety of his body because Lando is hard, too. Lando is hard and pressing his erection against Daniel’s steadily growing one, and he has to curl his toes to deal with the fucking emotion of it all.
Lando’s fucked. He’s so fucked. He’s fully hard now from reading this scene, and before he can bring himself to feel too much shame over it, he’s tugging the elastic of his shorts and his boxers down to tuck it under his dick and—fuck, fuck—
He holds his phone in his left hand and spits into his right before bringing it to his cock to wrap around it while he reads on.
The story progresses quickly from there, the Lando and Daniel in the scene getting back to kissing frantically and undressing each other, and none of the words feel cliche. It’s almost chilling how clearly he can hear his voice and Daniel’s in the dialogue, but what’s most concerning is that the more he reads, the faster his hand goes.
In the story, Daniel takes Lando’s erection in his hand and kisses him silly while Lando fucks into his grip, and Lando tries to follow suit, so caught up in what he’s reading that he finds himself feeling like his hand isn’t his own, like it’s Daniel’s instead, and by the time this imagined Lando finally spills all over his own belly, Lando’s own real-fucking-life orgasm is ripped out from him, and he’s coming all over his own hand, matting down his pubes with how much jizz there is that’s still coming out in small little spurts from his dick.
He drops his phone, now that he’s spent and boneless on his couch. His right hand is gross and he doesn’t even have any tissues nearby, so he has to settle for taking his shirt off to mop up his mess.
He’s sated and sleepy, but then the shame starts to creep in, except that his phone starts to ring, and—Jesus Christ, speak of the devil—he sees that Daniel is calling him.
It’s with shaky hands that he retrieves his phone from the carpet, and it’s with a shakier voice that he answers it.
“Heya, Lando,” Daniel says. “D’you wanna meet up for dinner tonight? I just got back to Monaco and I’m jonesing for that rotisserie place we went to last time.”
Lando exhales, now that post-nut clarity has started to suffuse his brain with rationality from the comedown.
“Yeah, Danny, I’m in,” Lando replies. “I can pick you up at 6:30?”
“Super,” Daniel replies. “It’s a date!” And then ends the fucking call.
Christ. He has no idea how he’s going to face Daniel tonight after what he just did.
148 notes
·
View notes