Archive of Our Own

Champagne is everywhere—on his race suit, his face, his hands, making his skin slippery and unpleasant to the touch, rendering it impossible to hold the massive bottle properly. The champagne clings to his skin, at first cooling the searing heat, then turning into a warm dew that leaves behind a sticky residue and a pleasant, sweet scent. The mere aroma is enough to make one drunk, spellbound, and mesmerized.

The roaring of the crowd batters his eardrums, and the music blasts at full volume, buzzing in his ears. His eyes sting, ready to shed a few salty tears onto his burning cheeks.

A warm drop of sweat trickles down his temple, and it feels as though time has stopped entirely. The people's movements are slowed down, their shouts sound frantic, and all those faces standing right before him, celebrating this very moment, blur into mere splashes of color in the canvas of his imagination.

Reality and dreams intertwine, making everything swim before his eyes.

His hands tremble so much it feels like he is about to drop the cold metal he holds.

Thousands, tens of thousands of eyes are fixed on him, and smiles flash across the faces of a colossal crowd.

Waves of neural impulses swirl around, and the blue horizons of the sky and the grandstands blur together.

The blue shifts under the sun turning from yellow to gray, and then instantly to green. The colors have bled into one another, leaving behind nothing but a palette of hazy droplets.

A flash of papaya orange flickers in his field of vision. It consumes his entire sight, eclipsing all other shades. His trachea pulses, his heart pounds like crazy, and his lips begin to dry out even faster. Kimi runs his tongue over his lower lip, desperate to lick away the entire Sahara Desert and the taste of sand from his parched lips.

His brain is still racing at a breakneck speed; his hands aren't holding a trophy, but a steering wheel before his eyes is a clean, steep track, his ears are ringing, and his throat tightens, cutting off his oxygen. A turn to the right, then a sharp turn to the left, braking at the finish line, and a shaky stride as he sways, tumbling out of the cockpit.

People are screaming his name, and the anthem of his country has just illuminated this grandstand with its beauty.

Italy is here once again.

This hadn’t happened in a very, very long time. It felt like nearly twenty years, perhaps? The numbers bled into one another, turning into a jumble without any rhyme or reason. Words failed to form a coherent whole; Italian and English tangled together, creating a mess of linguistic confusion.

Kimi just stands there as the trophy is placed directly into his hands. It’s huge, it will definitely take up a lot of space on his desk, or maybe he’ll put it somewhere in the family living room, alongside the few other trophies from his previous podiums and his maiden victory in China.

China had been chaotic, and it would remain framed within the barriers of his life's challenges, etched into his heart forever.

He remembers it vividly even now, and every single time he recalls it, his voice still trembles like a leaf at the mere mention.

But the breath is completely knocked from his lungs when, for a fleeting second, his palms register the weight and presence of another living body.

A moment later, everything quietens down, the people shift before his eyes, and a pair of arms wraps around him.

Kimi feels the warmth of someone else's body. The contours of their waist are terrifyingly graceful, so much so that as he holds it now, trying not to press too hard, it feels like his brain is going to melt. His hands seem to shake even worse, but damn it, he doesn’t care. A solid, muscular frame is right there in his palms; he wants to squeeze, to embrace, to mark. God, anything, just to feel someone else's presence in his arms for a little while longer.

He needed the presence of a living body near him, by his side. He didn't care whose it was; he just needed to be held and pulled close, to be told that everything was okay and that everything would sort itself out.

A voice seems to reach his ears.

He feels a pair of eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare steal even a glance in the direction the sound is coming from.

It grows even colder, even though just a second ago it was so hot he wanted to rip off his race suit and plunge into an ice bath.

Oscar.

In one hand, he clutches the cold trophy—the reward for today's victory and sheer drive; in the other, he holds a man who, right now, seems like the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on.

And it’s—

Damn it.

It’s Oscar.

And it’s just—

Maybe this is a dream and he’s losing his mind. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline hitting him too hard, but Oscar Piastri, his fellow driver, looks like the most beautiful guy around right now, with his nicely overgrown hair and wide smile.

It wasn't as if he used to notice male beauty before. Not at all; he had never looked at a guy and thought of him as attractive.

But Oscar is different. He is like a creation of Aphrodite, blessed with the most exquisite features.

This isn't their first podium together, and yet— this—

This feels different. It feels different when a pair of other eyes, green as emeralds, burn through your very existence with a single look. When a strained, almost awkward laugh reaches you, and a quiet hum cuts through the noise.

Lando and Oscar grab their champagne, rhythmically and playfully thumping the bottles against the podium floor before spraying everything in sight. Kimi finally follows suit, letting out a heavy sigh as he parts with the warmth beneath his palm. Turning his entire body toward the figure to his left, he sets his trophy down on the podium and reaches for his own bottle of champagne.

Oscar.

The Australian's dark bangs are plastered to his forehead, noticeable even from beneath his cap. His hair is soaked through, his pale skin slick with sweat despite the rather cool weather outside. His cute ears, which have turned flush, match the deep blush on his cheeks. They are quite small, barely visible beneath his hair, but they are pink; or perhaps even peach-colored.

Kimi can't quite tell right now, but he would swear to God it is the sweetest, most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He wanted to run the pads of his fingers over those ears and linger there, caressing them in circular motions, if only for a couple of seconds. If only to have the chance to touch him.

The gaze of his brown eyes is fixed squarely on the man before him.

Oscar.

Oscar, whose cheeks right now are redder than any scarlet blossom, be it a rose or a lily. It's as if he had generously applied blush to his cheeks before the race, brushing it over his skin in rhythmic strokes, leaving behind a radiance that made his cheeks look richer, more beautiful, more alluring. His cute cheeks shimmer from the amount of champagne, as though adorned with rhinestones or glitter. Or whatever else they make makeup with; he knows absolutely nothing about it. But it would definitely suit the Australian.

The lips. His lips. Kimi noticed they are just as pink as his cheeks, only a hundred times more intense. It’s as though he had carelessly swiped a scarlet lipstick or a lip gloss from an incredibly expensive brand across his plump lips, so that it retained its luster, continuing to delight the eyes of everyone around with its beauty even hours after application.

Oscar is just so soft, so delicate, like a lily. Like ripe nectar. Like the juice of a succulent peach, take a bite out of it in the heat of summer, and a surge of strength and joy instantly returns to your body.

Oscar.

His smile.

His laugh.

His beautiful, neat hands clutching the champagne bottle. He wants to wrench it away from him and tell him never to lift such heavy things again; that if he ever needs help, he should just ask him, he can handle it. It’s ridiculous, really, considering the bottle weighs next to nothing for an athlete. Yet Kimi fights a desperate urge to snatch it from his hands and start kissing those beautiful, long fingers, traced by the blue, tree-like branches of his prominent veins. Oscar's hands are quite small, he’d even say they are rather small for a man his age but they look so soft and warm that the Italian wants to lick away all the stray champagne coating their surface, warming them.

Oscar laughs at him, his cute dimples catching his eye.

Kimi hates orange. It’s too bright, too saturated; it catches the eye but only irritates. It’s like a cheap knock-off of red, but in the worst possible way.

Yet on Oscar right now, this ugly race suit seems like the most fitting, most beautiful piece of clothing.

Oscar, please—

Please, praise me. Tell me I did great, tell me I handled it well. Tell me I was good. Tell me I have potential.

Please, please, please.

They are rivals on the track; it’s incredibly strange to crave validation from someone you compete against, isn't it?

Next time, I’ll be better. I’ll drive the next race flawlessly. I will be perfect.

Kimi is forced to turn in the opposite direction, spraying champagne over the other driver, and— damn it, Lando, he’s—

He smiles, spraying the golden liquid everywhere, celebrating his podium and genuinely soaking in the joy. Kimi drenches him in return, offering him his own smile and laughter.

Green confetti suddenly rains down upon everyone, and the roaring of the crowd intensifies. Oscar is practically bathing in it, catching and tripping over the shimmering ribbons. Yet they suit him, as if a goddess had bestowed upon her finest creation the grace and petals of her love.

Amused, the Australian brushes them away, taking a sip of the champagne. His pink cheeks flush even darker. He is like the sun, a sun that graces others with its presence and makes your entire day brighter.

A lump forms in his throat, and as much as Kimi desperately wants to utter at least a single word, he can't. He is utterly spellbound by him. He doesn't even know what captivates him more, for Oscar's looks are merely a fraction of what Antonelli is ready to write whole books about. It feels as though he isn't the winner here. The true winner stands right beside him, genuinely basking in his own joy and the sparkling champagne.

According to popular belief, Oscar is cold and expressionless. Kimi begs to differ. Oscar has the most beautiful smile in the entire paddock, smile you want to steal for yourself, licking his pink lips and consuming that rosy sheen from lips as ripe as cherries. He would swear on anything that they are bound to be sweet, warm, and soft, like marshmallows or spun sugar.

When the ceremony concludes, the guys head toward the exit. To the Italian's surprise, Oscar suddenly catches up to him and gives him a gentle, friendly pat on the shoulder. But Kimi just stands there, completely still, as if he had just turned into an icicle and frozen solid.

Oscar's hand, just as expected, is warm and slightly tacky, sticking to the purple Mercedes race suit. Damn it, he can feel it even through the thick layers of the suit, and it is more intoxicating than any champagne.

“Not bad, Kimi. Pretty damn good, actually.”

One second, two, three.

Oscar steps forward, not waiting for a reply. The last thing Kimi sees is his silhouette, with those beautifully broad shoulders, drifting further and further away. All Kimi can manage to do is open his mouth and choke out a few incoherent sounds. No language on earth has words for what he wants to say, but he truly tried.

The Italian attempts to take a step, but before he can, he feels someone brush against his shoulder not hard, yet completely deliberate, as if rushing to catch up with the figure ahead.

To be honest, Lando looks far too grim. The smile he had flashed at him just minutes ago on the podium is entirely gone. His eyebrows are furrowed in a tense line. A pair of green eyes look as if they have already destroyed him, incinerating his very existence within his imagination, and it feels rather eerie. His gaze is calculating, with a glint of cold steel in his iris. It’s a shade of thrill, anticipation, and waiting. Kimi distinctly catches his scoff.

What the hell?

Lando hurries over to Oscar, forcing a fake smile. Turning just slightly sideways back toward him—toward Kimi—he looks him dead in the eye and possessively places his massive hand on Oscar’s shoulder. He pats it, as if trying to convey something through his veiled messages.

He doesn't break eye contact, watching expectantly, as if testing his resolve, and squeezes the Australian’s shoulder once more. It was entirely too intimate, something not meant for him or any other eyes. It was as if Lando were putting his power and his boundaries on full display.

Oh, yes, how could he have forgotten about that.

But orange suits Lando far less than it suits Oscar.

2 May 2026. Miami. Qualifying.

The sun’s rays blind the face, seeping through the closed windows as if begging to be let past the glass.

There was an hour left until qualifying, and, honestly, Kimi was so bored that he simply decided to follow Max wherever he went and ask him about everything under the sun, as if he’d been born just yesterday.

He had probably already managed to annoy him quite thoroughly, but right now he was ready to simply beat his head against the wall from having nothing to do.

“What do they do in the Winner’s Room?” it suddenly bursts out of his mouth, without any kind of warning, as he tries to keep up with the Dutchman striding quickly ahead of him.

“Why are you asking if you already know the answer? You signed the contract personally; everything’s laid out in detail there.”

Max’s face is furrowed, as impassive as ever, as if carved from stone. In other words, the same as always.

“Yeah, but…” he stumbles, trying to quickly form a thought before Max grows completely tired of his questions and simply turns around and asks to be left in peace. “I have no idea how it happens. Damn, even last year I kept refusing every time, but starting this year the Room has become mandatory, especially for the winners, and—”

Kimi hadn’t been able to get into the room this year, starting with China, for several reasons. The main reason remained the fact that his first sudden championship had turned his head, and everyone else’s, so much that many simply didn’t have time for it (although the new clause in the contract, stating that attendance of the room was highly desirable from this year onward, had thrown him a little).

In Japan, as much as the prospect of spending his first night with Charles and Oscar appealed to him, there were internal team issues to sort out. And until all the problems with interviews, reporters, and George’s fourth place had been discussed, Toto simply did not let the boy go anywhere.

Maybe Toto had personally spoken with the FIA about it, trying to find the perfect excuse. Who knows.

Miami was supposed to be the starting point.

Of course, he knew what they did in there. But he needed details, because he felt completely clueless and didn’t know the exact routine, if there even was one.

He was just curious, bored, and needed some way to kill time.

“Kimi, kid, I get your curiosity, but honestly, I think you should be able to figure it out yourself. What else are three grown men locked in a single room with a bunch of condoms and alcohol around supposed to do?”

The Italian flushed from head to toe, his pace dropping instantly as if he were trying to hide from such a blunt reality. Raw and direct is very typical of Max, really, so he shouldn't have been surprised.

“Well, for example... you spent the whole of last year in that room with Lando and Oscar, right?” the boy whispers, a little quieter than usual, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.

Kimi didn't know why they were the ones who came to mind just then. It seemed logical, though; the two of them had shared the podium countless times, so it shouldn't have been weird.

Max stopped dead in his tracks, turning back toward the boy who was staring right at him with an inquisitive look. Max looked at him as if he were ready to bore a hole through his forehead. Something in his gaze definitely shifted, as if a thousand and one emotions were raging inside him, but he was a pro at hiding and masking them under a veneer of indifference.

After all, this was a man who had been battling reporters and journalists his entire life, a total professional.

“Let’s assume so.”

“And you... with them—”

“I fucked Oscar right in front of Lando while he sat on the couch opposite us, drinking whiskey, Kimi.”

But Max didn't even let him finish.

Time seemed to grind to a halt, as if the entire planet had suddenly run out of oxygen.

For a second, he forgot how to breathe, his mouth slowly parting to say something but the right words simply refused to come.

He had expected anything. He’d expected Max to just tell him to shut up and walk away, but this... this was something forbidden, wrong, and utterly mind-blowing. Yet what terrified him even more was the sheer calmness with which his older teammate had delivered it.

Max turned his entire body toward him, taking one step, then another, closing the distance between them until he was standing almost flush against Kimi. His gaze, as always, was steel which could intoxicate anyone to the point of forgetting their own name. This terrible composure and the ice in his eyes couldn't help but breed fear. Perhaps that was exactly why Max would forever remain in the Italian’s heart as the most extraordinary and powerful person not just as a driver, but as a man.

“What?” was the only thing he managed to choke out.

Kimi hated how violently his voice trembled in that moment.

“I fucked Oscar so hard he was screaming Lando’s name. Funny, isn't it? And Lando just sat there naked, glass in hand, masturbating,” Max said, deliberately keeping his eyes locked onto Kimi’s, as if trying to imprint every single emotion onto the boy's face. “He came right into his palm, just listening to him moan. There’s your Winner’s Room for you.”

The tips of Kimi’s fingers go numb. He wanted to shove his hands into his pockets to warm them up, but remembered he was only wearing his race suit, which, as luck would have it, had no pockets. In the end, he just clenches his fists at his sides like a guilty schoolboy standing before the principal.

The Italian bites down hard on his lower lip, his front teeth digging brutally into the tender flesh to keep from letting out a gasp of horror.

He couldn't look at Max. Anyone but him. The floor, the wall, the empty corridor they were walking down, the sun outside, anything but him. Yet he could distinctly feel those aquamarine eyes bore straight into him.

Max tilted his head slightly to the side, and Kimi could fully feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek.

“But do you know what he did after?” Max’s voice dropped. “He’d set his glass down, come over to us, and sit on the floor by the bed, and then he’d say, ‘Max, come on his face. I want to watch.’ And I did. And Oscar, completely messed up, would turn to Lando and open his mouth. And Lando…” Max let out a crooked smirk, leaning closer to Kimi’s ear, “Lando would spit his leftover whiskey straight from his own mouth into Oscar’s. And Oscar, like the most obedient whore, would swallow it, mixed with my sperm, and—”

“Please, stop,” the Italian gasps out, closing his eyes tightly. It felt as though his face had been dipped in lava.

As soon as Max pulled away, Kimi caught the raspy chuckle echoing off the empty walls of the corridor.

“Is that what you wanted to hear? Kid, Lando is a fucking bastard. He got some sick, elusive pleasure out of fucking Oscar from behind until he was half-dead, only to hand him over to others, completely used, just so he could watch. Think about how many of our other colleagues have been subjected to his antics.”

His voice stopped trembling.

“And Oscar just put up with that?”

Max remained silent, turning away as if he definitely wanted to add something else but couldn't bring himself to do so out of sheer pride.

“Oscar is definitely no victim.”

When a kind woman with a stack of papers and a pen literally intercepts Kimi from the awfully probing questions of the reporters and smiles sweetly at him, he is, honestly, not very surprised, he’s even a little grateful to her for it.

He understands why she came for him and has a rough idea who she is and why she’s so willingly leading him now to a distant office in the building.

He had been thinking about it ever since the very beginning ever since he won, ever since he understood with who he was sharing the podium.

‘ I fucked Oscar right in front of Lando while he sat on the couch opposite and drank whiskey, Kimi.’

It hasn’t left his head for a very long time now. He thinks about it non-stop, replaying every detail of their conversation in his mind.

What kind of relationship even existed between Lando and Oscar, that Lando should dare to dispose of his teammate’s body so freely?

If they’re in a romantic relationship, that would explain a lot. But then again, if they’re together, why the hell does Lando allow the other drivers to do such disgusting things to his boyfriend? Kimi isn’t at all sure that, were he to find himself in such a situation, he could ever give his consent to the Winners’ Room  either for himself or for his partner because it was humiliation, pure and simple.

How could anyone allow another person to touch the body of their lover? How could anyone just sit there and masturbate to it? How could you beg another man to fuck the person you love right in front of your eyes?

Kimi had always known that Lando was no moralist. Even so, he had respected him quite a bit, both as a driver and as a person, and he could never have imagined that Lando was capable of such things.

There had never been any tension between them. Just brief handshakes and greetings on Thursday mornings before practice sessions, nothing more.

He had heard about Lando’s scandalous breakup with his ex-girlfriend, whom rumors claimed Lando had cheated on. But Kimi had barely paid attention to it back then; it was none of his business, and he didn’t particularly care about other people’s private lives. If it turned out to be true now, though, he wouldn’t be all that surprised. It wasn't as if he wanted to do anything about it, but so many of Lando's rude remarks and reckless actions suddenly seemed justified.

Maybe he has a cheating kink or something like that.

The mere thought of it made him want to gag.

‘...He came right into his palm, just listening to him moan...’

Kimi squeezes his eyes shut, trying to violently shake away the image of Max saying those words to him.

The way his raspy voice, with that hint of a Dutch accent, had been so calm and steady.

The way the gleam in his blue eyes had become so prominent.

Kimi was almost certain that Max wouldn’t mind repeating the experience. He hadn't looked like someone who had been forced into it against his will.

But what terrified him most in all of this was Oscar's state. At what exact point had the Australian driver with the cute blush on his cheeks and those agonizingly small hands begun to attract Kimi more than he should? The podium had been thrilling, but without the presence of those shining eyes beside him, he wasn't sure the moment would have felt nearly as joyful.

Oscar was simply impossible not to fall for.

Lando is just a fucking lunatic, and Kimi isn't sure he wants to witness it with his own eyes, let alone become an accomplice to his perversions.

He got turned on by watching his own teammate get fucked by another man. And it hadn't happened just once or twice; Kimi was certain there were far more instances.

But if it was purely about sex between them, why the hell did Oscar allow Lando to dispose of his body so willfully?

‘Oscar is definitely no victim.’

Kimi rubs his palms—already slick with sweat—against each other and nervously cracks his knuckles.

It would be grand if he could just remain a bystander and make a quick escape, but the rules and clauses are explicitly outlined. He doesn't want to be entangled in any of this, but there is no turning back now.

Yet he has to admit, after that rather fascinating lesson from Max and his moments of sheer shame and mortification before his older colleague, he isn't quite as terrified anymore.

No, of course he is still scared to death of Lando Norris’s menacing, cunning squint the one Lando had so graciously bestowed upon him after the podium and his incinerating gaze. But now, it doesn't seem completely hopeless. At least he has a rough idea of what to expect, even if he still isn't sure he's ready for it.

He nervously fixes his hair, tucking his curly strands back.

The entire interview post-race had been rather tense, especially with the knowledge that the public had no clue about this quite fascinating clause in every driver’s contract. Why this was ever implemented in the first place, Kimi muses, was something probably not even Max himself knew.

According to paddock lore, the rule had been introduced in 1982 after lengthy negotiations between the Grand Prix Drivers' Association. It was officially intended “for the alleviation of post-race stress and the fostering of team spirit among the podium finishers.”

Sometimes it felt like a dream, as if this utter nonsense couldn't possibly exist.

In 2005, David Coulthard had attempted to challenge the rule in court but lost; the judges ruled that “the voluntary signing of a contract implies consent to non-standard conditions, provided they do not pose a threat to life or health.” Since then, the rule had become untouchable.

Appendix K (“Regulations on Post-Race Ceremonial and Associated Driver Obligations”), Section 14, Clause 3.7—formerly known as the ‘Podium Finishers' Conciliation Clause,’ revised and tightened following the 2025 season.

14.3.7 Upon conclusion of the official podium ceremony (including national anthems, trophy presentation, and champagne spraying), all three podium finishers (hereinafter referred to as ‘the Participants’) shall be mandatorily escorted by an FIA steward to the facility designated as the ‘Winner’s Room’ (hereinafter referred to as ‘the Lounge’), located at the pit lane level.

14.3.7. a) Leaving the Lounge earlier than 2 (two) hours after the arrival of the final Participant is strictly prohibited. Violation shall result in the disqualification of the race results and a 5-place grid penalty for the subsequent Grand Prix.

14.3.7. b) For the entire duration of their stay in the Lounge, the Participants are required to engage in “joint physical interaction,” subject to the following conditions:

• The minimum number of penetrations is not regulated, but a total absence of such within the first 30 minutes shall be logged by wrist sensors (mandatory to be worn from the moment of entering the Lounge).

• Any variations are permitted: pairwise, group, sequential, or with the use of auxiliary items (provided by the organizer), excluding any that may cause bleeding or physical injury. Race suits must also be removed prior to the commencement of the interaction.

14.3.7. c) Refusal to participate is established within each individual driver's labor contract as a prerequisite for admission to the season. A refusal is officially recognized under the following circumstances:

• Via a written statement submitted to the steward within 5 (five) minutes of entering the Lounge (resulting in a 100% forfeiture of the round's purse and 10 penalty points added to the Super License);

• Via passive behavior or non-participation during the process itself, as determined by video recording from three separate angles (without audio; the recording is kept in an FIA safe for 72 hours and subsequently destroyed).

Appendix L…

A woman with a rather lovely, captivating accent swings the office doors open and settles Kimi onto one of the couches facing each other. The room is open and spacious, yet it features nothing notable except a massive panoramic window overlooking the track, a long table, an armchair, a couple of small couches with a coffee table between them, and a few plants and paintings. To all appearances, it is just a standard office.

He drops onto the nearest available surface a couch. She sits opposite him, laying out specific papers on the table.

“Here you go. Before you proceed to the Lounge, you will need to sign certain documents. I know you have signed them before, but this is a necessary measure of compliance and consent. Afterward, a wristband will be placed on you to monitor your blood circulation and—”

“Yes, um, thank you, I’m aware,” he says, attempting to offer her a polite smile, though it turns out rather strained.

Saying nothing, she simply smiles warmly and waits, presumably for him to finish reading the papers she has gracefully handed him, before showing him the way to the Lounge itself.

Alright, he lied a little, his hands are shaking a bit after all. She notices this and gives him another gentle smile, waiting patiently.

And listen, he truly tried to make sense of what was written there, but the letters bleed into one another so badly that his brain feels more like thick sludge than a functioning human organ.

The only things he manages to comprehend clearly are the specific dos and don'ts:

Permitted:

• Any positions.
• Any order of precedence.
• Verbal interaction (excluding threats and insults—which falls under Section 14.3.7.f on sporting ethics).
• Breaks (provided the total duration of active engagement is no less than 45 minutes accumulated over the 2 hours).

Prohibited:

• Sleeping (monitored by horizontal position sensors and a heart rate drop of more than 30% from baseline sustained for 20 minutes).
• Using a phone or communicating with the outside world (the Lounge is equipped with a signal jammer).
• Bringing in a fourth person.

“And penetration... is it... mandatory? Can we not just limit it to oral stuff or something along those lines?” he gasps out all in one breath, barely believing he is asking such a thing out loud. He flushes from his head to the tips of his toes, stammering.

Yet her expression remains virtually unchanged—no flinching, nothing.

“Unfortunately, yes. And to be completely frank...” She pauses, as if carefully choosing the words she is about to utter. It is a highly delicate subject. “I don't believe a single penetration will suffice. The sensors will certainly log the initial penetration, and technically you'd be in the clear for a bit, but considering the minimum stay in the Winner’s Room is two hours, you will have to engage in other activities throughout that time. So, no, penetration is mandatory, and furthermore, the process on your part as well as on the part of the other participants must not be interrupted for any extended duration. But the rest is entirely at your discretion.”

Kimi lets out a low groan, sinking back against the firm cushions of the couch.

So, he doesn't just have to fuck someone; there are practically no boundaries here at all. Anything could happen, depending on who takes the dominant position in the room. He could end up getting fucked himself, or they could trigger absolute chaos. Thank God his mind isn't twisted enough yet to picture those scenarios.

They simply, fucking have to fuck like rabbits for the next two hours until they've wrung each other completely dry.

He rubs his eyes tiredly, but quickly, before he can lose his nerve entirely, he grabs the pen and leaves a sweeping signature, as if signing his own death warrant. Though, it would be far worse for everyone if he refused. It would mean massive losses for both the team and his entire season.

All or nothing.

The woman escorts Kimi to a set of large, tall doors. Another person is standing by them a guy in his early twenties, hurriedly filling out some paperwork with a slight frown, tediously re-reading every written line.

As Kimi drew closer, the guy abruptly looked up at him, though he didn't set the papers down. Only a sweet smile lit up his face, dimples appearing on his cheeks.

Just like Oscar's. But Oscar’s are definitely deeper.

There was no sign of Lando or Oscar nearby. Kimi desperately hoped they would be late, or something along those lines.

“First time, right?” the guy asks, continuing to fill out the forms with a smile on his face.

“What?” Kimi awkwardly drops his hands to his sides. “Ah, yeah. Yeah…”

“Don't be so nervous, it's not that bad.”

“I’m not scared,” he says. Right, `not scared,’ yet his voice is trembling like a schoolboy's.

The guy chuckles again, exchanging a glance with the woman standing behind the Italian. Kimi can practically feel it with his whole body that she definitely smiled back at him. What the hell was this?

“The stay in the Winner’s Room is exactly two hours. However, should you require more time, it is unrestricted by the regulations, and you may remain for as long as you need,” he suddenly begins, setting the papers aside. “Everything you might need is inside. Also, in case anything happens, you can always press the red button in the middle of the table opposite the central bed to summon the staff. Once all participants cross the threshold of the Room, everyone else in the corridor, including the working staff, is strictly required to vacate the area within a ten-meter radius. I’ll need you to hand over your phone,” he extends his hand, clearly prompting him to comply and willingly surrender the device.

“Dude, do you see any pockets on me? Where exactly would I put a phone?” And it wasn't a lie. His phone was somewhere back in the Mercedes garage, and he was praying to all the gods out there that he’d actually find it once he was done with all of this.

The guy didn't say anything, but he took his word for it.

“I believe you’ve been briefed on the rest,” he says, once again exchanging glances with the woman behind him. She offers a subtle nod. The strange guy picks up the papers again, takes a pen, and holds them out to Kimi. “I know you’ve already signed far too many things, but this is for your own safety and the safety of the other participants. This document confirms your involvement in the Cool Down Room for the Miami Grand Prix on May 3, 2026. If you please.”

Yes, yes, yes, Jesus Christ. Everything is so official and excessively clinical, as if the FIA administration isn't locking their own drivers in a room together but deciding a matter of state importance.

Kimi lets out a weary sigh, roughly snatching the papers from him. Without even reading the text, he just scribbles yet another signature somewhere near the bottom.

“Is that it?” It came out much harsher than he intended, but his nerves were already shot. He could be celebrating his victory right now, surrounded by his team and loved ones, but instead, he has to stand here signing these damn papers for an hour, waiting with a smile on his face to get fucked.

The guy only flashes another strained smile and nods, taking the papers back.

He turns around, tosses the paperwork and the pen onto a chair near the entrance, and picks up a blue wristband with a gray insert in the middle, gesturing for Kimi to give him his hand. Kimi complies obediently, pulling the sleeve of his race suit up a fraction.

The Italian watches him quizzically, his eyes glued to the silicone around his wrist.

“The sensor tracks your every action. The moment you cross the threshold into the Room, it will glow green. Should you decide to leave the Room ahead of schedule, it will turn red. Keep an eye on the indicator.”

Kimi nods obediently again, inspecting the wristband a little closer. Nothing extraordinary: just regular rubber that lights up a certain color, with the FIA logo and some palm trees wrapped around the sides evidently tailored to the Miami aesthetic.

“Can I keep it after?”

The guy raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly caught off guard by the question.

“The wristband doesn't hold any particular value, and we aren't required to preserve each piece since new ones are manufactured for the participants every time. So, theoretically... yes?”

Kimi doesn't even understand himself why he wanted to keep it.

“I believe that’s enough foreplay,” a voice pipes up from behind, accompanied by a cough or rather, a mocked one. For a split second, Kimi had forgotten she was even there. “You may enter,” she says, placing a deliberate emphasis on the last word.

The guy simply nods and moves toward the door, pulling it open.

“After you,” he almost whispers, stepping aside to give Kimi room.

Kimi takes one step, then another.

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, greedily swallowing a breath of air. Suddenly, the Italian stops dead in his tracks, turning back to face them both.

“And Lando and Oscar... will they be arriving soon?”

His heart is hammering like mad; a dull ache throbs in his temples.

Oscar. 

The two of them exchange yet another look, and the woman bashfully averts her eyes, letting out a giggle.

“They are already inside,” the man almost purrs in an amused tone, his grin stretching even wider. He crosses his arms over his chest, taking a step back.

And Kimi isn't at all sure he’s going to survive this night.

The first thing that catches his eye is a pair of McLaren racing boots discarded near the entrance, bearing unmistakable papaya initials.

“81” and “1.” How sweet, some of the boots are tangled together, left lying by the threshold, long forgotten and stripped off in a frantic rush. The sight alone makes Kimi’s stomach turn inside out.

To be honest, this infamous  Winner’s Room ooks no different from a standard luxury suite provided to many drivers on the grid. Just a regular, moderately long hallway, beige tones, ordinary dark-brown wallpaper; immediately to the Italian’s left, a massive wardrobe spanning the entire wall. Nothing out of the ordinary.

With every passing second inside, the scent of bergamot and something else is sweeter, more fruity drifts into his consciousness. Evidently, these are air fresheners, thoughtfully sprayed by the organizers to fill the room with pleasant aromas, likely for maximum effectiveness.

Yet it only makes his forehead sweat even more; nasty, hot droplets trace down his skin, causing his undershirt to cling uncomfortably to his body. Kimi can still catch the sweet scent of the champagne that has completely saturated his suit and his palms.

“L-Lando! Fuck, not so rough—”

A loud groan strikes him like a physical blow, and Kimi recognizes it instantly. Oscar’s voice, with its raspy undertone, is incomparable to anything else in this world. Except, perhaps, for the beautiful blush on his cheeks.

Kimi lets out a quiet breath, attempting to pull himself together. To be frank, he’s doing a terrible job. He just stands there, rooted to the spot, utterly unable to take even a couple of steps toward the source of the sound.

Suddenly, the wristband on his arm flashes a vibrant green, illuminating the dim space ahead of him.

Their fun, by all appearances, has already begun.

Then come muffled sobs and dirty smacking sounds of something wet; the lewd friction of skin against skin and loud slaps of hips.

Kimi only now realises that it smells here of the sticky, thick scent of salty skin which he can instantly taste on his tongue,  and sex. Heavy, humid, unbearably vivid and hot all at once, making his head spin. All of it  sweat, lube, something sweet and tart,  seems to have blended together with the scented candles that had been placed throughout the room. Kimi takes one step, then another, and a light from somewhere to the side frames two figures on the bed.

The Italian does his best not to be heard. He barely breathes, barely moves, methodically trying to sort out in his head what the hell is going on here.

It's not hard to guess, and it's obvious — they're having sex. And rather rough sex at that: the thrusts are too fast, too loud to be a tender display of love, and the terribly wheezy, stifled moans are far too reminiscent of one partner being roughly pressed into a pillow or of someone trying to muffle every possible sound.

A thought suddenly races through his head: is this even allowed? Given that they started without the third participant in their little game surely that must count as a violation of one of the rules? Now he deeply regrets not reading the papers he signed more carefully.

From the other end of the room suddenly comes a plaintive moan, laced with desperation and pleasure. It is much higher, louder than before, as if someone isn't being fucked but rather prepared for the most brutal torture of their life. Kimi flinches sharply, licking his dry lips once more.

"Arch deeper," comes a voice from the bed—clearly not Oscar's. It's hoarser, lower, as if smoke-cured. A moment's silence, and a sharp smack against skin hits him right in the head. One harsh thrust, the creaking of the bed, and filthy sounds; the scent of fragrant lube that he can smell from here. "I think I made myself clear. Harder, Osc," and another one follows, this time somehow rougher, a blow against skin that echoes through the room.

Kimi can almost feel on his own skin the flush and sting of each of those blows.

But he cannot see it, because his gaze from this distance allows him to make out nothing more than a sliver of the edge of the bed and a direct line to the huge panoramic window.

Oscar doesn't answer. He only lets out a quiet, cut-off sigh, and the Italian is ready to swear to God that he feels him arch his back (the crisp rustle of freshly laundered sheets).

He pictures the scene in his head and closes his eyes again, trying not to think about it.

Not to think. Please.

Right now, he deeply regrets not being able to see the whole picture.

The thought flickered for barely a second and immediately made him question his own sanity if he's standing here, biting his lip, wanting to watch his colleague and rival being torn apart, pressed into the mattress.

"I know how much you love being an obedient little slut for me, but surely you don't want to disappoint our guest?"

A smack. The sound of rough, sloppy, squelching noises doesn't stop, it only intensifies.

"Be a good boy and take it,"  the thrusts grow harder, and the desperate whimpering becomes so pitiful that his heart begins to clench. "Don't you think so, Kimi?" a bitter chuckle follows, thoroughly steeped in venom.

The Italian feels the blood drain from his face and rush somewhere far lower. Words catch in his throat.

He tries to look anywhere but straight ahead. Involuntarily, he turns his head to the right and catches his own reflection in the mirror. He looks undeniably aroused, and denying it would be foolish, but that is precisely what he despises about himself right now. His entire face is flushed crimson, as if he has just come off the beach, his curls messy and scattered in every direction. His pink lips are tightly compressed into a tense line, fighting simply to keep from letting out a groan at these new sensations. The collar of his race suit clings uncomfortably to the skin of his thick neck, as if cutting off his oxygen supply.

The Italian quickly averts his eyes from his reflection with a grimace of disgust and self-hatred.

He takes exactly two large strides, finding himself directly in front of the wide bed.

Two bodies are intertwined as if it is the last thing they have left of each other, as if they are obsessed and utterly codependent.

They are entangled like hungry lovers from ancient statues.

Lando notices the new presence and turns his head slightly back just enough to take in a full view of the Italian standing there. He stops abruptly, ceasing to pound the guy beneath him into the bed, shifting his undivided attention onto Kimi. He scans him from head to toe, and then suddenly drives back into the limp body beneath him, eliciting another groan.

His green eyes truly possess a spellbinding quality, and it is fucking terrifying.

July 21, 2024. Hungary.

If you were to ask Oscar what he felt at the exact moment he held the trophy in his hands, his face lit up with a wide, victorious smile, he wouldn't be able to give a definitive answer in words. It is something you simply have to experience firsthand, to taste that flavor on the very tip of your tongue.

Perhaps he was happy. Yes, most likely.

But nothing could compare to the expression on his teammate’s face and the searching gaze directed his way on the podium, while he stood at the very top of the pedestal.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he had messed up.

Perhaps Lando hates him. Oh, he definitely hates him.

He wanted to go up to Lando and, like a puppy, begin begging him not to be angry, not to be too upset, and not to hold a grudge against him.

Racing is, first and foremost, about the struggle, and Lando should understand that himself. It isn't about driving a car for one's own pleasure not at all.

Oscar still cannot comprehend why he has internalized this lesson, while his more experienced and seasoned teammate the one who was supposed to be his support and mentor casts wild glances at him and looks as though he is ready to attack someone.

To say nothing of advice and friendly chats about racing over a beer. There were none, and there never would be; neither of them was built for that.

And yet, he wasn't to blame for what happened. He deserved this.

The Australian had snatched this victory with his own teeth, practically entirely on his own, and his older teammate had no right to react this way.

But as they headed back to the McLaren garage, Lando didn't even spare him a glance. Everything became crystal clear to Oscar then. Their relationship was breaking off right now, before it had even truly begun.

A lump forms in his throat, and the swallowed champagne hits his head.

Both of them refused the Room. Although he deeply respected Lewis, he had a rough idea of what they would be doing in there, so, with all due respect to his older colleague, all he wanted right now was to take a cold shower, scrub every drop of accumulated sweat off his skin, and go to sleep, preferably forever.

The journey back to the hotel passed as if in a fog, his eyes closing on the move. As he was opening his room with the key card, the first thing he registered was someone forcefully shoving him inside from behind, slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

Powerful hands pin him into the cold wall of the room, leaving him unable to even move. Oscar would recognize those hands out of a thousand others.

When Lando drives his dick in balls-deep with a heavy thrust, Oscar’s legs buckle, and his vision goes dark. His insides construct violently, rejecting the forced, brutal penetration. Thankfully, he was still slightly opened up from the previous night, but without any fresh preparation, his muscles were tight, and the intrusion caused an unbearable, burning pain.

Yet Oscar accepted it.

He accepted it because it was Lando.

Lando, his  teammate. The guy who did incredible things to him, turning him inside out. Who had brutally fucked him twenty minutes before the Drivers' Parade in one of the toilet stalls in Monaco, who would spit his own saliva directly onto Oscar's well-fucked hole, leaking with his semen; who never once stroked his hair or kissed his lips gently. The guy who knew how to move his dick inside him so well that his eyes would roll back to his skull, only to flash him a sweet smile in public afterward, as if nothing had happened.

‘Fuck, the start was promising. Isn't that right, my winner?’

Oscar can still remember just how raspy his voice had been, as if he had just smoked an entire cigarette factory; low and lustful.

Not a single hint of a cheerful congratulation. Only forced sarcasm and a broad palm squeezing his pale neck.

When Lando begins to press on his Adam’s apple with those thick fingers, easily wrapping around his neck with a single hand, his oxygen supply is cut short. The Briton pulls his neck backward, forcing his entire body to arch harder until his spine begins to ache from the sharp pulsation radiating through all his limbs. He sinks his sharp teeth deep into Oscar's forearm, leaving a bloody wound behind, before carelessly licking it, smearing the drops of blood across the surrounding patch of skin as if marking his territory.

When Lando whispers filthy words into his ear in that dangerous timber, whispering that Oscar's victory is entirely thanks to him, that he could have easily refused to let him pass and then none of this would even matter. That the Australian had stolen his win, and the team had only enabled it with their orders. With every word, he seemed to grow angrier, tightening his grip on Oscar's neck as he began to move faster inside him.

Yet Oscar accepted it and did not push him away, neither through actions nor words. He only let out a quiet groan, trying hard not to cry out from the pain piercing his lower body.

That day, Lando didn't cum inside him as he usually did. He forced Oscar down onto his knees; the Australian's legs were trembling, but Lando couldn't care less. With a brutal pressure on his jaw, he forces Oscar to open his mouth, and masturbating right in front of his face, occasionally brushing against the Australian's pink lips, he cums with a loud growl. He ejaculates right onto his face; the whitish fluid lands not only on his tongue but also on his lips, nose, and forehead, making him look utterly debauched.

Lando stares at the sight for a long time, looking like a man possessed. Once the Australian submits, Lando spits his own saliva directly onto his tongue, his right hand tightly holding Oscar's jaw open.

‘Don't you dare swallow that. I'll make you suck my dick on camera and cum on your tongue all over again until you learn how to behave, and then I'll show that video to our colleagues. I bet Max or Charles would love to watch that, wouldn't they?’

Oscar's entire body flinches, but he obediently keeps his mouth open while Lando, almost gently, traces his thumb over Oscar's plump lower lip.

But a moment later, having tested the waters, Oscar slowly spits Lando's saliva onto the floor, looking directly into the green eyes of his teammate opposite him, whose face immediately darkens as his hand stops moving.

‘You didn’t say anything about me not being allowed to spit out whatever you give me.’

A heavy silence hangs in the room. A twisted smirk spreads across the Briton’s face, a hint of madness entering his gaze. But even now, Oscar cannot help but note the cute dimples on his face and the stubble that had pricked his ear so uncomfortably while the Briton was brutally fucking him against the wall.

Heat flares up treacherously through his body once more. Oscar nervously licks his lips, already wet with saliva, as if anticipating the reaction.

‘Oh, Oscar, you have severely fucked up. I am going to absolutely destroy you.’

But the Australian couldn’t care less; he is ready to accept absolutely everything Lando wants to give him right now. Like a starving dog that hasn’t been fed by its owner in ages, he nuzzles against his hand, desperately seeking affection. Lando snaps, abruptly leaning in to bite directly into Oscar's mouth, puncturing his lower lip until it bleeds.

If Lando wants to play, Oscar will gladly accept his challenge. But they will play by his rules.

A sudden squelching sound snaps him out of his thoughts; a viscous thread of something warm, almost hot, slowly trickles down from his hole. It smarts terribly, putting pressure on the torn walls.

Oscar assumes it is a mixture of blood from the rough penetration and the thick semen of his obsession.

August 3, 2025. Hungary.

When Lando claims his long-awaited victory in Hungary, his eyes gleam with happiness, and droplets of champagne spill across his suit and the exposed patches of his skin.

When Lando lifts the trophy high above his head, the sunbeams cut through the clouds, making every single one of his moles glisten in the light.

Lando is sun-kissed. Oscar is certain of it.

When Lando takes him that night right by the panoramic window of his massive luxury suite, making him moan his name, Oscar only reaches back with his hand, trying to grip the back of Lando's neck and pull him closer.

He wanted tenderness, warmth, his hot breath behind his ear. He wanted all of Lando.

When Lando reaches for Oscar's face, turning him around to press a gentle kiss against his plump lips, the Australian lets out a desperate sob, realizing he is completely and utterly ensnared in their game.

December 7, 2025. Abu Dhabi.

When Max’s powerful hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, wrap around his throat and press lightly on his Adam’s apple, everything else ceases to exist.

The bed dips slightly beside him, and a warm, familiar hand begins to gently stroke his hair a tenderness that makes Oscar want to tear every single hair out of his own head.

“Just wonderful, baby. You’re so obedient right now, the most perfect, the absolute best,” a familiar voice whispers directly over his ear, brushing back his sweat-dampened bangs that had stuck to his forehead.

The moment Oscar registers that it is Lando speaking to him, he lets out an immediate sob, pressing into the warm palm. Lando’s lips carefully trail down a fraction lower, kissing him just beneath the cheekbone as if Oscar were truly something precious, the most delicate and beautiful thing in existence.

Oscar remembers every single time the two of them had landed in the Cool Down Room together, so he isn’t at all surprised that before going out to properly celebrate the victory, Lando is enjoying himself here, with him and Max.

Here, where Lando had first forced him to kiss him, only to then allow Max to fuck him, while Lando himself just sat back and watched, drinking in the sight as if he already held the glowing Championship trophy in his hands.

Here, where Lando had fucked him until the bed groaned, pinning him to the sheets while Oscar's mouth was fully occupied working on Max's dick.

That dark look Lando had given him and then Max flashing all of his white teeth and licking his plump lips in the Cool Down Room earlier had boded absolutely nothing good. Oscar had known it from the very start.

The first hot tear spills onto the sheets, blending with the other fluids pooling around—semen, lube, saliva, whatever the hell else.

Max delivers his final thrusts and, with a loud groan, pulls his dick out, cumming into the condom. Interestingly enough, Lando cannot tolerate others fucking him unprotected. He absolutely hates it. It is as if he draws a razor-sharp boundary where the right to use his lover's body begins and ends a line that dictates only he possesses the privilege to fuck Oscar like that: without protection, cumming deep inside and filling him until his stomach bloats.

Sometimes Oscar recalls this fact, and a wave of warmth washes over his soul. It is an illusion of safety and care, but it makes it easier for him to sleep, knowing that Lando isn't completely indifferent to him.

And that was the problem. Lando never knew how to stop; he always wanted everything, all at once.

Oh, golden boy, when will you ever have your fill?

The Dutchman leans down to his ear and kisses him near the jaw, whispering something about how well he performed and how beautiful he looks right now. But Oscar is focused on none of it; his gaze is completely glassy, as if all life has drained from his eyes. His pink lips are parted slightly, a thin thread of saliva dripping from the corner.

His eyes ache from the sheer volume of tears he has shed today.

Oscar still does not understand whether they were from pleasure or from the acceptance that he had lost. Their little game had reached its logical conclusion.

But Oscar’s clouded gaze is still directed off to the side toward the wide panoramic window that opens up to a view of the night city, clad in lights and fireworks.

He had missed the moment when the Briton managed to get up from the bed and stopped stroking his hair. However, he is standing very close by, watching the lights of the hot city, his back turned to the both of them. He is completely naked, with only the moonlight falling beautifully across his tanned back, outlining every muscle of his broad frame. His chocolate curls are disheveled, and his shoulders are surprisingly relaxed for a man who had with such ease beaten all the strength out of his teammate, leaving a rotting wound somewhere beneath the bones and a brackish taste laced with bitterness in his mouth.

I hate you. I am ready to swear by everything I own just how much I hate you and want to humiliate you.

Max leans a little lower, tracing a path from Oscar’s neck to his cheek, leaving wet trails behind, and then presses an entirely weightless kiss to his lips, as if apologizing for the roughness. But Oscar, it seems, does not care, he looks only at Lando standing ahead, and without tearing his eyes away from him, he returns Max's kiss anyway.

The Australian catches that tiny mole beneath the Briton’s ear, barely visible in the darkness, with his dark eyes and lets out a loud sob, fighting not to weep right then and there.

I am obsessed with you. I want all of your attention. I want you to always whisper in my ear that I am the only one. I want you to tell me that I am good for you.

I want to mean at least something to you. I want you to stop giving me away to them so easily and enjoying it.

I want only you. I am ready to tearfully beg you to hold me and promise you will never do this to me again. That you will be the only one in my bed.

I am addicted to you, Lando.

 Oscar closes his eyes, feeling another tear trickle down his cheek, making the pillow beneath him damp.

Lando’s breath is ragged, his curls clinging beautifully to his forehead, and his heated, honeyed skin is slick with sweat.

His mouth is parted, swallowing air through his open lips while his piercing gaze drills holes straight through Kimi.

Kimi, for his part, still feels absolutely wretched. It is bad enough that he is still in his race suit, stepping into the room looking so guilty, as if he has done them some great wrong, but his face is also as red as a ripe apple.

The Italian drops his gaze downward, and oh God—

Oscar doesn't just look flushed; he looks as though he has been kept in this room for days, his body used in every imaginable way possible. His chest bounces debauchedly with the rhythm of Lando’s thrusts, and those thick thighs answer back, moving in perfect unison.

They’re  synchronized even in sex. It is pure madness.

His face is pressed into the sheets; Lando, with his massive palm, can easily cup Oscar's entire skull and pin him into the mattress. His cheeks are even flusher than they were on the podium once again, as if flowers are blooming across his skin, opening in lush buds beneath the fabric. His brown eyes are glassy, brimming with tears, looking as though he is about to break down weeping this very second. As if right now, his irises might turn to solid glass, indistinguishable from copper.

His hands grip the fabric of the blanket with sheer force, and his back is arched in a way that suggests he has done this many, many times before.

Yet even now, the Italian thinks Oscar is the most beautiful man on Earth.

It is as if the most innocent, unblemished thing has been conscripted and corrupted, blackened, turned into something filthy and revolting.

As if a flower has been torn out by its roots, stripped of its life source, and placed in a vase merely for decoration. But flowers without soil possess one very specific trait—they wither without the earth. They die.

“I…”

“Are you just going to stand there?” Lando asks, turning back toward him once again.

The Briton lets out a scoff and quickly, roughly far too roughly pulls his dick out of the battered hole. He delivers a resounding slap to one of Oscar’s buttocks, which turns a stark color instantly.

Kimi watches this careless gesture as if spellbound, and to his great misfortune, he gets a completely unobstructed view of the other man’s length. And listen, he hadn't exactly been dying to see Lando Norris's dick; it wasn't on his bucket list, but he simply cannot tear his eyes away. It isn't just large; it is fucking massive. It is the biggest dick he has ever seen in his life. The image is straight out of a porn movie—thick veins running from the base up to the pink head, a neatly groomed pubic area, and equally large balls, the whole thing just seems unreal. He simply fails to comprehend how that can even fit inside someone's ass.

“Look, I love having fun as much as the next guy, but if you’re just going to stand there for so long doing nothing, I don’t think you’re going to like how things play out,” he says, shifting closer to the headboard. His dick is still fully erect, looking and feeling rock-hard. He hasn't cum.

Right after, Oscar tiredly rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, breathing heavily. In this position, his silhouette appears even more beautiful, even more elegant and captivating. He is like an ancient Roman statue turned into a living human being. Flawless. Flawless from the sharp line of his jaw down to his broad hips.

And it seems Lando notices.

“Want to fuck him?” he smirks, relaxing his back muscles.

Kimi swallows the thick saliva coating his mouth.

Yes, he does.

“Oh, baby, you’re going to get exactly what you want,” Lando exhales in a playful tone. “But I have conditions. In this game, we always play by my rules. You can dominate on the track, lead the championship, and all that kind of shit, but in here, I don’t tolerate being overtaken.” His expression shifts abruptly. In place of the sweet smile, a cunning smirk plays on his features. “Get over here.”

He doesn't need to be told twice. In a matter of seconds, the Italian closes the distance between the hallway and the bed, unzipping his race suit as he moves.

He positions himself between Oscar's parted legs but doesn't dare touch him, as no command has been given yet. When necessary, he knows exactly how to submit to a stronger spirit, and sometimes that realization deeply unnerves him. But right now, he just wants to surrender to the process and finally feel that heated, flushed skin beneath his fingertips.

“Easy now, easy, Oscar likes foreplay,” the Briton says, staring directly into Oscar’s eyes. “But what he loves even more, to the point of absolute madness, is when big dicks brutally fuck him to tears, isn't that right?”

Oscar turns his face in the opposite direction, averting his gaze, and bites his lip seductively.

A perfect hit.

“Touch him.”

And Kimi, like a starving dog snapping off its leash, breaks free and runs a palm across the broad chest. It comes out almost gentle, almost imperceptible, but it is already enough to make him lose his mind. Oscar's skin is exactly as he had imagined it: soft, firm, and hot, as if molded from dough.

Kimi's hands drop a fraction lower, and he traces his fingertips over the toned stomach, feeling a pleasant softness beneath his pads. This body is simply flawless. It is clear that Oscar has endured a fair share of training, yet he isn't just lean; everything in his physique balances harmoniously. The ratio of body fat to muscle has an ideal structure.

Kimi lifts his eyes, and, Jesus Christ, he really shouldn't have.

Oscar looks utterly pitiful right now. He is still biting his lower lip with those cute buck teeth of his, staring straight at Kimi's hands touching him so tenderly.

“Can I kiss you?” the Italian breathes out anxiously, looking squarely at Oscar.

Oscar’s eyes instantly snap to Kimi's face. A look of complete bewilderment reads in his gaze. As if it were bizarre to ask him for consent to a kiss. As if this had never happened before, and no one had ever asked him such innocent questions.

“You…”

“Kimi, you ask everything of me,” a level voice pipes up from the side. Kimi slowly shifts his gaze from Oscar's face to Lando, and his tongue goes numb. Lando looks calm, but it is a calmness that borders on insanity. “It doesn’t matter in the slightest what Oscar wants. He just needs to be filled as soon as possible. I am the one granting permission for whether you can fuck him, kiss him, whisper sweet or filthy words into his ear, leave hickeys on his skin, or wrap your hand around his throat. He doesn't know how to give orders or have an opinion of his own.”

Kimi is left entirely speechless. He stares at Lando as if the man has just sentenced him to death.

Oscar has no opinion of his own.

His word means nothing.

No matter what Max had said back then, Oscar definitely looks like a victim.

“Can I kiss him?” is the only thing Kimi can squeeze out of himself, keeping his anxious gaze locked on Lando.

“Fine, kiss him.”

The Italian leans down, shifting his gaze back to the Australian lying beneath him, and slowly traces his tongue across Oscar's upper lip, as if tasting him. Kimi lets out a loud groan because those lips are sweet, still retaining a faint hint of champagne. Pulling himself together, he fully draws Oscar into a kiss, closing his eyes. He deepens it immediately, sliding his tongue inside while cupping Oscar's jaw with his palm.

The Australian responds eagerly, closing his tired eyes as he wraps his hand into the dark curls at the back of Kimi's head. He pulls him closer, with a desperate force, as if trying to erase something from his mind, to shut everything out. Their tongues tangle, their saliva blends, and their teeth click together in a teasing rhythm.

They kiss for a long time, a deep, wet exchange that fills the room with slick, swallowing sounds until their tongues begin to ache. Yet the Italian has no desire to let go. He doesn't want to pull away and draw air into his lungs; right now, separating from Oscar feels synonymous with death, and he refuses to break the contact.

He wants to feel Oscar's warmth against his own skin.

The Italian’s hand carefully glides down from the jaw to the broad neck, lightly stroking the Adam's apple and applying a nearly imperceptible pressure. Oscar responds, surrendering himself completely until he finally grips the fabric of the undershirt Kimi has yet to shed, pulling him flat against his body, chest to chest.

Eventually, oxygen becomes a desperate necessity, and Kimi, nipping Oscar's upper lip one last time, pulls back, breathing heavily.

But it is evidently not enough for Oscar. Taking matters into his own hands, he willfully reverses their positions, shoving the Italian onto his back and swinging his own hips over Kimi's waist. Cupping Kimi's jaw with both hands, he sinks right back into another fierce kiss.

At first, Kimi is caught off guard, but seconds later, he digs his fingers into Oscar's bare buttocks, dragging him closer and matching the bruising pace of the kiss. It creates a striking contrast: Oscar is completely naked, stripped of everything save for the deep flush on his cheeks, while Kimi remains fully dressed, clearly seeking friction as his erection presses against the boy's thighs through the layers of his race suit.

Then, without breaking the deep kiss, Oscar's hand carefully ventures downward, sliding his slender, neatly manicured fingers beneath the unzipped suit. He slowly caresses him through his underwear, rubbing his own length against Kimi's hard shaft in response. The Italian groans into the kiss, his grip tightening on Oscar's hips as he tries to press as hard as possible into the porcelain skin, desperate to leave his dark marks behind.

But suddenly, the heat of the weight above him vanishes. Lando reaches over, ruthlessly grabbing Oscar by the hair and dragging him back onto his back. His gaze remains utterly calm, which makes it terrifying as hell. He steps between his teammate's parted legs, gripping Oscar's thighs to pull him closer. Oscar lets out a sound bordering on a whimper, mourning the loss of the warmth on his lips.

Oscar’s dick is quite small even when erect Kimi would even call it tiny, but it’s cute. If you compare Lando’s and Oscar’s sizes, the difference is simply catastrophic.

“I think you’ve forgotten yourself, Oscar,” Lando says, wrapping his hand around the other’s pale neck and tracing his thumb dangerously over the Adam’s apple. “I made it crystal clear that you do not take the initiative without my permission.”

Kimi watches this unfold, and he just wants to die. Because witnessing this innocent, gentle person receive such rough and unjust treatment from someone close to him is simply unbearable. It feels like enduring torture. Oscar looks like a beaten puppy that disobeyed its master and is now being chained up as punishment.

“Tell me you want Kimi to fuck you right now,” Lando presses down on his Adam’s apple, his thumb completely obscuring the two cute moles right in the center of Oscar's neck. “You’ve wanted this the whole time, haven’t you? Straight from the podium, the way you two were spraying champagne at each other so sweetly. Very… romantic.”

From his lips, it sounds like the deadliest poison.

Lando’s eyes narrow. The smirk on his face is so artificial and cold that Kimi is afraid to take a loud breath.

And right then, Kimi realizes.

Lando doesn’t like the fact that Oscar can actually want someone else on his own. That he can, of his own volition, crave someone else’s kisses and embraces. It terrifies him that his favorite toy might feel free in someone else’s hands.

“I…” the Australian begins, barely catching the air with his mouth. “I don’t want him to fuck me. I want him to just use me until I lose my mind. I want you to like what he does to me.”

Kimi’s eyes widen, his eyebrows flying up at what he just heard.

It is fucking terrifying. Fucking terrifying to crave someone’s approval so intensely that you completely lose your sanity.

Lando lets out a raspy chuckle, the corners of his mouth curling into a wicked smirk. His gaze instantly… softens? No, the two of them have definitely lost their minds.

“Oh, Kimi, did you know that Oscar really likes you? He talked about your victory the entire way here. Fancy that, so young and already leading the championship.” Lando presses even harder against the other's throat until Oscar’s hands instinctively fly up, digging into Lando's fingers. “Victories turn him on. But what turns him on even more are the people who know how to take those victories for themselves. I’m surprised he didn’t cum on the podium just looking at you.” He says the last sentence with a sharp click of his tongue, laced with palpable annoyance.

Oh, of course. The great Lando Norris, the 2025 World Champion, can barely scrape together a second-place finish right now.

You haven't tasted the flavor of victory in your lungs for more than half a year.

When Oscar genuinely begins to run out of air, Lando abruptly releases his grip on his neck. A flush of deep red immediately blooms across the skin from the pressure of his hand.

“But he would love it. He’s just always desperately in need of a dick, mate; I can barely keep up with his appetite.”

The demons are still dancing in those green eyes, but the shade of his gaze seems to shift, and Kimi can’t quite grasp which way it’s turning.

Lando's hand moves from the neck and begins to stroke Oscar's cheek almost tenderly, his fingertips barely brushing the pale skin.

Oscar surrenders instantly to this fleeting burst of affection. Whimpering, he presses into the hand, trying to shrink into the warmth of the body opposite him.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’ll do whatever I tell you? Every single whim?”

Oscar offers a barely perceptible nod, lifting his tear-stained eyes straight to the face above him. His gaze is truly aching and pleading.

“Wonderful.”

Don’t think. 

Unexpectedly even for Kimi himself, who had seemingly been forgotten about, Lando slides both of his palms downward, taking both of Oscar’s breasts in his hands and beginning to knead them as if they belonged to a woman. His chest is quite broad, his collarbones sharp, and his pink nipples gleam prettily in the light like cherries. Lando doesn't break eye contact with his nipples, pinching them and applying pressure with circular motions, occasionally tugging at them slightly. He played with him as if Oscar’s chest were a woman's, so full that it could spill out of his hands, even though he could barely squeeze them. Oscar whimpers, arching his head back beautifully.

“Now he is going to settle between your legs, and you will take everything he gives you,” Lando says, not even asking but simply stating a fact. “And you, as my absolute favorite toy, won't let me down. Right, Oscar? You do want to be good for me, don't you?”

Oscar whimpers at the praise and barely nods. He groans even louder this time, turning his head toward Kimi. The Italian is still lying on his back, breathing heavily, his astonished eyes darting between Lando and Oscar.

When Oscar turned his face toward him, Kimi forgot every single word in every language he had ever known.

Oh, Christ.

Oscar’s eyes are simply soulless. There is no life in them, no joy or sadness. He is like an iceberg that is about to crack and sink to the bottom.

The Australian doesn't tear his gaze away from him and, shifting slightly closer, kisses him again.

But this feels entirely different. This kiss is gentle, barely tangible, pure, innocent. As if everything Oscar had lost within himself, he is trying to feel anew just by brushing his lips against Kimi's.

Kimi isn't sure he even wants to do anything with all this right now. He wants to hug Oscar, wrap him in a blanket, and let him sleep.

I would like to stay and talk about it, but this feeling is unbearable for me.

“I think you should strip, mate,” the Briton instructs, pointing at Kimi, who is still fully dressed.

Kimi reluctantly pulls away from the other’s lips, quickly getting off the bed. Once all his clothes were removed and he was left in just his boxers, he ran a hand through his hair, tucking the unruly curls behind his ear.

He didn't notice the hazy gaze of the brown eyes fixed on him while he was undressing.

“I think you both should move to the middle of the bed, it’ll be more comfortable that way,” Lando says, helping Oscar sit up against the pillows in the center of the mattress.

Kimi complies and, with a swift movement, climbs onto the bed. Settling comfortably between Oscar's legs, he places his palms on the Australian's thighs, offering a soothing caress with his thumbs.

“Have you ever had any experience with a man?” Lando asks, pulling condoms out of the nightstand.

“No.”

Lando doesn't say anything in response; he merely grabs a bottle of lube and approaches them, sitting down beside Oscar.

“Well, it’s pretty amusing that you’re giving your first time with a guy to us,” he says, carefully tucking a stray lock of the Australian’s hair behind his ear. “But you won't regret it; Oscar has the best ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking.”

Watching such a delicate flower lean toward a bastard like Lando and whimper at insults that carry a faint hint of praise is simply sickening.

“He’s already opened up enough. His ass was craving me so badly because we haven't fucked all week that we just couldn't wait for you, sorry about that,” Lando chuckles and gets on his knees right behind Kimi, taking Kimi's hand in his own. “Look at him,” he whispers quietly right by his ear, so close that Kimi can feel his breath. “Doesn't he look terribly debauched right now? It's as if his eyes are inviting you to destroy him.”

Kimi swallows loudly, not daring to move. Yes, Oscar looks incredibly beautiful right now, with his fluffy hair scattered across the pillow and his pink lips parted.

Lando guides Kimi, directing his hand toward the Australian’s thigh, inviting him to feel his body closer.

The Italian involuntarily notes just how giant Lando's hands are, completely covering his own palm.

“Touch him down there, feel it with your own fingertips.”

Lando, still not letting go of Kimi's hand, guides it straight to the buttocks. And it is a simply mesmerizing sight. Oscar’s hole is wet with lube, slightly swollen from the numerous penetrations, and a fraction open. It is beautiful. It isn't vulgar, as Lando claims. It is the kind of thing that leaves people speechless from beauty.

Then Lando’s hand vanishes, and Kimi guides himself from there, stretching his insides with careful movements. When he slips in with just a single finger, he hears a faint hiss, as if the spot is a bit sore or stinging.

No, he has definitely lost his mind.

The Italian bites his lip, trying not to groan at the sensation and the sight of his colleague right now. Right beside his index finger, he inserts two more at once, moving them rhythmically inside. All three fingers go in without a problem, and the lube remnants of which still remained inside Oscar only enhances the friction.

The Australian arches his back harder and squeezes his eyes shut tighter, leaning back.

Antinous himself, Kimi thinks, curling his fingers inside.

From behind, the sound of something crisp, like foil, snaps him out of his thoughts. Before Kimi can even turn around, he feels Lando carefully reaching into his boxers, beginning to gently stroke Kimi's already fully erect dick. Kimi groans, throwing his head back onto Lando's shoulder and closing his eyes. Lando’s hands are firm but warm, calloused like a real racing driver's.

With his other hand, the Briton rolls a condom onto Kimi, distributing the rubber evenly along his entire length.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers even quieter. “Move gently at first, then pick up the pace. Don’t worry about breaking him; he likes it rough.” Lando kisses him softly on the cheek, his stubble lightly scratching the skin of Kimi's face, leaving a wet trail behind. Kimi wants to dissolve into it.

Kimi pulls his fingers out completely, gripping Oscar's thighs with both hands. He settles comfortably, pulling Oscar a little closer by the hips while his dick brushes against the wet hole with slick, squelching sounds, sliding obscenely along the cleft.

From behind, Kimi feels another hand rest on his lower back, pressing slightly as if implicitly commanding him to act.

He runs his length over the stretched opening one last time and begins to drive himself into the hot hole with slow movements, tracking the reaction on the other’s face.

As Kimi slowly, hesitantly enters Oscar, his body responds exactly the way it does on the track: muscles tense, breath hitches, and only one thing remains in his head just the rhythm. But here, instead of a G-force in his side, there is an alluring heat compressing his insides, and instead of a steering wheel, there is Lando’s palm on his lower back, pushing him forward. Entering Oscar is just like executing a perfect turn: terrifying, slick, and if you let go of control, you can spin off the track.

Being inside Oscar is like leading a race three laps before the finish line: all senses are heightened, every thrust equals an overtake, every movement of the hips is anticipated in advance. You don't think. You just take and execute with absolute care, as if sculpting a statue.

Kimi lets out a languid sigh, fully immersed in the hot core. He bites his lower lip almost to the point of bleeding to avoid spilling all his emotions right then and there.

From behind, Lando’s hand slowly, forcefully, compels him to thrust again, managing every movement, every reaction of his body. His mouth doesn't stop, trailing a fraction lower down the Italian's neck. He kisses him slowly, carefully, while his other hand presses into Kimi's lower back, his thumb stroking the tender skin.

It is fucking terrifying, because Kimi loves this feeling of being controlled. He loves that it is him, Lando Norris, a man he respected. The Italian can't hold it in after all and lets out a sob as the other palm guides him back into the wet opening once more.

“You’re doing great, Kimi,” a voice sounds from behind. “Just wonderful. You can speed up the rhythm. Fuck him good.”

Kimi snaps, and following those final words, he leans down sharply toward Oscar, locking onto his lips with a resounding clash. Oscar groans loudly into the kiss, blissfully closing his eyes in pleasure, his fingers clawing into Kimi's strong shoulders to the point of leaving scratches.

He doesn't stop. The rhythm only accelerates, his breath catches, but he doesn't pull away. Kimi continues to kiss the saliva-wet lips before him, their tongues twisting together. His thrusts are rough, wide-ranging, the skin of his thighs slapping loudly against the soft fabric of Oscar’s tender buttocks, filling the room with a resounding, slick friction.

He intensifies the thrusts; the movements become fast, sharp. Kimi drives deeper with every single plunge, and he can feel the hot walls squeezing him pleasantly, literally sucking him in.

Oscar beneath him is completely unraveled, exhausted, his eyes watering, and his extinguished gaze is fixed right on him. He groans loudly, throwing his head back. His broad neck is devastatingly beautiful, dusted with moles. Kimi wants to mark every single one of them.

They look into each other’s eyes as they break away from yet another kiss. Oscar reaches for Kimi's face with trembling hands, cupping his hot cheeks, gently caressing them with his thumbs.

Lando sees this and, pulling away from Kimi, sits down beside Oscar once more. He leans in almost flush against his face, but keeps his voice loud enough for everyone to hear what he is about to say.

“You’re especially sensitive today, aren’t you, baby? I remember you behaved quite differently with Max,” Oscar’s pupils dilate at the mention of the other man's name, his palms tightening their grip on the bedsheets. “And remember Singapore? Oh, I’m sure you had a great time with Carlos too; I hope he fucked you exactly the way you like it. Oh, or Charles? Because back then, you pressed yourself against his shoulder and burst into tears right after sex. You don't care in the slightest whose dick gets shoved up your ass. You’re such a whore, Oscar Piastri.”

Kimi freezes.

The air around them has changed.

Why did he even start talking about this right now?

A lump forms in his throat once more; a little more of this and his words might actually make him sick.

Just fucking shut up.

Oscar turns his head away from Lando's face in the opposite direction and lets go of the blanket. His hands seem to have lost all life, going completely limp.

Oscar looks broken. Broken, but desperately holding onto the desire to be repaired and never broken again.

He doesn't need all of this. He clearly needs something else entirely.

Lando says nothing, watching Oscar’s reaction. But he doesn't smirk as usual, nor does he scoff or grow angry. He is simply silent, staring at the crown of Oscar's head.

The Briton turns away and sits on the edge of the bed. Kimi can notice just how visibly tense his back has become, his head tilted backward.

But to be honest, Kimi couldn't care less right now about what Lando is feeling.

He is just an egoist. An egoist who doesn't think about what it feels like when pressure is applied to wounds that have barely closed.

Kimi's heart skips a beat when he sees a single tear drop from the brown eyes opposite him onto the pillow beneath.

He is terrified. Oscar is terrified to the point of absolute madness.

“Please—”

Kimi is lost. He truly doesn't understand what is happening.

To see a Formula 1 driver who is always so quiet and collected look so small and frightened right now is synonymous with torture.

And—

Kimi leans down once more, licking the tear away from Oscar's left cheek. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his eyelids, the corners of his lips, desperately trying to distract him.

He continues, driving into Oscar as deeply as humanly possible, and with a loud growl, he cums.

Lando watched them from where he sat behind, and for some reason, for the very first time, he felt not pleasure from the sight, but a searing pain.

Oscar had never wanted to feel used.

In the end, he simply needed love from a person who was incapable of giving that love to him.

After the 2026 season, the rules were completely rewritten. The Winner’s Room was removed from the contracts of all drivers and the regulations, and it was never mentioned anywhere again.

Following that night, the subject was never discussed with Lando or Oscar again; the event was left to gather dust somewhere in Kimi's mind. Only a single bracelet, which he had managed to keep afterward, remained to remind him of those beautiful, watering eyes.

“You were very dear to me.”

“I know. Is that no longer the case now?” The smirk grates on the ears.

“I hate you. You just used me. You knew I was dependent on you, and you went ahead and did it anyway.”

Oscar delivers one final thrust of his hips and, with a suppressed groan, comes, messing his own stomach and the other's. He collapses onto the tanned chest before him and, with a slick sound, slips off the flaccid dick; a thin stream of semen trickles neatly down his thigh.

Lando reaches for his ear, whispering too softly.

“Yes,” the hand begins to gently stroke his slouched back. As if it actually meant something. “But I never said I wasn't dependent on you, too.”