Archive of Our Own

BARCELONA, 2026

Oscar should have known better.

Fourth year as teammates, two years into dating Lando, hell, he definitely should have known better than to bait him.

Because now, Lando is like a dog with a bone: relentless, one-track minded, all his focus narrowed down to a single point. 

It’s nothing new, he usually gets like this when challenges come his way.

People often think that Lando doesn’t have it in him, that he is self-pitying, a crybaby, too emotional. 

Weak.

But Oscar knows better. 

Sure, Lando goes through a lot of emotions most of the time – more than most people, Oscar thinks – but he always deals with them behind closed doors; embracing them, making them cooperate until they bend to his will.

He isn’t a child throwing a tantrum; he just speaks his truth when he wants to, saying blunt things without thinking them through – usually regretting them later, but still. He handles it.

When things got hard in the past, Lando coped with a resilience that even he hadn’t known he had in him, and he never let go until it worked the way he wanted to. 

Every time Lando wanted something, he made damn sure he took it.

That’s what happened during his first years at McLaren, back when he was fighting his own car more than the rest of the grid. 

That’s what happened at the end of Oscar’s rookie year. When he turned up to his hotel room one night and it ended up with a lot of great sex, endless headaches for their PR and legal teams, a two-year relationship, and, eventually, a shared apartment.

That’s what happened last season, after his 2024 slump and that brutal start to 2025. And it got him the championship.

That’s what is happening right now. 

Because it seems that Lando has a point to make, and he won’t back down until he does.

And of course, Oscar should have known it would end up like this. 

He just hadn’t thought about it a few days ago.

***

They were fresh off the Monaco Grand Prix, exhausted from all their media obligations. The team had doubled down this year for their 1000th race or whatever, packing their schedules with endless media sessions, Q&As, and silly videos to make.

Drivers often said that people didn’t know how much effort it took to become a driver, how they needed to manage everything; the food, the training, the strength, the hygiene. 

That it wasn’t just driving a car around a circuit, but the right combination of all these factors put together.

Sometimes, and more specifically after weekends like this, Oscar wanted to say that everything that wasn’t racing-related was the actual hard part.

He would have given away half his salary if it meant he only got to fucking drive. 

And even with that, he’d still be rich enough to pay his half of the rent. Absolutely worth it.

But it wouldn’t ever work that way, so he just had to suck it up.

He was truly running on empty that night, but Lando insisted that they needed to grab dinner with Fewtrell. 

Max had been in town for the weekend, and McLaren's relentless schedule hadn't given them a single second to breathe, let alone catch up.

Having already bailed on the post-race party on Sunday, Oscar knew he couldn't back out of this, too, even though staying in with a takeaway and an early night sounded like heaven. 

He couldn’t even begin to regret it when he saw the toothy grin Lando flashed him when he finally said yes. 

His only hope was that the place would be private enough for them to relax, and that there wouldn’t be too many people out on a regular Monday night.

Which obviously wasn't the case, because it wasn’t a regular Monday; it was the Monday right after the Grand Prix, so fucking obviously, the city was still packed.

But Lando being Lando, he found his way into a fancy rooftop restaurant, filled only with exclusive, way too wealthy people. 

They were definitely recognized by some people there, whispering at their tables, throwing glances at them, but nobody would say a thing. 

The perks of living in Monaco.

Tucked away in a corner right above the sea, where the warm June sun made the terrace look golden, Oscar sat down next to Lando, their knees knocking against each other.

It was almost impossible to see, but Oscar noticed how Lando subtly hitched his chair a fraction closer, how his body instinctively found a way to angle toward him without Lando even realizing it.

Oscar wanted nothing more than to touch – to trace the smooth skin of his forearm, tangle his fingers in the soft hair curling at the back of his neck, or press his palm against the strong thigh under his trousers. 

But he knew better than to do it in public. Even somewhere this private and exclusive, the most he could do was look, and wait.

Lando had insisted on choosing Oscar’s outfit for the night, simply because he was tired of him looking like a random college student. Which, rude.

That was how Oscar found himself trapped in a crisp shirt that clung a little too well to his shoulders and biceps, the top two buttons left strategically undone, paired with wide-leg jeans. 

It was definitely not his go-to outfit, but Lando had taken one look at him and declared him hot, so Oscar had quietly folded. 

Who was he to deny Lando when he looked at him like that?

Lando, as usual, was arguably the most gorgeous person in the room.

Oscar considered himself a man of science and data, so he was convinced he was being completely objective about it.

Even without a proper summer holiday yet, Lando’s skin was already golden from the sun. The loose, white linen shirt he wore was unbuttoned low enough to show it off, his familiar lucky charm chain resting against his collarbones, his curls perfectly mussed.

Oscar couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wanted to.

It was just Max tonight; P had already caught a flight back to the UK the previous evening, and the rest of their usual circle had made their way back home as well. 

So it was supposed to be a chill evening: a few drinks and the absolute pleasure of eating something that hadn't been weighed, macro-calculated, and Tupperwared by their performance trainers.

Besides, Oscar genuinely enjoyed Max's company.

In many ways, Max was like a calibrated version of Lando. Less intense, but more cynical; more low-key, but less sensitive. 

A softer frequency of the same radio station, if that made any sense.

And he was nice; he had been nice about them since the beginning. He never made a big deal out of it, never tried to convince Lando that it – their relationship – was a bad idea, or that he should move on. 

Granted, Max had given Oscar a brief, protective vetting at the start, just to ensure he wasn't going to break his best friend's heart. But that was it. 

After all, Oscar and Max had known each other even before Oscar got to meet Lando.

“Rough night yesterday, Bob?” Max asked, gesturing at Lando’s still-full glass warming in front of him, little drops of condensation running down the side. “You've barely touched your drink.”

Lando rolled his eyes, grabbing his drink just to prove a point. “Nah, mate. Nothing I can’t deal with.”

“You weren’t quite this smug when you were begging for painkillers at seven this morning,” Oscar chimed in, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned his head to catch Lando's eye.

Lando tracked him over the rim of his glass, his eyes crinkling into a smile right before he swallowed. Underneath the table, hidden from view, his knee pressed a fraction harder against Oscar’s, solid and warm.

“I didn’t ask for anything,” Lando countered smoothly, holding his gaze. “You just kindly brought it to me.”

“Right,” Oscar scoffed, a dry, amused smile playing on his lips. “Nothing to do with you whining about your head hurting like a bitch.”

“I never whine–”

“Come off it, bro,” Max interrupted, snorting into his own drink. “Osc, you seriously need to stop with the princess treatment. He’s become so much worse. Fucking spoiled kid.”

Oscar was about to reply that he couldn’t even if he tried; something about Lando just made him do things, pretty stupid, sappy things sometimes. But Lando beat him to it, setting his glass back on the table with a sharp click. 

“For a start, I’m not spoiled,” Lando replied – which was debatable when you knew the house Lando grew up in and how many zeroes were in Adam Norris’s bank account, but Oscar let it slide. “And don’t call him Osc, you frickin’ muppet.”

Oscar smiled despite himself – it always did something to him when Lando got a bit possessive around other people, marking his boundaries and claiming what was his. 

Claiming him.

It was a bit much, but also kind of… hot. 

It worked for Oscar, anyway.

“Awww,” Max cooed, visibly delighted to have hit a nerve. “Look at you getting all territorial.”

Lando kicked Max under the table, but there was no heat in it; Oscar could tell that much by the amused look in Lando’s eyes.

“Damn right I am,” Lando replied smoothly, his arm resting casually on the back of Oscar’s chair. Not close enough to look suspicious, but definitely enough to touch Oscar’s neck with the tips of his fingers. The touch was featherlight, sending goosebumps all over Oscar’s body. “Have you seen him? Gotta keep him close.”

Which made Oscar blush more than necessary. He was an absolute sucker for these, when Lando just dropped compliments into the conversation without even thinking twice. 

Lando had never been shy about it; if he decided Oscar looked beautiful ten times a day, he’d say it ten times a day.

“Stop running away to party with a bunch of influencers without me, then,” Oscar muttered before taking a sip from his glass of water.

Lando arched a brow, turning halfway toward him, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips that Oscar could only describe as delighted.

“Oh, baby, were you jealous?” Lando asked, his tone turning faux-mocking, making Max chuckle across from them.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You know I’m not.” 

“Aren’t you?” Max asked genuinely. He leaned back in his chair, settling in comfortably as if they were just any regular group of friends dissecting relationship dynamics — completely ignoring the fact that Oscar’s actual boyfriend was sitting right there.

“Nope,” Oscar responded, popping the ‘p’ emphatically. 

And it wasn’t a total lie. 

Oscar didn’t really do jealousy when it came to Lando. 

He’d accepted long ago that Lando was absurdly attractive, the kind of beautiful that practically guaranteed people would drool over him wherever he went.

Oscar couldn’t even blame them. After all, he’d been one of those people once, too.

Sure, Oscar felt it — the jealousy, the sting of possessiveness every time someone got too close, every time someone put their hands on him; his shoulder, his arm, or worse, his waist. Lando was his to touch after all. 

But it never gnawed at him, never ate away at him the way it would with other people.

He  wasn’t the type to start a fight about it, and he wouldn’t get mad. He didn’t see the point of letting that feeling linger long enough for it to start rotting between his ribs, becoming something ugly. 

He would just swallow it down and get on with it.

There was no point in getting jealous, really. He preferred to think that he was lucky Lando had chosen him among everyone else.

“Even when he gets smashed with a group of pretty girls in tiny dresses?” Max insisted, arching a brow, like he couldn’t even begin to believe Oscar.

Oscar laughed without meaning to, but stopped when he felt Lando’s gaze from his side. He took a quick look, and Lando was waiting him out, a new spark in his eyes that Oscar couldn’t quite place.

“Nah, man,” Oscar shrugged. “I just trust him.” 

He thought it was the right answer at the time, thought that this was what mattered the most between them: the trust they put in each other, the knowledge that they didn’t have to worry about anybody else.

It didn’t matter to Oscar that Lando liked to party; he knew Lando got a bit looser, a bit more touchy with a few drinks in. 

And despite what everyone seemed to think, Oscar wasn't blind; he saw the clips circulating on social media, saw the most absurd theories cooked up by the fans.  

So, obviously, he had seen everything that happened the night before – the race after-party Lando attended with some American influencers Oscar hadn’t heard of before, dancing and laughing with them, the shared drink with Louis (who he was definitely close to, Oscar couldn’t deny it).

And, obviously, he’d rather be the one Lando kept touching. 

But what mattered, he kept telling himself, was that Lando kept coming home to him.

“Yeah, I get that, but like…” Max trailed off, visibly concerned. Like Oscar had just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “I trust P when she goes out, yeah? But it just drives me mad to see guys crowding around her, y’know?”

Oscar wanted to laugh it off, because their situations were so damn different.

Sure, Pietra was gorgeous. 

Not nearly as beautiful as Lando was, though, but he wouldn’t say that to Max’s face. 

He definitely wouldn’t admit it in front of Lando, either, who would be entirely too pleased with himself. Oscar could already picture the smug, self-satisfied smile, the quick rosy-pink flush that would creep up Lando's cheeks. 

He would never hear the end of it.

But Pietra didn't have the same level of public exposure. She wasn't as wildly famous. There weren’t thousands of people constantly waiting for a chance to get into her pants the way they were with Lando.

Oscar had almost choked on his drink the first time Lando casually showed him his requests folder, revealing the thousands of DMs he received daily. 

He hadn’t known people could get that graphic when describing exactly what they wanted to do to Lando. 

“Mate, there are fans screaming and crying every time he crosses the damn street,” Oscar retorted, gesturing vaguely toward Lando beside him. “People make edits online of the sexiest clips they can find of him.”

(And some of them had been so good Oscar kept them saved on his burner account, but he certainly wouldn’t tell Max that either.)

“He gets hit on every time he dares to take a walk, by both women and men,” Oscar concluded with a mild shrug. “Honestly, if I actually let myself care about it, I’d end up in a psych ward by Tuesday.”

He saw Max and Lando exchange a brief look, before a huge smile appeared on Max’s face.

“Oscar, cool as ever, can’t be bothered that thousands of people want to shag his boyfriend,” Max deadpanned, shaking his head in disbelief.

Oscar smiled, a bit shyly, and turned his head again to look at Lando. The spark in his eyes had sharpened; he was still smiling, but there was an edge to it.

Like a shark in the water, waiting for the first drop of blood.

“I mean, what’s the point of getting jealous anyway? He’s dating me.”

“I don’t know, man,” Max sighed, leaning back. “Sometimes a little jealousy spices things up, right?”

Oscar bit back a smirk. He wanted to retort that their relationship required zero artificial spicing up, thank you very much. 

Everything was going perfectly fine on that front; and if either he or Lando ever craved a bit of friction, they had plenty of ways to find it. Lando had already made a detailed bucket list of everything they still had yet to try together.

But he kept his mouth shut; Lando wasn’t big on exposing or commenting on their sex life, and neither was he.

Instead, he just shrugged, murmuring something close to a ‘whatever,’ and Max finally dropped it.

The rest of the evening flowed easily after that. Lando, who had been content to play the quiet observer for the last few minutes, slid effortlessly back into the conversation.

So easily that Oscar forgot completely about the conversation by the time they made it back home. 

He was a bit surprised when Lando brought it up again, right in the middle of fucking him senseless against the kitchen counter.

With his chest plastered flat against the cold surface and Lando’s heavy warmth pressed flush against his back, Oscar could barely think, as the steady, intense rhythm of Lando's hips snapping against his ass left his mind empty.

“So you never get jealous, is that right, baby?” Lando purred, his breath hot against his ear as he thrust into him with more intensity now, his hands gripping Oscar’s waist firmly. 

Oscar saw stars behind his eyelids when Lando hit just the right spot, and he groaned through his gritted teeth, trying to string together a proper sentence with at least three consecutive words.

He didn’t succeed, obviously.

“N-no,” he said, breathless, feeling his hips getting bruised every time he hit the counter. “No.”

“Mmh,” Lando hummed, biting the skin where Oscar’s neck and shoulder met. “You sure? Not even a tiny bit?”

Oscar was so fucking close that he didn’t understand what was happening; he didn’t realize that every time he denied being jealous, he wasn’t reassuring Lando that he trusted him deeply – he was just planting seeds in his head.

Feeding the starving dog. Spilling blood in front of the shark.

He just shook his head no, and Lando gripped him harder, sinking his teeth into the tender skin of his neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. “Okay, then,” he murmured against his skin.

***

Oscar wasn’t lying that night; he isn’t particularly jealous.

What he conveniently failed to mention, however, is that his whole unbothered, 'not-the-jealous-type' persona has always suffered from one very specific exception.

And Lando seems to know it all too well.

Right now, they are in Barcelona, filming what are supposed to be funny, silly videos the fans are craving. The prompt is simple: build their dream football teams using only current drivers on the grid. 

It might actually be fun if Oscar didn’t care so devastatingly little about football. But apparently, it’s the World Cup, so.

“Gone Hulk as goalie, yeah?” Oscar asks, looking at Lando’s board, which got to pick first after he won their rock-paper-scissors challenge. He hums, as he was thinking out loud, his eyes lifting to meet Lando’s. “Yeah. Um. I feel like actually – yeah. Goalie looks like an important one to pick.”

“He's tall,” Lando explains, shrugging, before forcing his gaze back to the camera. “And yeah, if you've got a good goalie, mate, no one's getting past.”

Oscar looks down at his own blank board and tries to think, fast. He doesn’t know shit about football. He has absolutely no clue which drivers on the grid would actually be good, let alone what positions they are supposed to play.

God, he feels so useless. But he knows he needs to play along, has to, really. It’s written in pitch black in his contract.

“Yeah. Nah, I'm,” Oscar sighs, staring so hard at his board as if it could magically fill itself up. “I'm not going to go with that. I'm going to go with, uh.”

Lando laughs a bit, gently though, clearly holding back from teasing Oscar too much for his complete lack of football expertise.

“Is this your striker?” Lando asks, leaning into Oscar's personal space to peek at whatever name Oscar is scrambling to write down just to get it over with.

Oscar regrets his choice the second he looks up, only to find Lando staring at him with a mix of surprise and an amused smile tugging at his lips. His eyes have that mischievous spark again.

If anything, Lando looks utterly delighted.

“Ooooh, Carlitos,” Lando croons, his eyes locked dead on Oscar, his voice dropping, pitching a fraction lower than usual. 

Oscar feels a familiar feeling rising in the pit of his stomach. Like it always does when Carlos is mentioned.

Particularly when Lando’s the one mentioning him.

Using a fucking pet name, for God’s sake.

“I’m—uh, I’m,” Oscar stammers, unable to hold Lando’s gaze any longer. 

He silently curses himself for being so fucking obvious in front of the cameras, and curses Lando even harder for looking so smugly thrilled about it. 

Clearing his throat, he tries to salvage his pride. “I mean, I don’t know anyone’s actual football abilities. I’m assuming Carlos is pretty good. So I’m just hoping he can carry the whole team.”

Lando looks very pleased with Oscar's clumsy defense, his grin stretching even wider as he leans back.

“Yeah, okay,” Lando shrugs, his tone airy but pointed. “That was going to be my next pick, anyway.”

Oscar forces a smile at that and tries not to show too much.

The thing is, Oscar just can’t help it when it comes to Carlos.

It has been the case for so long that usually he doesn’t even pay attention to it anymore; to this itch on his skin every time Carlos hovers a bit too close, or the sour taste in his mouth when Lando spends an off-day with him playing golf.

It just lives there, in the back of his mind.

It had been the case even before Oscar joined McLaren, back when he was watching it all from afar, dreaming of it every night, aching with it.

And if the jealousy he felt back then toward Lando was strictly racing-related, for being an F1 driver, for having a seat at McLaren, the jealousy he felt toward Carlos was pretty much Lando-related.

He had watched every media clip, every interview from Lando’s early years at McLaren. He'd seen the way Lando acted around Carlos; the way he practically squirmed under his gaze, laughing entirely too hard at every single joke, flirting shamelessly whenever he got a bit ballsy. 

Oscar had seen it all.

It was probably the most jealous he had ever felt.

He never truly said it out loud, though. Because there was no point in saying it once Oscar sealed the deal with Lando – at that point, Carlos was long gone.

Now, Oscar is just reminded, sometimes, like today, that Carlos still exists in Lando’s life. Not often, but certainly often enough, and each time the hot, burning feeling comes back stronger, waking up the ugly beast inside him.

If Lando catches onto anything though, he doesn’t show it, and keeps playing this stupid game until both of their teams are completed.

Once they’re finally dismissed, Oscar sighs in relief. They both stand up pretty fast, thanking everyone in the crew before walking down the hallway toward the canteen where they’re supposed to have lunch.

Oscar doesn't even wait for them to get there. Halfway down the corridor, he catches Lando’s wrist, tugging just hard enough to force him to a halt.

“What—” Lando starts, spinning around with a blink of surprise.

Oscar makes sure nobody’s coming and pulls him against his chest, his arm wrapping around Lando's waist to keep him close while his free hand lifts to cup his jaw. He doesn’t give Lando the chance to finish his sentence before leaning in to kiss him.

Even though most of the team knows about them, they usually keep it discreet – not very keen on being seen and talked about. But after being teased for half an hour, and thinking about how sweetly Lando said ‘Carlitos’, Oscar feels a bit fuzzy in the head.

Being passed over by Lando just so he could pick fucking George Russell over him. What the fuck.

So he doesn’t really care right now about who might see them; he just needs his nerves to settle, his uncomfortable feeling to go away. 

Kissing Lando always helps.

It’s a bit of a caveman move, if he's being completely honest with himself. Asserting dominance in a hallway, reassuring his own stupid ego that Lando is still his. Kissing him as if marking his territory would actually change anything, letting himself pretend he owns him.

God. He makes himself cringe sometimes.

Lando doesn’t seem to mind, though, and lets Oscar do whatever the fuck he wants with him; parting his lips when Oscar’s tongue tries to push through, grabbing his bicep to keep his balance, and sighing against his mouth when Oscar’s hand slides a bit lower, to the curve of his ass.

They pull apart when they hear voices echoing down the corridor, and Oscar is met with a red, slick-lipped smile and glinting green eyes.

“Someone’s eager,” Lando says, amused, his body still pressed tight against Oscar's. He drags his fingertips slowly up the line of Oscar's arm, over his shoulder, until his hand cradles his jaw to force him back into a kiss. 

“I like it,” he adds against his lips, pecking them a few times.

Oscar just shrugs, clearing his throat.

There’s no fucking way he’ll admit what is currently going through his mind.

“You looked good,” he settles on, which is true but also because it’s a safe bet, Lando always loves a compliment. “Thought I’d do something about it.”

Lando arches a single eyebrow and watches Oscar with a quirked smile and a knowing look. He clearly doesn’t buy the excuse for a second, but he’s enjoying the lie anyway.

But the thought goes away as quickly as it came when Lando asks:

“Meet me in my room after lunch?” He looks up at Oscar, biting his lower lip absent-mindedly, even though he knows perfectly well that this flirting thing always does the job for Oscar. Always fucking does. “Jon should be off my back for about fifteen minutes.”

Oscar knows exactly what is on the table, and he doesn’t even pretend to hesitate.

He has never once turned down the opportunity for a quickie.

So he nods his head and the burning feeling slowly leaves his stomach, spreading warmth through his body as he watches Lando leave with a satisfied smile on his face. 

***

This feeling doesn’t come back until later that day.

Oscar is on his way out of the paddock, desperate to get back to their hotel room. After sweating for hours inside the car and the garage, he can't wait to wash off the sticky, grimy sensation clinging to his skin and get rid of this atrocious smell. 

Their ride back should be there any minute. They haven’t bothered to request separate cars since the beginning of the season, as they did before, assuming that it isn’t a big deal given they always stay in the same hotels anyway.

Sharing a car doesn’t automatically imply they share a bed, right? 

It really isn’t that suspicious.

And if people want to read something into it, they might as well just do it.

He finally stops at the designated pickup spot, waiting for Lando so they can finally leave and escape the suffocating Spanish heat.

Lando appears soon enough.

Not alone, though.

He’s walking side by side with Carlos and Carlos Sr, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he talks. Lando laughs loudly at something Carlos says, his head thrown back so far his throat is entirely exposed, his hand automatically reaching out to grip Carlos’s shoulder.

Oscar feels the jealousy crawling up his spine, spreading in hot waves behind his ribs when Lando catches him looking from a few meters away, and fucking smiles.

Quickly, he rips his gaze away instantly, forcing his attention onto whatever conversation the crew members next to him are having.

He takes a long, steady breath, reminding himself of his own stupid words. He's the guy who claimed he never gets jealous. 

Cool, calm, unbothered Oscar.

What a fucking idiot. He wants to punch himself in the face.

Unable to stop himself, he dares to look again, sees that they’ve stopped near what Oscar presumes is Carlos’s ride, watching them keep talking and laughing.

And he just keeps seeing it. The way Lando acts around Carlos.

It never went away after they stopped being teammates, did it?

He could try to shake himself out of it, convince himself that it’s okay – just two friends catching up, having a laugh. He should be able to do what he always does when people get too close to Lando, like flies to honey; move on, laugh it off because it doesn’t matter. 

These people don’t matter to Lando.

Not the way Oscar matters.

But there was a time when Lando and Carlos weren’t just friends, were they? A time when Carlos mattered just as much. 

Maybe that’s why the jealousy never really went away with him. 

Because before Oscar, there had been Carlos. 

Oscar has never been Lando’s first, like Lando was his.

Wasn’t his first teammate, wasn’t the first man he had sex with, wasn’t the first man he fell in love with.

Even though he knows, deep down, that Lando is loyal, faithful, devoted, that he loves him, Oscar can’t shake the feeling away: that everything that is his now was Carlos’s first. 

He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t even spot their car pulling up beside him, completely missing the driver rolling down the window to tell him to get in, his voice thick with a local accent.

He doesn’t even see Lando walking toward him until Lando is gently poking his ribs, standing close to him; close enough that he lets his fingers catch the hem of Oscar’s team polo, tugging a bit.

“Earth to Osc,” he says, tilting his head to the side, his eyes almost closed as he’s squinting against the sun shining right into them.

“Uh,” Oscar blinks, the word slipping out a bit dumbly as he forces his focus back. 

Lando frowns, a bit concerned, but quickly enough, his expression shifts into something else; something Oscar would maybe call satisfied, a bit smug, maybe.

“Everything alright, babe?” Lando asks, holding the van door open and waiting for Oscar to climb in first. 

He can actually be a gentleman like that sometimes.

“Sure,” Oscar replies, sliding onto the leather seat and immediately melting into the blast of the air-con. There is absolutely no fucking way he is letting his stupid Carlos-related insecurities spill out right now. “Just tired.”

Lando hums softly as he climbs in next to him. The door clicks shut and Lando turns to look at him, staring so intensely that Oscar wants to squirm, to shy away from his knowing gaze. 

If Lando doesn’t believe him, he doesn't call him out on it. Instead, he just rests his palm flat against Oscar’s thigh, his fingers digging into the skin there before he squeezes it gently.

***

It isn’t until the following day that Oscar truly begins to wonder if Lando is doing this on purpose.

They’ve only just made it to the fan stage, both of them a bit out of breath, having practically sprinted down the paddock because they were running so obscenely late.

Like they always were when Lando offered a quick sex session in the morning. Because the truth was, they were never, ever quick in the morning. 

They liked it lazy and slow under the tangled sheets, sharing warm, sloppy kisses and not giving a single fuck about their morning breath, stretching out the pleasure until they were both shaking with it.

That was precisely why they usually banned themselves from doing it on race weekends, preferring to save those heavy mornings for their rare days off, when they could actually take their time.

But Lando had been incredibly convincing when he rolled over onto Oscar’s chest earlier that morning, his hand sliding effortlessly between Oscar's thighs to squeeze his morning boner through the cotton of his briefs.

“Osc,” he’d slurred, the word thick with sleep and sounding almost pleading, his mouth pressed to Oscar’s neck, his hips starting to move, rolling slowly.

And really, what kind of a shitty boyfriend would Oscar have been to deny him that?

He doesn’t regret a single second of it, though. Not even when Lando grabs the mic at nine o'clock in the morning and shamelessly throws him under the bus, announcing bluntly to the roaring crowd that it’s entirely Oscar’s fault they’re late.

Fucker.

Oscar just rolls his eyes, letting out a laugh that’s still a little too soft, a little too blissed-out around the edges.

He is almost tempted to just admit it right there into his own microphone. 

To tell the whole world how weak he is whenever Lando is naked and warm against him, and that he’d happily take a hundred lectures from his team if it meant earning a few extra minutes in bed with him. 

Obviously, that would be career suicide. So he keeps his mouth shut and just shares a knowing, playful look with Lando.

Fan stages are usually fun, quick to pass – fifteen minutes tops and they’re out, able to focus on the racing only for the rest of the day.

But this one turns really, really bad. 

For him, at least.

Oscar is actively tuning out, perfectly content to let Lando handle the microphone and enjoying not being the center of attention for once. He's so checked out that the sudden mention of Carlos's name catches him completely off guard.

Before he can even stop himself, his entire body locks up, a sharp tension seizing his muscles as his head snaps automatically toward Lando, who doesn’t look back, his eyes glinting as he addresses the crowd.

“Actually, me and Carlos were speaking the other day,” Lando starts, his voice dripping with easy charm. He smiles broadly as the fans instantly erupt into screams at the mere mention of Carlos's name in his mouth. “And we said that, one day in Formula 1, we’ll definitely have a reunion of Carlando.”

The crowd cheers frantically, the noise deafening, and Lando’s smile only stretches wider, basking in the reaction.

Oscar feels his stomach sink. Before a single crack can show on his neutral expression, he forces himself to play along, plastering a tight, practiced smile onto his face and even forcing out a hollow laugh for the cameras.

But inside, the burning beast is waking up. It roars behind his ribs, turning his blood to acid and making his entire body feel like it’s catching fire.

(Later, scrolling through the inevitable edits that will pop up on the internet, he will realize that his poker face hadn't been convincing at all).

What the actual fuck is Lando saying?

A million things go through his mind: Lando announcing he’s leaving McLaren to team up with Carlos again, or worse – McLaren kicking Oscar out just to welcome Carlos back. 

He pictures Lando letting him down gently, a look of pure pity in his eyes and an apologetic smile on his face, telling him that it had been Carlos all along. 

That Oscar was just a detour.

He can feel his heartbeat racing inside his chest, and he does his absolute best to push all these thoughts away, to keep all the emotions he’s feeling locked inside, as he finally turns his head to Lando.

Lando who just laughs, entirely pleased with the chaos he’s managed to create.

“In a few years, maybe,” he adds, lifting a hand to playfully calm the shouting fans down. “Five years, six years, uh... Yeah.”

Oscar doesn’t listen to the rest of the interview, can’t really, too busy dealing with the range of emotions ripping through him at this exact moment.

He feels how clenched his jaw is, almost aching with the effort of keeping a smile on his face. How tense his shoulders are, his muscles burning with it. How heavy his stomach feels, like he’s going to be sick at any minute.

All he wants is to fucking get off this stage. He wants to slide his helmet on, pull the dark visor down, and lock himself away from the world. 

He wants to forget the sweet tone Lando used when he said Carlando; tasting the word, making it roll off his tongue like he was savouring a secret.

But something catches Oscar’s attention. He turns his head to find Lando looking expectantly right at him, a single brow raised in a silent question: what the fuck is going on with you?

Oscar almost wants to deny it right away. He wants to pretend that everything’s fine, that his blood hasn't been running white-hot for the past few minutes. But then he catches it. 

That light in Lando’s eyes. That spark he had back in Monaco.

Lando tilts his head to the side, a slow, knowing smirk curving his lips, like he’s daring Oscar to swear he’s not jealous again.

The beast inside Oscar growls, squeezing his insides uncomfortably, when he realizes he’s been played all weekend.

*** 

They don’t get to talk before they’re back at their hotel – there’s way too much to do with FP3, qualifying, briefings in between, data analysis, and training.

Oscar even asks for an extra stretching session with Arturri, feeling like he needs it; the frustration of messing up his qualifying, combined with the image of Lando being teammates with Carlos again, or worse, is still making his skin prickle.

Lando frowns when Oscar tells him, but he doesn’t argue; he just looks at Oscar over the physio’s shoulder and shrugs with a smile.

So it’s a bit late when Oscar finally comes back to their room.

He doesn’t know how to deal with it, with everything he’s feeling.

A part of him feels incredibly stupid for being this upset over something so trivial. 

But another, angrier part is deeply frustrated that Lando would willingly play with his insecurities just to prove a point. Just to have the satisfaction of looking down at Oscar and saying, I told you so.

Walking down the corridor to their room, he feels his hands starting to sweat, almost like he’s nervous.

He can’t keep pretending he’s not annoyed. It’s written all over his face – has been for the whole day, unable to laugh at something Lando said during lunch, or to focus properly, his thoughts narrowed to the potential end of their time as teammates.

And there’s no doubt that Lando had clocked it. 

If not from the pointed looks he gave him, then just because Lando seems to have a degree in understanding all of Oscar’s micro-expressions. 

Which Oscar often finds endearing, but right now, it feels more like a fucking curse.

But he can’t admit the depth of his thoughts either.

Sure, Lando knows Oscar isn't exactly fond of Carlos. The distaste must have shown on his face the very first time Lando casually confessed to having a past romantic relationship with his former teammate.

Oscar had felt physically sick that day, the jealousy running so hot and burning in his veins, the beast inside him crushing his stomach with its claws until he felt it rising in his throat, thinking about Lando and Carlos together.

He had barely nodded, acknowledging the confession while carefully avoiding asking the questions he was too terrified to hear the answers to: When did it start? How long did it last? Did you love him? 

Did you love him more than you love me?

He had pushed all the mental images as far away as possible and never shared too much about how it made him feel. It felt safer to keep it locked away, to keep his focus on how happy he was with Lando.

Looking back now, there was no doubt Lando had clocked it. 

He must have known since that day that Carlos would always be Oscar’s weak spot – a permanent trigger for his worst instincts and deepest insecurities.

Oscar hesitates for a second, his hand hovering, before swiping his key-card and taking a deep breath as the door unlocks.

The picture he sees walking in is painfully familiar: a large room, illuminated by a dim light filtering through the curtains, a huge bed in the middle; unmade because they forgot to ask for the daily clean-up this morning, too rushed to hang the sign on the door handle.

Then, two suitcases and two bags lined up against the wall, their pairs of shoes, their chargers plugged in on both sides of the bed.

Oscar’s favorite hoodie, which Lando had practically stolen and lived in the night before, lies discarded over the desk chair.

Next to it are a few colorful gifts from the fans. Lando always, without fail, insisted on bringing them back to the hotel, hoarding them like precious treasures to pack away in little boxes at home.

And then there’s Lando. 

Clearly fresh out of the shower, damp curls sticking to his forehead, sprawled casually against the headboard wearing nothing but a pair of briefs.

He looks up when Oscar comes in. 

He can already feel the tension in the air, ready to snap. 

Lando’s assessing eyes track Oscar's every move as he slips off his shoes by the door and drops his gear bag right next to Lando’s. Oscar can feel that heavy gaze like a physical weight, boring holes into his shoulder blades, his neck.

The thing is, Oscar doesn’t know what his next move should be.

He has no idea which version of Lando is waiting for him tonight.

If Lando’s done playing games and wants to talk. If Lando wants to make Oscar admit all the worst things he’s ever thought of. If Lando just wants to keep it going, rubbing salt into Oscar’s wounds.

When he finally turns around, Lando is still watching him with an enigmatic look on his face, giving nothing away save for the slightest hint of amusement by the way the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“Took you long enough,” Lando says, his eyes roaming slowly over Oscar’s body, from head to toe, then back up.

Oscar clears his throat. “Had to do a few more stretches.”

“Sure,” Lando scoffs, arching a brow. “Nothing you couldn’t have done here, though.”

“Um,” Oscar starts, but the words instantly die in his throat. He has no idea how to finish the sentence.

Because Lando is right.

Whenever they can, they usually do their cool-down stretches together in the privacy of their hotel rooms. They prefer it that way because those sessions almost always dissolve into them making out blindly on the floor – something that obviously can’t happen when Jon or Artturi are standing right there.

“So you’ve been avoiding me,” Lando concludes, like it finally answers a question he’s been asking himself since he left the track without Oscar.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Lando counters immediately. He slowly pushes himself away from the headboard, disentangling his legs from the sheets and moving toward the edge of the bed to get a better look at Oscar. “Why?”

“Don’t be stupid, I’m not avoiding you,” Oscar replies weakly, and it makes Lando’s mouth twitch upward again.

Lando shifts, sitting back on his heels. He extends a hand toward him, a silent gesture urging Oscar to bridge the distance, his head tilting with a slow, cat-like curiosity.

Oscar moves without even realizing he's decided to.

“What is it?” Lando asks, his voice dripping with faux-innocence. By now, Oscar is standing directly in front of him, so close that his knees continuously brush against the soft edge of the bed, right between Lando's splayed thighs.

Lando has his head tipped back to hold his gaze, looking at him through his ridiculous eyelashes, a devious grin on his lips.

From where he’s standing, Oscar is staring right down at the smooth expanse of Lando's chest, watching the subtle flex of his abs every time he inhales. 

His eyes linger on the small pendant hanging from the silver chain around Lando's neck. Oscar doesn’t even need to look closely to feel the weight of the two letters carved hidden beneath the bead.

O. P. 

A warmth spreads through his chest just thinking about it, and the beast inside him settles down, waiting for the right moment to crawl its way back up.

He has two options.

Deny everything. Pretend he’s just exhausted, frustrated, or even disappointed with his qualifying results. Blame the racing. Force himself to swallow the poison that’s been burning his throat all weekend – and for far longer than that.

Or.

“You know what it is,” he says. His hand comes up to cup Lando’s cheek, tilting his head a little further back, making Lando part his lips a little before humecting them with the tip of his tongue.

All in.

“Yes,” Lando admits without resistance, like he’s just been waiting for Oscar to come around, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to tell me, though.”

Of course Lando would make him spill it, forcing the words out of him. He always goes big on how important communication is; how essential it is to speak up instead of letting things left unsaid go sour. Something he’d learned from the various sessions he had with his therapist. 

Oscar agrees. Most of the time, he’s keen on talking things through. 

But right now? He deeply wishes Lando would just cut him some slack.

Which Lando never would. For obvious reasons.

The main one being that he enjoys being right way too much.

Oscar knows him well enough to know there's no way out, so he grits his teeth, braces himself against the sudden vertigo of his own honesty, and opens his mouth.

“I’m jealous.”

Admitting it out loud should feel like a crushing defeat.

But it doesn’t.

Not when he watches a deeply pleased, soft smile bloom across his boyfriend’s face. 

Lando’s fingers suddenly lock around Oscar’s wrist, his grip tightening as he tugs him forward, pulling him closer. He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to Oscar’s stomach through his t-shirt, inhaling deeply, before tipping his head back up to look at him.

“Thought you didn’t get jealous,” Lando murmurs, his tone laced with a quiet satisfaction.

“I lied,” Oscar breathes, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. “I am.”

“About what?” Lando pushes, just because he knows he can, because he has Oscar wrapped around his finger and, oh, Oscar is so incredibly fucked. He has been from the very beginning, when he’d desperately tried to pretend he didn’t give a single shit.

“You know exactly what,” Oscar repeats through clenched teeth.

He looks down, watching as Lando shifts on the mattress, rising to his knees until he’s almost entirely level with him. 

Lando’s eyes scan his face with quick efficiency, his pleased expression morphing into the sharp, knowing grin of a Cheshire cat.

“Yes,” Lando says again, whispering, his vocal cords almost vibrating with it. His hands have come up, locked behind Oscar’s neck now. “But I want you to say it.”

He’s so fucking stubborn Oscar can barely believe it. But looking into his eyes, he knows Lando won’t let it drop until Oscar spits it out. So he swallows past the lump in his throat and admits:

“Carlos.”

Lando hums, clearly satisfied with this answer. 

There’s not a hint of surprise on his face, confirming that he knew all along, knew all weekend that they would end up here; Lando making Oscar whisper all his darkest secrets, making him admit that he’s the ultimate goner when it comes to Lando.

Again, it should feel like a defeat, a weakness even, to lay himself bare in front of him. 

But it doesn’t. 

Not when he sees Lando’s gaze drop, locking onto his mouth as Lando unconsciously wets his own lips.

He has been playing Oscar for days, but he’s clearly not immune to his own game. His body is speaking for him now, dripping with a desire so thick and strong Oscar is dizzy with it.

Deep behind Oscar’s ribs, the roaring beast finally stretches out and purrs.

“What about him?” Lando coaxes softly.

Oscar just wants to get it over with, to move on, but he knows Lando won’t back off – won’t stop until he gets exactly what he wants.

“Fucking hate it when you talk about the two of you being teammates again,” he admits, his voice low, as if he doesn’t want to be heard, too ashamed to show his insecurities, his vulnerability. 

Lando’s grip tightens around his neck. He presses himself against Oscar, so close that Oscar can feel his heart beating behind his ribcage.

“What else?” he murmurs, practically against Oscar’s mouth, looking almost delirious with it. 

Oscar blames it entirely on the blood rushing south that he's still playing along, feeding into this twisted little game Lando engineered. 

He can’t think straight anyway.

Not when all he can see, all he can process, is Lando.

The sharp scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, the lust in his eyes.

“Drives me mad to think about you with him,” Oscar breathes, his eyes dropping to Lando’s mouth. “Can’t stand it when he touches you,” he trails off, his index finger lightly dragging across the sensitive skin of Lando’s neck, tracing down to his collarbone until it hooks firmly around his silver chain.

Then, Oscar pulls, forcing Lando that extra inch closer. 

He feels how tense Lando’s body goes instantly, how shallow his breath gets, and how big he grows under his briefs. 

Oscar’s mouth goes dry just looking at it. 

“Yeah?” Lando rasps, lips parted, body coiled tight like he’s about to surge forward and devour him.

Oscar nods slowly, refusing to break eye contact, refusing to hide anymore. Right in front of him, Lando’s pupils blown wide and dark, swallowing up the blue-green of his eyes.

“Wanna do something about it?” Lando asks, his hands sliding down from Oscar's neck to drag over his shoulders, then his chest. His fingers squeeze firmly over his pecs, his thumbs intentionally brushing against his hardening nipples like an afterthought. “Wanna fuck me about it?”

Oscar’s breath hitches violently, and his dick, the fucker, twitches in interest. His hands grip Lando’s narrow waist by pure reflex, fingers digging into his hips to pull him flush against his body.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is; being played by Lando like a cat with a mouse, being exposed, being led by the throat to the exact spot where the trap snaps shut on him.

But he is entirely helpless against him. His blood starts running hot in his veins, and it has nothing to do with the suffocating jealousy of the past few days, and everything to do with the breathless, near-naked man kneeling right in front of him.

“If I do,” Oscar starts, fighting a losing battle to keep his voice even. “Will you drop it?”

Lando’s smile turns smug. Without a word, one of his hands slides down Oscar's stomach, slipping lower until he's cupping Oscar’s heavy length through his shorts. He squeezes, making a pathetic whimper catch in Oscar’s throat.

“Talking about Carlos, you mean?” Lando purrs.

Just to take the piss. Just because he can.

Oscar groans, his patience snapping completely. 

What a fucking prick.

Before Lando can even blink, Oscar grips him by the hips, digging his fingers into his skin, and drives him backward onto the mattress. In one swift motion, he yanks Lando's underwear down and off.

Lando lets out a breathless laugh as he’s forced down onto his back, Oscar immediately crowding over him, pinning him down under the heavy weight of his body. Lando looks entirely pleased with himself, his legs already parting to welcome him.

His fingers instantly find their way under the waistband of Oscar’s underwear, curling tightly around his dick—full-on hard, leaking, and throbbing against Lando's palm.

Oscar chokes on a breath, his forehead dropping against Lando's shoulder as he snaps:

“Stop saying his name when you have your hand around my fucking dick, fuck.”

Lando just laughs this time, tilting his chin up, blindly asking for a kiss, but Oscar denies him. He’s too busy stripping, using one hand to shove his shorts and briefs down his thighs, driven by a sudden urge to feel Lando’s bare skin against his own.

“Come on, Osc,” Lando whines, the sound high and needy in his throat. His fingers tug insistently at the nape of Oscar's neck. “Gimme a kiss.”

Oscar ignores the plea, kicking his discarded clothes off the edge of the mattress before rising to his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head. 

Once the fabric is tossed away, he drops right back over Lando's twitching body, bracing his weight on his elbows on either side of Lando’s head. 

He stops an inch from his lips, looking down at the delicious pout forming on Lando's face.

“You really think you deserve a kiss after playing me all weekend?”

Lando giggles, squirming happily under Oscar’s weight as he catches his lower lip between his teeth. Cheeky bastard. He murmurs, his voice thick and sweet like honey:

“Was fun, though. Watching you get all jealous and possessive,” he says, pausing for a breathless beat as his stroke suddenly speeds up between Oscar’s thighs. “‘S really hot, baby.”

Oscar groans, his eyes snapping shut as Lando’s thumb hitches over his ridge, doing something so right that it scatters his thoughts.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Oscar breathes through clenched teeth, his hips helplessly catching up with Lando’s rhythm now, rolling forward to fuck into the tight, slick circle of Lando's fingers.

“I love you so much,” Lando replies without missing a beat. Even though he’s still smiling with all his teeth on display, his gaze softens, turning into something tender and earnest, making Oscar’s heart go wild in his chest.

He can’t help but smile, shaking his head at how stupid he’s been; spending the weekend feeling like shit, losing his mind in silence, all because Lando is a fucking brat when he wants to be. 

Just Lando being Lando, pushing his buttons for the hell of it. 

“Love you too, you muppet,” Oscar replies as he finally closes the gap, kissing him slowly, feeling Lando laugh against his lips.

Lando kisses him back greedily, his free hand pulling Oscar even closer by his neck, opening his mouth enough for Oscar to get the message and start kissing a bit messier, a bit sloppier.

Oscar happily obliges, pressing his entire weight against Lando, his fingers tangling into his curls to keep him exactly where he wants him. 

Then, one of his hands leaves Lando’s hair, sliding down the warm column of his neck, over his shoulder, and down his flank until it hooks firmly over his hip. He squeezes the soft skin there, urging Lando to lift his leg.

Lando smiles into the kiss and does exactly as he’s silently asked. His leg hooks tightly around Oscar’s waist, allowing Oscar’s hand to dive under, right between his cheeks, the sudden contact making Lando arch up off the bed with a soft gasp.

“Osc,” he rasps, breathless, his mouth bruised-red and glistening with their shared spit.

Oscar only hums against his skin, his lips already busy tracing a path down Lando's neck, forgetting, second by second, why he was even upset in the first place, when he’s the one who gets to see Lando like this. 

The one who makes Lando feel like this. 

No one else.

“Just so you know,” Lando goes on, his breath hitching when Oscar’s thumb brushes against his rim. “I wouldn’t want anybody else as a teammate.”

That makes Oscar smile against his skin. 

Always trust Lando to finally speak his mind when his hormones are running sky-high.

Oscar allows himself to sink his teeth there, into the sensitive crook of his neck – just because he can, and because Lando has been a massive pain all weekend, deliberately pinching at Oscar’s bruises. 

He keeps it gentle, though. He can’t risk leaving a hickey for the media and the fans to analyze. 

Even with his dick firmly in his boyfriend’s hand, Oscar remains a responsible man.

Oscar lifts his head, looking down at Lando. He keeps his hips moving in an easy, steady rhythm, leaking between Lando’s fingers and making every slick stroke feel even better than the last.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice strained.

Lando nods frantically; up and down, up and down. 

And Oscar can feel exactly how much Lando wants more, his hips bucking up to push blindly against Oscar’s fingers; getting so overwhelmed that the rhythm of his hand stroking Oscar begins to falter, losing its coordination.

“Wouldn’t want anybody else as a boyfriend, either,” he says, tilting his head back against the mattress, his eyes going a bit hazy when Oscar presses the pad of his thumb inside.

Oscar feels a warmth spreading through his body – nothing like the heavy feeling he’s been carrying all weekend, but something consuming, coming from the pit of his gut, making his head feel fuzzy.

He didn’t know he could get that possessive, didn’t know it would be such a turn-on to hear those words from Lando’s mouth. 

But he should have known that Lando would know that.

He smiles despite himself, pushing his thumb all the way in. Lando hisses through his teeth, eyes snapping shut for a second before he melts, relaxing enough for Oscar to finally start moving.

It’s something Oscar knows he will never get tired of; just how incredibly responsive Lando is. Every single thing he wants, every single thing he needs, is written clearly across his features. 

A private map, laid out just for Oscar to read.

“Good,” Oscar murmurs against his skin, pressing kisses all over his face; on his eyelids, his cheekbone, the tip of his nose, his parted lips.

“I don’t care about him,” Lando says, a little firmer, doing his absolute best to keep his voice from wavering. “Don’t care about anyone else,” he adds, opening his eyes to look straight at Oscar. “Just care about you.”

The warmth floods deeper, rushing up Oscar's chest, down his arms, settling behind his ribs and pulsing heavy between his legs. 

He feels drunk on it – on the shameless, raw love Lando is offering him, on the pure adoration glowing in his eyes, and the way Lando's body seems explicitly made for Oscar to cherish.

“Are you saying all this just because you want to get laid?” Oscar asks. He's smiling now, his lighter mood finally letting him tease him back. 

Which makes Lando laugh, clenching tight around his finger.

“Obviously,” Lando retorts, pushing at Oscar’s chest with his free hand, forcing him to move. He lets go of his dick without any ceremony, making Oscar groan in the process.

If he had dared to do that to Lando, he would definitely whine.

And pout for a minute straight.

Oscar just lets him shuffle around the bed, watching with an amused smile as Lando settles back against the pillows, his legs already parted. 

Lando looks down between them, casually hooking a hand behind his right knee to pull his thigh tight against his chest, opening himself up completely.

“You coming or…?”

“That’s quite a sight,” Oscar says conversationally, crawling forward between his knees.

Lando snorts, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks flush a faint pink. 

“Nothing you’ve ever seen before, right?”

“Right,” Oscar echoes. He leans toward the bedside table to grab the lube, wasting no time pouring a generous amount over his fingers before tossing the bottle carelessly onto the mattress.

Lando lets out a pleased sound the moment Oscar presses his slick finger against his rim, slipping inside with barely any resistance this time.

He hooks his fingers over Oscar’s shoulder, pulling him a bit closer, his other hand slipping down between their bodies so he can start to jerk them off lazily, just to keep them… interested.

“God,” Oscar mutters, staring down to where both of their dicks disappear into Lando’s tight fist. “That’s hot.”

“No shit,” Lando scoffs, preening just a bit under the praise. 

But the smug smile vanishes from his face the exact second Oscar pushes a second finger inside; replaced by a grimace, his eyebrows tight, jaw locking under the sudden stretch.

On anyone else, the expression would probably be unattractive.

But even like that, Oscar is still convinced Lando is the hottest man on this damn Earth.

Oscar keeps at it for a few minutes, stretching him open with a deliberate sort of care, mostly because he intends to fuck him properly.

But also because he loves that part – where Lando goes all soft under his touch, forcing his muscles to give in, doing these breathing exercises he always does to get there.

He makes the loveliest sounds, little rasps catching in the back of his throat every single time Oscar shifts his fingers inside him.

By now, Lando’s hand has gone nearly still, his grip just barely moving against their dicks in lazy strokes, doing just enough to take the edge off.

“Wanna move around a bit?” Oscar asks, running a soothing hand over Lando’s hip. He must be getting sore by now, stretched out in a position Jon would kill him for if he saw it.

“Nah,” Lando mumbles, eyes firmly shut and mouth slack. “‘M good here.”

“Okay, pillow princess,” Oscar snorts softly.

“Hey!” Lando protests, his eyes snapping open as his fingers tighten defensively around their lengths. “That’s rude.”

“Get to work, then,” Oscar says, patting Lando's hip one last time before pulling his fingers out, earning a rather pathetic moan for it.

Disengaging from between Lando's legs, Oscar shifts to the side and settles flat on his back right next to him, making himself comfortable with one arm propped behind his head. 

Then, he nods down toward his own lap, where his dick is standing completely hard, leaking a slow bead of pre-come against his stomach.

“Come on.”

For a second, Lando looks like he’s going to argue, just for the petty sake of it. 

But Oscar knows him too well. He knows how much Lando secretly loves to be the one on top – controlling the pace, setting the depth, and showing off just because he can.

“Fine,” Lando sighs eventually. Oscar has to fight the urge to roll his eyes – as if Lando is doing him a massive favor. “But that’s only because I’ve made you mad.”

Lando shifts, carefully climbing over Oscar to straddle his lap. He plants one hand firmly against Oscar’s chest to steady his balance, while his other slips down behind him, his fingers wrapping around Oscar’s hard length to guide the wet tip right between his cheeks.

“Is this your way of saying sorry?” Oscar asks, tilting his head back against the pillows to meet his gaze.

Lando flushes a deep pink under his tan. He grinds down slightly, shifting his weight until Oscar can feel the blunt head of his cock pressing right against Lando’s tight hole.

“Maybe,” Lando breathes.

“Are you, though?”

He’s barely finished asking when Lando sinks down on him. Oscar isn't fully prepared for it; the sudden friction forces him to squeeze his eyes shut as he feels Lando stretch impossibly wide around his length, taking him all in.

It’s the absolute best feeling he’s ever experienced in his life.

Damn.

Well. Right after winning a race.

(Maybe.)

“I am,” he hears Lando murmur against his ear, his voice pitched incredibly low, softer and more earnest than he’s been all evening. “‘M sorry, baby. Didn’t want you to feel bad.”

Oscar feels his heart swell behind his ribs, as if it’s physically expanding to clear more space for the sheer amount of love he carries for him.

He exhales slowly, shifting his hips slightly to settle fully inside, making them both groan, cursing under their breath.

“Lemme make it up to you,” Lando slurs, gently rocking his hips back and forth, forcing Oscar to go deep, deeper.

Lando pushes Oscar back against the cushions, letting go of his shoulders so he’s only using his core strength, his strong thighs to keep it going, to keep moving.

Putting on a fucking show, really, Oscar thinks, staring up at him in a daze. He rests his palms flat against Lando’s thighs, tracking the rhythmic tension of the muscles flexing beneath his hands.

He looks gorgeous like this – his head tipped back, his eyes closed, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Oscar takes it all in: the way his abs tense, the way his cock slaps against his stomach, the sound of his voice, moaning shamelessly.

How could Oscar even stay mad at him anyway?

They keep it going for a few minutes but soon enough, Oscar stops thinking about anything but how good Lando feels around him, how close he already is. All that built-up tension from the weekend has left him starved, desperate to chase the release his body has been craving. 

And as incredible as it is to have Lando Norris putting on a show on top of him, Oscar needs more. He needs him close.

So he lifts himself up just enough to loop his arms around Lando's waist, pushing his hips up into him. The sudden depth makes Lando jolt, his body bouncing hard against Oscar's lap.

“F-fuck,” Lando curses, a bit delirious, his hands gripping Oscar’s neck again to steady himself.

It only takes a second of eye contact for Lando to get it. Rather smoothly, Oscar shifts his weight, rolling them both backward until Lando is sprawled flat on his back beneath him, looking up at Oscar like he’s about to eat him.

“Please,” Lando breathes, hooking his legs around Oscar’s waist, urging him to come back inside.

As he always does, Oscar obliges.

The pace he goes for is frenetic; unable to hold himself back when Lando makes all these tiny sounds, his ridiculously long fingers wrapping around his leaking dick, jerking himself roughly.

Minutes pass in a blur, Oscar driving into him until Lando can't take it anymore.

“Osc,” he pleads, about nothing in particular.

But Oscar has learned to read between the lines by now; he knows Lando is right on the edge and wants to ride his orgasm with Oscar still fucking him deep.

“Yes, baby,” Oscar replies. Drops of sweat are forming at the back of his neck and down his spine, a familiar feeling building big and hot behind his pubic bone.

Lando’s hand moves faster, his grip tightening, as Oscar fucks into him in earnest, until he feels Lando's entire body go rigid underneath him, hot cum spilling between their stomachs and catching on their sweaty skin.

Oscar keeps going, doing his best to maintain the pace – hard and deep, his muscles screaming with the effort.

He doesn’t understand how Lando can even stand it; Oscar is always way too sensitive right after he comes, unable to bear any friction, needing to focus entirely on his own release. But Lando… Lando always wants to push it further, needing to feel his body go completely insane with it.

“Can I–”

“Yes,” Lando gasps, cutting him off before he can even finish, his breath ragged as he tightens his grip on Oscar’s bicep with his free hand.

Thank fuck.

It’s like he unleashes everything then, his body completely taking over as he chases his own release. He can feel how Lando still clenches tightly around him, how Lando is still whispering the softest and dirtiest things right against his ear and—

It floods him entirely. His whole body goes taut as he comes, waves of pleasure washing over him. He clings to Lando, pressing his forehead against his, both of them breathing the exact same air.

Now, this is the best feeling he’s ever had, he corrects himself, completely cock-dumb, his mind lost in the heaviest fog for long minutes.

“You need to get off, babe,” Lando says after a beat, his voice soft, a bit hoarse.

And damn right, Oscar knows he does. He knows they’re both a mess; covered in sweat, lube, and probably cum from both of them.

They definitely need a shower.

He just wishes he could stay right here a little longer. 

Until they can go again, maybe.

They probably could, Oscar reckons, in just a few minutes. The perks of being young and having a fucking hot boyfriend—

But then Lando moves under him. Oscar winces as his dick slides out by itself. 

He sighs, defeated (if he is being a bit dramatic), before dropping beside Lando, half on top of him, his arm secured around Lando’s waist, his face hidden in the crook of his neck.

“Damn,” Lando breathes, tracing abstract patterns on Oscar’s back. “If I knew sex would be this good, I wouldn’t have done anything earlier.”

Oscar laughs, tightening his embrace around him, pressing a lingering kiss on his shoulder before lifting his head up to look at him. 

“That was a whole lot of effort just to prove a stupid point, though,” he replies, even though he knows his eyes are softer than ever. 

“You should know better by now, Piastri,” Lando giggles, poking at him. “Never rage bait me.”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but he can't help but nod.

Yep. Lesson learned. 

He’s never doing it again.