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The 2024 F1 season comes to a close in early December. Lando, who’d lost the championship weeks before, is more than ready for it to be over. He polishes off the last race in Abu Dhabi, has his annual ice cream get-together with George in his hotel room, slogs through the end of season press obligations, shows his face at the gala and then retreats back home to the UK.
Not to his flat in Woking, cold and bland and soulless, but to Oscar’s cramped apartment in London.
For a week, it’s bliss. Lando shares his boyfriend’s bed, Oscar clinging like a koala in his sleep. He lounges around on the couch while Oscar’s at the helpline, sprawls across his lap when he’s recording his videos. At the end of each day, Lando helps him cook dinner, and then Oscar feeds it to him on his knees under the kitchen table. They have sex practically every night, making up for lost time during the season, and Lando loves every second of it.
All good things come to an end, though. The week of Christmas rolls around eventually, and Lando can’t put off going home any longer.
He carefully repacks his stuff back in the bag he’d brought over. His clothes had all cycled through the wash with Oscar’s things over the course of the week, and now carry the same lemon-fresh scent of his laundry detergent. It’s familiar, even after only six months of dating. Homey. Comforting. Lando never saw himself as the type of sub to have a thing about his dom’s clothes, but, well. Looks like he’s a bit of a walking stereotype in that regard.
Oscar walks in on Lando pressing one of his hoodies to his face while he’s packing, burying his nose in the collar, and quirks a brow.
Lando scowls at him, caught out. “Don’t judge me, Piastri.”
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re going to miss me,” Oscar says, amused.
Lando huffs, turning back to his folding. He can feel his cheeks heating.
Long arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back against Oscar’s chest. The dom presses a kiss to his cheek. “It’s just three nights, baby,” he murmurs in Lando’s ear. “That’s practically nothing.”
Lando hums, indifferent. It’s not really about the time spent away, although he’s not looking forward to that either. Oscar knows that, though.
“You’ll be okay, Lan,” he says, slightly too understanding for comfort. “It’ll be fine.”
Lando sighs, slumping back into the embrace. “Yeah. I know,” he mutters. “It’s. It’ll be fine.”
Hopefully, Lando thinks darkly to himself.
He leaves on the 23rd, Oscar sending him off with a firm snog, a brisk pat on the bum and a reminder to behave. Lando had somewhat naively thought, back in the early days of their relationship, that the embarrassment would fade with exposure. Oscar wouldn’t be able to turn him into a blushing mess with even the most oblique reference to their domestic discipline arrangement forever.
Joke’s on him, he’s still going red.
But Oscar gets a kick out of it – Lando knows him much better now, knows the subtle shifts in posture and expression that give away when he’s feeling particularly smug about something – so Lando doesn’t mind too much. He likes pleasing Oscar. He likes being encouraged to please him, if you catch his drift, and corrected when he doesn’t. Even out of the bedroom, at times, although there are boundaries around what’s fair game to punish outside a scene. He likes their arrangement, and he likes that Oscar likes it, so Lando doesn’t mind being a tad humiliated about it on occasion.
(That’s actually part of what Lando likes about it, in fact, and they both know it. Oscar’s just gracious enough to not acknowledge it, usually – not outside of kink negotiation, that is. All cards have to be on the table in those discussions.)
Oscar waves as Lando pulls out of the driveway of his apartment complex, and fuck, Lando misses him already. He wishes Oscar was coming with him. He wishes he wasn’t going alone. But he wasn’t going to subject his boyfriend to a Norris Christmas. Not without laying some groundwork, at least.
He arrives at his parents’ house in the late afternoon. His mum buzzes him in through the gate and comes out into the snow to meet him, flinging her arms around his shoulders and clucking over how well he looks.
Lando knows he’s in much better shape than he’s previously been after a long season. Oscar saw to that. A week’s worth of early nights, home-cooked meals, and more time in subspace than he’s had in years has Lando practically glowing. It’s nice to know his mum sees it, too, although Lando’s not exactly raring to tell her the cause. She’d probably have a conniption or something.
She ushers him inside and upstairs to his childhood bedroom, then leaves him to freshen up. Lando takes ten minutes to himself, getting his head in order, before he heads back down to join the festivities. His sisters have both been home for days already due their mother’s campaign for company over the holiday season. They eagerly enfold him in what they’ve been up to – decorating the house, curating the Christmas playlist, and helping out in the kitchen. Lando even manages to somewhat impress them with his skills. He’s no Gordon Ramsay, but he’s no longer a complete hazard.
Oscar saw to that, too. They’ve reenacted we should probably cook dinner enough times now for Lando to be borderline proficient, as long as he’s given instructions. To the girls who remember all his worst culinary disasters, it’s practically miraculous.
It’s nice. There’s something about the atmosphere that brings back the feel of his childhood, from the early days before Lando got his diagnosis, before his relationship with his family got so fraught. It’s delightfully uncomplicated, running around with Flo and Cissie, for once. They must be feeling the nostalgia, too. Neither of them makes any reference to his dynamic. Neither of them brings up his meltdown at Silverstone, although Lando’s too jaded to think that’ll last forever.
The media frenzy in the aftermath was a convenient excuse to brush off his family’s questions, but Lando knows he’ll have to pay the piper soon.
Everything goes smoothly for the first few days, when it’s just Lando and his mum and his sisters, his dad ducking in and out in the background. Christmas dawns, bright and early, with Cissie coming in to drag him out of bed by the ankles. They open presents in their pyjamas, and Lando calls Oscar – who’s alone in London, working extra shifts on the line to cope with the staffing demands of the holiday season, his family unable to travel to visit him this year – to wish him a merry Christmas.
“Thank you, baby,” Oscar says on the other end of the line. “How’s it going with your family?”
Lando pulls a face at himself in the reflection of his bedroom window. He’s up there alone, getting dressed before the rest of his relatives descend on the house. “Early days, yet. Everyone’s about to arrive, apparently, so. We’ll see how things play out.”
Oscar hums. “I’d better let you go, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you then, Osc.”
He hangs up and finishes changing, then heads back downstairs to help tidy up, set the table, and put the finishing touches on the meal. His brother’s family pull into the driveway a few minutes later, and Lando’s grandparents appear shortly afterwards.
It all unravels from there.
They’re sitting down for Christmas lunch, and the parallels to 2023 are giving Lando some serious déjà vu. Everyone’s cooing over Oliver’s kids, as usual. Lando loves ‘em, loves being the fun uncle, always volunteers to watch them when he’s in town and his brother and his wife want a night off, but Lando doesn’t love the noises his parents like to make at these times about more grandkids. His grandparents, of course, only fuel the fire. Flo’s been seeing a guy on and off, and Cissie’s recently started texting a new boy. They’re passed over fairly quickly. Soon enough, Lando’s in the crosshairs.
“My friend Nancy has a granddaughter, you know,” his nan says to him, encouraging. “She’s a lovely girl – Olivia, I think her name is. Grew up right around the corner from us. You should come over, dear, I can introduce you.”
Lando laughs it off, uncomfortable. “That’s – that’s all good, thanks, Nanna. I’m not really looking at the moment.”
His mum tuts. “I know you’re busy, darling, but you’ve got some time over the break. Why not give it a try?”
Cissie adds, “It’s not like you’re, I dunno, pledging undying love. It’s just a date. Maybe see how it goes?”
“Uh, I’m not – no,” Lando replies, slightly firmer. “No, thank you. I’m just –”
Flo interjects, because that girl just can’t help herself. “Resigned to being sad and alone forever?”
“Flo!” Cisca Norris frowns. “Don’t speak to your brother like that. It’s not a crime to be single –”
“I’m not.”
The conversation pauses. All eyes turn towards Lando.
“I, um. I’m actually seeing someone at the moment,” he continues, slightly stilted.
It takes his mum a moment to rally herself. She smiles widely. There’s a tightness to the expression, though. “Oh – that’s nice, dear,” she says. “Who’s, erm. Is…”
“His name’s Oscar,” Lando says softly.
“Ah, how nice,” she says, smile becoming brittle. “And is – is he…”
“A dom?”
Her smile tightens further.
Lando swallows. “Yes, uh. He is.”
His mother’s smile wavers. Flo’s smirking. Cissie’s wide-eyed, glancing between them, unsure. Everyone else is painfully silent. The tension between them is cloyingly thick.
Lando knew this was coming, but it still hurts. He doesn’t understand why it’s such a big deal. He’s twenty-five. He presented at twelve. They’ve had thirteen years to get used to the idea that he might end up with a dom, even if Lando spent at least a solid ten of them sticking his head in the sand and obstinately pretending he didn’t want to.
Abruptly, Lando’s sick of it.
“He’s – he’s from Australia,” he says shakily, the words tumbling over each other in his haste to get them out. “From Melbourne. He moved here as a teenager for – for karting, actually, isn’t that mad? Went to boarding school. Couldn’t find sponsors after a certain point and thought it was, like, a waste of money, so he pulled out before single seaters.”
He pauses, licking his lips nervously. Nobody says anything.
“He…he went to King’s College. Studied psychology, graduated top of his class, I think two years ago? He works in emergency services. He has three younger sisters, he likes to cook, he plays cricket on the weekends –”
Lando chokes around the lump in his throat. There’s a tell-tale tremble in his voice when he continues.
“He’s – he’s just – he’s wonderful, y’know?” Lando says quietly. “I really like him.”
Absolute silence.
Lando doesn’t know what he expected, honestly. He takes a deep breath, nods shortly, and stuffs a bite of pork in his mouth, attention fixed firmly on his plate. He blinks rapidly in the hopes that no tears will fall.
After a minute, Lando’s mum clears her throat. “Well,” she coughs. Lando’s surprised to hear the thickness in her voice. “He sounds…he sounds great, darling. Oscar, you said?”
Lando nods. He doesn’t look up.
“You’ll have to bring him over, sometime,” she says.
Lando nods again. He takes another deep breath. Some of the tension seeps out of his frame. “Er, yeah. Will do.”
Slowly, the meal resumes around him. The soft clink of cutlery on plates is interspersed with quiet conversation. They let the subject drop, but nobody says much else to Lando until the plates are cleared away. Lando breathes through it, and tells himself it’s fine. It could’ve gone much worse. Nobody was too weird about it. Nobody was horrible. He didn’t embarrass himself and burst into tears at the table, so he’s counting it as a tentative success, but he knows he’s not in the clear yet.
The festivities wind down quickly. His grandparents don’t linger long. Nanna hugs him at the door, one-armed and distantly awkward. His grandfather just sort of grunts vaguely in his direction, but that’s nothing new. After they depart, Savannah rounds up the kids and makes herself scarce as well. By the time the clock strikes three, it’s just Lando’s immediate family left behind – his mum and dad, his brother, his sisters.
They dawdle over wiping down the table and washing the dishes and storing all the leftovers back in the fridge. Eventually, they can’t stall any longer. They end up in the living room, all six of them. Lando’s curled up in the armchair closest to the antique fireplace. He’d run upstairs the instant everyone had left, exchanging his nice presentable sweater for his favourite oversized hoodie. He huddles into it now, tucking his chin under the collar.
It still smells like lemons. Like Oscar. That’s what gives him the courage to kick things off.
“So. Ask away.”
It cuts through the chatter immediately. His siblings fall silent. His father’s jaw clenches.
Lando shrugs at the looks they give him. “C’mon, I’ve grilled all of you about your partners,” he says to his siblings, smiling humourlessly. “I know it’s coming.”
Oliver, uncharacteristically, is the first to break the silence. “This Oscar fellow. How long?”
“Six months, give or take.”
His brother frowns. “Not a fling, then.”
Lando rolls his eyes. “No, not a fling.”
“Got a picture?” Flo asks, stretching out along the couch.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lando says primly. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, opening his photos and scrolling to a selfie taken in the gap between Singapore and Austin.
On a rare weekend when they were both free, they’d taken a daytrip to the seaside. The weather was shit, for the most part, but for about an hour after lunch the sky had cleared, the autumn sun beating down on them as they’d walked barefoot along the beach. Lando was the one to take the picture, one arm holding the phone and the other around Oscar’s waist. Oscar has an arm slung over his shoulders, tucking Lando into his side. They’re both grinning, squinting a little into the glare, waves glittering in the background.
He leans forward, tilting the phone so that his siblings can see. They all peer at the screen. His mum does, too, but his dad barely casts it a glance.
“He’s cute,” Cissie says, surprised.
Flo’s eyebrows are raised. “He seems so normal.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” she waves a hand vaguely. “He just looks harmless. You sure he’s actually dominant?”
Lando stares at her, dumbfounded. “Yes, Flo,” he says slowly, “I’m sure.”
The duh he wants to tack on the end is clear enough in his tone.
“He just doesn’t look like someone who’d be into anything crazy, is all,” she says defensively. “I mean, can any of you picture that guy doing the whole whips and chains –”
Lando’s properly annoyed now. “Are you serious?”
Flo looks up from the phone and scowls. “Don’t pretend it’s not true.”
“It’s not,” Lando bites out. “Christ, do you – you have no idea what you’re talking about, do you? It’s not like that, it’s not what you see on the bloody telly.”
He knows the exact picture she has in her head. The stereotypical dominant, at least in the UK, is a tall, strapping, buff guy dressed head to toe in black leather, wielding a crop or some other implement, with a dopey little sub on a leash at their feet. Intense. Imposing. Intimidating.
Oscar is very much not that type of guy.
Lando can understand why the stereotype exists. Doms, subs and switches have only openly been depicted in movies and shows for twenty-odd years. Representation’s much better than it used to be, but most fictional characters are still typecasted as neutrals. Dynamics were thought of as purely a sex thing for a very long time, not appropriate to show on-screen. Perceptions are changing, but they’re changing slowly. For people who don’t know many doms personally, this caricature of dominance is how they picture them in real life.
Some doms are like that, of course. Most of them aren’t. They’re just people, the same as any other dynamic type.
Flo glances heavenward. “If you say so,” she says insouciantly.
Lando grits his teeth. He locks his phone and sticks it back in his pocket. Everyone leans back in their seats. Flo’s still lounging lazily. Cissie tucks her legs underneath her in a subconscious attempt to seem smaller. Oliver’s eyeing him warily. His mum’s gaze is distant, fixed on a spot on the rug. His dad’s jaw is still clenched tight.
There’s a beat before Cissie says, “But he’s – he’s good to you, right? He doesn’t…er…he doesn’t, uh, hit you or anything?”
It comes out weakly. Cissie cringes as she says it, as if she knows she’s put her foot in her mouth, but not quite sure how else to phrase it. The question – it’s rude, it’s intrusive, it’s crossing a line that his family have only ever prodded before. Lando considers how he wants to answer. There are ways to soften it, to skirt around the reality of what his biology drives him to seek out, to sidestep the truth of his tastes, but he’s not sure he can be bothered being tactful.
If his baby sister wants to go there, he’s happy to oblige.
“He does.”
There’s an immediate uproar from his siblings. Lando continues, stubbornly talking over them.
“Consensually. Y’know, in scenes. We’ve negotiated, made sure it’s safe. He doesn’t just, like, haul off and hit me whenever, Jesus.”
“Mate,” his brother hisses, “why would –”
“Look, I asked him to,” Lando says, exasperated. “You wanted to know. You asked! Fuck’s sake, don’t get all pissy if you don’t like the answer.”
His mum looks distraught. “Lando, darling, we’re just –”
“God, that’s so fucked up.”
“How could you possibly want this guy to –”
“Because I fucking like it, okay?” Lando snaps, surging forward.
His voice rings off the high ceiling. He’s practically shouting. His eyes are burning again.
“I like it,” he repeats more quietly. “That’s – that’s normal, for people like me.”
His family looks gobsmacked. Cissie’s mouth has dropped open, ever so slightly.
His dad scoffs, lip curling in disgust. “Can’t imagine why.”
It’s the first thing he’s said to Lando pretty much all day. The first thing he’s said to him since he arrived, really, that wasn’t just cordial greetings or empty pleasantries. It feels like he’s taken a knife to Lando’s ribs. He flinches, but then he straightens, eyes blazing. He turns to face his father, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists.
“Yeah. ‘Course you can’t,” Lando sneers. “You don’t get it. You never have, you never tried. And it’s – this isn’t actually about what I do with Oscar, is it? It’s about me.”
He’s so angry he almost feels sick.
“There’s nothing wrong with the things I like,” Lando spits, cutting and sharp. “They’re all perfectly normal. Tame, even, by most standards.” He pauses, and takes a deep breath. “There’s nothing wrong with me being submissive. And you – you all need to stop acting like there is.”
Dead silence.
“Right. Cool. Good talk, everyone,” Lando mutters sarcastically under his breath. “Let’s leave at that, shall we?”
He surges to his feet jerkily, hands shoved in his pockets, and makes a beeline for the door.
No-one stops him.
No-one says a word.
Lando hesitates on the threshold, and releases a long, shuddering sigh. “For the record, Cissie,” he says eventually, “Oscar is good to me. He’s great. We’re – I mean, we’re compatible, y’know? We’re a good fit for each other. I’m…I’m really happy.”
On that note, Lando walks out.
The rest of Lando’s stay is tense. He hides upstairs for most of it. He shows his face for dinner, but nobody really talks to him, and then he retreats back to his room for the rest of the evening. When morning comes on the 26th, he’s packed and ready to go by half-seven.
He hugs his mum, and his sisters, even if Flo looks mildly constipated as he does so. Oliver went back home the night before to see his family without a word, which Lando’s trying not to think about. His dad doesn’t show his face, which is disappointing but not particularly surprising. Lando peels off down the driveway and resolutely refuses to cry.
By mid-morning, he’s back in London, knocking at Oscar’s front door. He’d texted on the way upstairs, so seconds after the first knock, Oscar’s opening it. He’s still in his pyjamas, an ancient hoodie emblazoned with the logo of the Australian men’s cricket team and loose flannel pants. His hair’s a disaster, and there are pillow creases on his left cheek.
Fondness bubbles in Lando’s stomach. It’s only three days, but fuck has he missed this man.
“Oh, hey.” Oscar props the door open and yawns into his hand, blinking blearily. He gives Lando a small, warm smile. “How was it?”
Lando pulls a face. “Eh. Pretty shit, to be honest.”
“Ouch.”
Oscar moves aside to let him in, locking the door behind them as Lando toes off his shoes and drops his bag, then immediately pulls him into a tight hug. Lando clings to his hoodie, buries his face in his chest and tries again to fight back his tears. A few traitorous little drops manage to escape despite his best efforts. Oscar rubs his back in firm, soothing circles, gently swaying them side to side until Lando’s shoulders stop shuddering.
A hand slides up to cup the nape of his neck. “Wanna talk about it?”
Lando swallows. “Not yet.”
“Okay, baby. When you’re ready.” Oscar presses a kiss to his temple. Then he pulls back, brushing a thumb over Lando’s cheek. “I was about to make eggs,” he says in a much more conversational tone.
“Sick,” Lando replies, slipping out of his grip and heading through to the flat’s tiny kitchen. “Any for me?”
“Sure, if you’re hungry.” Oscar follows him, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows and opening the fridge. “How would you like ‘em?”
“Uh, fried, maybe?”
“You sure? I was thinking you might like scrambled today, actually.”
Oscar straightens, a carton of eggs in hand. He looks over his shoulder at Lando before glancing pointedly at the kitchen table. Or, rather, at the pillow tucked underneath it.
It takes Lando a minute to cotton on.
“Oh. Yeah, that’s a much better idea,” he grins.
“Right, easy. Go change if you like, this shouldn’t take too long.”
Lando flounces out of the kitchen, in a much better mood. He takes his bag through to the bedroom and strips out of his jeans. Once he’s back in sweats, he takes a quick detour through the bathroom to use the loo. Then he reemerges into the main living area, sidling up behind Oscar in the kitchen and peering over his shoulder.
Oscar reaches back and squeezes his hip. “Grab me a plate, will you?”
Lando obeys. Lando always obeys Oscar, especially when he knows there’s something in it for him. He pulls down a large plate from the corner cupboard, fishing a single fork out of the cutlery drawer while he’s at it. While Oscar finishes dishing up, he drinks a glass of water, because Lando knows that’d be the next instruction out of his mouth if he hadn’t pre-empted it. Oscar has drilled enough scene safety into his head over the past few months for Lando to know exactly what needs to happen before the dom’s willing to do anything with him.
“Good boy, Lan.” Oscar carries the plate over to the table, heaped with a double portion. He takes a seat, nudging the pillow into place by his side with his ankle, and crooks a finger at Lando. “Come here.”
Lando crosses over to him eagerly. Oscar reaches up, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck, and pulls him into a long, slow kiss. Lando bends down to meet it, hands braced on Oscar’s thighs. It’s quiet in the kitchen aside from the muffled sounds of traffic out the window and the faint whir of the extractor fan over the stove. It’s peaceful.
“On your knees, sweetheart.”
Lando sighs blissfully and complies.
It’s a well-worn routine between them, at this point. Lando shuffles around on the pillow, making himself comfortable, hooking his fingers in the hems of Oscar’s pyjama pants and grazing the skin of his ankles just above his fuzzy socks. Oscar loads a bite of fluffy eggs onto the fork and brings it to Lando’s mouth, a hand cupped under his chin. Lando takes it delicately, chewing while Oscar scoops up a bite for himself.
There’s something very intimate about Oscar feeding him, especially when it’s something Oscar cooked. Eating off the same plate, off the same fork. Sharing a meal in the truest sense of the word. Lando loves it just as much as Oscar does, and as long as the meal isn’t particularly messy, this is usually how they end up eating together.
Lando finishes chewing. “Mm. Good choice.”
“Can’t exactly do this if they’re fried. The yolk would go everywhere.”
“Thought you liked getting me messy.” Lando waggles his eyebrows.
Oscar smirks. “Only in the bedroom.”
He offers Lando another mouthful. Lando takes it with an appreciative hum.
They work their way through the rest of the plate. Lando, who’d had something to eat earlier, politely turns away once he’s had enough. Oscar shrugs, unsurprised and unoffended, and polishes the rest off himself, idly playing with Lando’s curls while he eats. Once he’s finished, he sets the fork down on the plate, and Lando makes his move.
He scoots the pillow closer, parting Oscar’s knees and making himself comfortable between his legs. Lando leans forward, nuzzling the soft fabric high on Oscar’s inner thigh, inches away from his groin. He looks up through his lashes. Oscar’s watching him, amused.
“Second course?” Lando asks cheekily.
Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Thought you were full.”
“There’s always room for dessert, Osc.”
Oscar laughs, reaching for his drawstring. “Excellent point.”
It’s a lazy morning blowjob, languid and relaxed. When Oscar feeds Lando his cock, there’s no rush. He takes it deep and suckles rhythmically, Oscar using a firm grip in his hair to move him where he wants. The weight on his tongue has Lando’s eyes fluttering closed. Aside from his occasional muffled moans, or Oscar’s soft breaths of pleasure, the kitchen’s quiet again.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Oscar gasps eventually. “Gonna come, baby. D’you wanna swallow?”
Lando hums in agreement, sucking harder, head delightfully fuzzy.
“Ah, shit,” Oscar breathes, fist clenching and pulling hard on Lando’s roots as he spills down his throat. “Fuck. What a good boy.”
Lando pulls back, licking his lips, satisfied. “Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you. Come up here, let me see.”
Oscar pulls him up, settling Lando in his lap, legs spread on the outside of his thighs. Lando steadies himself against Oscar’s shoulders and does his best not to grind down, cock achingly hard. Oscar runs a knuckle over the bulge in Lando’s sweats, chuckling as his hips twitch, sensitive.
“You want to come, Lan?” Oscar asks, rubbing gently at his cock through the fabric.
Lando shivers. “Yeah.”
“I think you can wait.”
Lando groans, because he should’ve seen this coming. “Oscar, no.”
“Oscar, yes,” the bastard grins. “We can have some fun later, hm? Don’t worry, you’ll get your turn.”
Lando groans again. “Fine, I guess. Ugh. Fuck.”
Oscar coos at him, mildly condescending in just the way Lando likes best. “You’ll be fine, gorgeous. You can be patient.” He presses a kiss to Lando’s cheek, then pulls back, slightly more serious. “Colour?”
“You frickin’ muppet,” Lando says, rolling his eyes.
There’s a smile tugging at his lips, though. They’ve negotiated the shit of out this, but Oscar still usually likes to check in when they play around with orgasm denial, because it’s a relatively recent addition to their scenes and one that Lando didn’t have much experience with before meeting him. It’s very sweet.
He swats lightly at the dom’s shoulder, slipping off his lap. “Green, obviously. I’ll do the dishes if you like.”
“Cheers.”
Later, after Oscar’s sucked him off and fingered him and fucked him into the mattress, Lando’s a bit more willing to talk. He tells his boyfriend in a voice hardly more than a whisper about yesterday’s lunch, curled up under his arm with their naked limbs tangled together under the covers. He tells him about the conversation afterwards. He doesn’t cry this time, buoyed by the post-nut high and with some distance from the situation, but by the time he finishes, Lando’s drained.
Oscar doesn’t say anything while he talks. He’s a good listener, that one. He lies there and strokes Lando’s hair, and when the words trickle off, he nudges Lando’s chin up and brings him into a deep, comforting kiss. After a long moment, he pulls back.
“Sounds like it was pretty shit, alright,” Oscar says just as quietly. His dark eyes gleam in the orange glow of the streetlights out the window.
Lando makes a noise, unsure. He bites his lip. “Did I…do the right thing?”
“Don’t think that’s my really call.” Oscar pauses. “It’s been a day. D’you regret it?”
There’s a pause. A siren wails in the distance. “No,” Lando breathes eventually.
“Okay.” Oscar presses a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Love you, Lan,” he murmurs against his skin. “Proud of you, too.”
Lando sighs. They drift off to sleep.
“Got any plans for the night of the 30th?” Oscar asks him the next day.
He’s lying down on the couch, feet propped up on the armrest, frowning at his phone. Lando, fresh from the shower, flops down next to him, head pillowed on Oscar’s chest. “Nope. Why, are you making some?”
“Hm. Maybe.”
Oscar runs a hand through his curls. He tugs, gently, to get Lando to lift his cheek from his jumper and look at him. He has his thinking face on. Lando likes that face. He’s abnormally fascinated by the cute little scrunch between Oscar’s eyebrows.
“How would you feel about dinner at Alex’s?” Oscar continues, eyeing him carefully.
Lando frowns. “Fine?”
He’s not sure why Oscar’s making a big deal out of it. Lando’s met Alex several times, by now. He’s one of Oscar’s closest friends, and he’s – well, he’s doing whatever the fuck he’s doing with one of Lando’s best friends. He and George are in some sort of grey area between friends with benefits and lovers. They’ve done dinner a few times together – never at Alex’s place, sure, but what’s that matter?
“Should I not be fine with it? Is he, like, a terrible cook or something?”
Oscar’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “He’s better than I am, actually.”
“Mint,” Lando says, pleased. “That’s settled, then. Can’t pass on good grub, can I?”
Oscar chuckles. His chest vibrates under Lando’s chin. He digs it in a little, teasing, and Oscar tugs on his curls again. “The grub will be good, don’t worry,” he says dryly. “No, it’s. Ah. He’s asked us over for dinner.”
The dom says it meaningfully, as if Lando should be reading something else into that innocuous sentence, but he’s drawing a blank. He cocks his head. “And?”
“Like, together. As a couple.”
“Um. Might be a stupid question. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Oscar blinks at him, then pulls a sheepish face. “Right, sorry. Forgot you might not – ah, anyway. It’ll be a bit more than just a friendly hang-out. It’s – you know how, say, if we go out to a restaurant, we kind of tone it down? Act neutral in public?”
Lando nods. It’s reflexive, for both of them. Society has conditioned everyone to play by the unspoken rules without thought. When doms, subs and switches are mingling with the masses, they mask their dynamic instincts. They only come out to play in designated venues – like kink clubs, or pro clinics – or in the privacy of one’s own home.
“Yeah, well. It’s not public, right? It’ll just be us, Alex, and George. Two doms, two subs. We can be much more open. It won’t be the four of us on equal footing, like it usually is.”
Lando tenses. A hint of nerves flutter in his stomach. “Okay,” he says cautiously. “What’s – what’ll that look like?”
“It’ll look a bit like this, actually,” Oscar explains, tilting Lando’s head back with a firm grip in his hair. Sparks race down his spine. “We’re not scening right now, but I’m in charge, aren’t I?” he asks, arching a brow.
A breathy little hum of agreement comes out of Lando’s mouth.
“That’s right, gorgeous,” Oscar smirks. He pecks Lando’s cheek affectionately. “We wouldn’t be doing anything sexual in front of them, obviously. Exhibitionism’s a hard limit for me. I wouldn’t punish you properly in front of them, either. But I’d be in charge, yeah? I’d probably ask you to kneel, if we go,” he warns Lando. “Depending how messy Alex’s meal is, you might be eating on your knees, too, like you would at home. If you’re acting out, you might cop a little swat or two as well.”
A hand brushes over Lando’s arse in demonstration. He shivers.
“Think about it,” Oscar advises him, the grip in his hair softening into a soothing caress. Lando’s head drops back down to his chest, pleasantly empty. “I’m not sure how you feel about submitting semi-publicly. What d’you reckon? Would you like to show our friends what a good boy you are for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Lando slurs dreamily.
Oscar snorts. “I’ll be asking you again with a clearer head, sweetheart,” he says knowingly. “Just think about it for now. Would you be alright with Alex seeing you like this?”
Lando ponders it for a moment. Eventually, he nods. Why not? He likes Alex, and he knows he’s not the type to blab about anything he’ll witness.
“What about your friend?” Oscar probes. “It goes both ways – George seeing you, you seeing George. Would it bother you, if George saw your submission? Would you be alright with seeing Alex act as George’s dom? Their relationship’s a bit different to ours.”
Lando giggles into the fabric under his mouth. ‘A bit different’ is an understatement. George is private about this sort of thing, but Lando’s known him a long time, and Alex is refreshingly straightforward about his preferences. Lando’s got a fairly good idea of what things look like between them.
Would he be okay with seeing it up close? Probably, Lando reckons. He might not want some of the things they do together for himself, but if it makes George happy, then it’s all fine by him. Well, as long as –
“Alex won’t, um.” The words are hard to string together when Lando’s like this. “Not with me?”
Oscar cards through his hair. “Alex is pretty good about this sort of thing,” he assures him. “He’s not going to overstep. He and I might tell you and George what to do, but we won’t be giving proper orders to each other’s subs, that’s just common courtesy. He’s not going to be treating you like he’d treat George, just like I’m not going to be treating George like I’d treat you.”
Lando mulls that over. That’s acceptable, he supposes. He wouldn’t mind if Alex told him to, say, take his shoes off, or rinse his plate. He would mind if Alex tried to tease him the way he teases George sometimes. And he’s pretty sure George would feel the same – he can’t imagine him turning his nose up at simple instructions from Oscar, but he can’t see George taking it well if Oscar tried to take him to task for his manners.
“You’d be a guest in his home, though, so you’d better be polite to him,” Oscar says teasingly, flicking his ear. “Properly respectful, got it? If you don’t like his food, the only thing I want to hear out of your mouth is ‘I’m full, sir, but thank you for cooking’,” Oscar mimes, voice high-pitched. “No whinging, no fussing. I know what you’re like.”
Lando pouts. “I don’t sound like that.”
Oscar just laughs at him. Lando joins in, after a moment.
Then he trails off. “Alex is ‘sir’ if we go to dinner?” he asks slowly.
Oscar shrugs. “Lots of doms use it, but you should ask. If we go, that is.”
Lando nods, cheek rubbing against Oscar’s pec. He thinks for a moment, then grins. “Would you make George call you ‘sir,’ then?”
“I don’t make you call me ‘sir,’ do I?” Oscar tsks, twisting his ear, not particularly hard. “You brought that to the table, not me. Cheeky little shit.”
Lando’s grin widens. After a beat, he settles down and hums under his breath. “Thought Alex ‘n George were busy. Why dinner? Why now?”
“Ah.” Oscar hesitates. He strokes over Lando’s hairline. “You texted George yesterday, right? I don’t know what you said to him, but apparently, he got pretty worked up over it. Went on a bit of a rant while Alex was over at his place. Alex is sharp about this sort of thing – he’s probably guessed the rough shape of what went down for you over Christmas.”
Lando winces. Oscar tightens the arm slung over his back.
“He’s not going to say anything about it,” Oscar promises. “Without, well, without giving too much away – he’s got no room to talk about difficult relationships with parents, believe me. He won’t judge. But I think he felt bad, because he suggested it might be nice for you to have a meal where your dynamic is absolutely not an issue. Where it’s quite the opposite, in fact.”
Lando digests that for a long moment. It does sound nice, actually. Almost unbearably so, but Alex can be like that – selfless, generous with his time, always willing to go out of his way and do something thoughtful for someone, just because he can. Deeply, deeply kind, even when he doesn’t mean to be. He and George are exactly the same in that regard.
They’re a very well-suited pair. Lando has no idea why they’re still faffing around instead of getting together properly.
“I’ll think ‘bout it,” he mumbles.
“Cool,” Oscar says. He ruffles Lando’s hair. “No pressure either way. I’ll ask you about it later.”
They walk over shortly after six o’clock. It’s dark, and it’s fucking freezing, because it’s December in London. Lando didn’t really bring a proper coat with him when he packed for this stay, so he’s bundled up in Oscar’s spare as they leave the lobby of the apartment building. He tucks his hands in the pockets, his chin under the collar, and sets a brisk pace down the street to try and keep warm. Oscar snickers and falls into step alongside him.
Alex lives about fifteen minutes away from Oscar on foot. They’re about equidistant from the tube stop they take to work, which they catch together whenever they’re rostered on for the same shift. Oscar’s apartment complex is one of many, a collection of ageing brick buildings clustered around a handful of shops. Alex, on the other hand, inherited his parents’ house, a quaint two-storey sandwiched in near the end of a terrace on the other side of the park from Oscar.
They climb the steps to the front door and Oscar rings the bell.
“Coming, just a sec,” someone calls from inside.
Standing there, shifting awkwardly on the doormat, Lando thought he’d be less anxious. The nerves fluttering in his stomach feel slightly ridiculous. It’s just dinner with Alex and George, after all. How bad could it be?
The lock clicks, and the door opens to reveal Alex, decked out in a collared shirt, a nice pair of dark-wash jeans, and a pink frilly Kiss the Cook! apron. “Right on time, you two.”
“You know me, can’t stand being late,” Oscar says dryly, eyeing his outfit. “That’s a look.”
Alex grins, charming and sly. “What can I say, I’m a fashion icon.” He opens the door, waving them inside. “Come on in, I’ll take your jackets.”
They follow him inside, Oscar shedding his coat immediately, then turning to help Lando do the same. They’re passed to Alex to hang on the crowded line of hooks by the door with their thanks while they carefully wipe their shoes off on the mat inside.
“Shoes on or off, I don’t really care,” Alex shrugs. “George and I are just in our socks. We’re in the kitchen, come through when you’re ready.”
He heads down the hallway, ducking into an opening near the end. They follow him a minute later after peeling off their boots, Lando trailing closely behind his dominant.
Lando steps through the archway and is immediately smacked in the face by the smell of something delicious. Thick, rich spices permeate the air, pleasantly warm in contrast to the chill outside. Alex is at the ageing stove, fiddling with one of the burners, three pots burbling away cheerfully. George is at the counter next to him, finely chopping a bundle of herbs. He’s wearing a matching apron, just as frilly, in a pale purple.
Lando doesn’t think he’s ever seen George Russell wear something so ridiculous, not even back when they were kids. He has to bite back the urge to laugh.
Like Alex, George also looks like he’s made an effort tonight, his hair combed neatly, crisp dark trousers and a nice navy turtleneck sweater under the apron. Lando’s glad he and Oscar made sure they turned out nicely for the occasion, as well. This clearly isn’t super formal – they’re all barefoot, for fuck’s sake – but it’s just as clear that this is a bit of a step up from fish and chips at the pub.
“Aren’t you going to say hi, Georgie?” Alex asks, nudging him with an elbow.
George startles, peering over his shoulder towards them. “Oh. Sorry,” he says, flushing slightly. “It’s a bit late, but happy Christmas, Lando.” He hesitates, eyes flicking over to Oscar. “And to you as well, sir – or, er, do you have a preferred title when we’re…”
“Nah, not really. ‘Sir’ works, if that’s what you’re used to, either that or my name is fine,” Oscar says easily. “I’m not too fussed. Merry Christmas, George. How were your holidays?”
The conversation dissolves into pleasantries for a bit, asking after each other’s Christmas celebrations and any plans for the new year. It’s just like any other conversation between the four of them, except it’s not. Nobody talks over anyone. There’s less sarcasm, fewer cutting remarks. Oscar and Alex are a tad more assertive than usual. Lando and George take more of a backseat, and anything they address directly to a dominant is phrased just a little more politely than it would be otherwise.
George slips quite naturally into tagging the ends of his sentences with ‘sir.’ Lando finds it a bit more difficult, even after he steals George’s line at the first opportunity and asks Alex what he prefers.
Alex glances up from the stove and shoots him an assessing look. “I’m a bit more particular than Oscar, I’m afraid. You’ll call me ‘sir’ when we’re doing this.” He pauses, raising a brow. “Will that be a problem?”
Lando shakes his head. “Uh, no. That’s – that’s not a problem, um. Sir.”
It comes out stilted, halting. Lando winces. Alex nods in approval. “Good. It’s tough for you, though, right? That’s fine, it’ll come.”
He turns back to the food, and when he and George are distracted, Oscar leans over and murmurs, “Doing well, Lan.”
Oscar’s voice is warm. His eyes are gentle, encouraging. There’s a subtle thread of command laced in his words, enough to convince Lando’s submissive hindbrain that if Oscar says he’s doing well, it must be so, and in that case he shouldn’t worry. Some of the tension drains out of Lando as the conversation picks back up.
Alex peppers the discussion with deliberately casual asides to George as they cook – slice this now, add that to the pot, the peppers need to be minced finer. They’re orders, even if the tone is quite relaxed. Lando feels the brief pulses of dominance when Alex gives them. George follows them obediently, posture loose and voice soft if he has to ask for clarification. It's not like he’s turned into a doormat overnight. He’s still himself. But there’s an undertone of respect, a quiet deference in how he interacts with Alex, that there normally isn’t.
It's odd. Oddly beautiful, actually. Lando’s never seen George bend to another’s will so easily. Seeing him like this, calm and open and content, Lando realises for the first time that this is how George is meant to be, that his standard stiff composure really is just a front. George’s submission is stunning. He blossoms under Alex’s attention, like a flower in the sun.
It takes Lando a while to get there, to loosen the grip he has on his instincts, but he follows suit. He can feel the way his thoughts get slower the longer he’s leaning into Oscar’s side in the corner of the kitchen. He breathes deeper. He fiddles less. When Alex and Oscar are talking, he’s happy to just listen. He’s not in subspace, but he’s closer to the edge than he’s ever been in front of anyone who wasn’t actively scening with him.
Eventually, the food’s almost done. George moves from chopping duty to setting the table. Alex, who’s busy stirring one of the pots, tilts his head towards Lando.
“Could you give George a hand with that, please?”
Lando straightens and nods. “Sure, sir.”
It rolls off the tongue more easily that time, easier than he thought it would. There’s a look in Alex’s eye when he hears it, firm and knowing and pleased, that stirs something warm in Lando’s gut. It’s not the same as an order from Oscar, but it’s a request from a dom he knows and likes, one he trusts and instinctively registers as safe. It’s the next best thing.
Lando has zero issue complying with the instruction. He helps George wipe down the rectangular wooden table against the opposite wall. Lando grabs the tablecloth Alex directs him to, folded on the corner counter, and spreads it out as George grabs cork mats for the hot food, the napkin holder and a couple of pair of cheap IKEA tongs to dish up with.
“How many settings for you guys, Oscar?” Alex says as he’s transferring the curry, rice and vegetables to serving ware.
“Just the one, thanks.”
A shiver works it way down Lando’s spine. He wasn’t sure how Oscar would choose to play this. They’ve done curry before, but it’s right on the border in terms of what Oscar’s willing to feed him without it getting too messy. The gravy looks thick enough that it shouldn’t be too disastrous, but Lando’s already eyeing the napkins.
He’s glad, though. He’ll never pass up an opportunity for Oscar to feed him.
“Georgie, love, what do you think?” Alex asks, stopping George on his way over with a light touch to his elbow. “Chair or cushion?”
George blinks at him. “Up to you, sir. I don’t mind.”
Alex nods decisively. “You can keep Lando company, then. Better fetch some pillows.”
George slips into the living room while Lando and Oscar help Alex ferry everything across to the table. He returns just as the doms take their seats, depositing two plush cushions on the floor at their sides. Lando looks to Oscar, taking his cues from his boyfriend, and kneels when he gets a nod.
He catches George watching him, slightly wide-eyed. Honestly, Lando’s surprised, too. He didn’t think he’d find it so easy, not in front of other people, but here they are.
George is slightly more awkward as he settles down at Alex’s feet. “We haven’t done this in a while,” Alex explains, squeezing George’s shoulder in wordless reassurance. “Not our usual cup of tea, but when in Rome, right? Variety’s the spice of life and all that. This is right up your alley, though, isn’t it?”
Oscar nods. “Yeah, we’ve had a bit of practice.”
He smiles down at Lando, who beams up at him. It’s wildly unfamiliar territory for him to be more experienced than George is at anything, never mind something to do with dynamics. It’s nice to feel like there’s an aspect of submission that Lando can be confident in, that he knows inside and out. It’s nice to feel like he’s not constantly playing catch-up anymore.
“I can tell. That was smooth,” Alex says, nodding appreciatively in Lando’s direction. He squirms a little at the compliment. “Think George might be in a bit of a snit if I spill this all over him. You’ll have to teach me your ways.”
“That’s some role reversal. When I left you, I was but the learner,” Oscar teases, “now I am the master.”
Alex grins. “The Vader impression could use some work, but yes. Help yourself, by the way. Can’t let the food get cold.”
Oscar and Alex make quick work of divvying up the curry and greens between them, passing their submissives a napkin each before tucking in. Lando, who’d been not exactly nervous, per se, but a bit apprehensive about the food, is pleasantly surprised. It’s delicious, and mild enough for a Thai dish to not murder his tastebuds. Oscar’s a great cook, but Alex is definitely a level or two up on him. Lando wolfs down his share whenever Oscar offers him a bite.
The conversation picks back up as they eat, slipping into shop talk. Oscar worked a ton of shifts through December, both to cover people taking leave and to cope with the higher volume of calls fielded during the holiday season, and is taking a fortnight off once New Years passes. Alex, apparently, had done the inverse – he’d taken his leave in the lead-up to Christmas, spending time at home with his siblings, and he’ll be pulling longer hours in January instead.
In the past six months, Lando had seen up close and personal just how taxing a shift at the hotline can be. He understands why Alex doesn’t seem particularly enthused about the prospect of his upcoming fifty-hour work week.
“I’ve got a double on Wednesday, afternoon and nightshift, then nightshift again on Thursday, then another fucking double on Friday,” he complains when they’re about halfway through their food, spearing a chunk of chicken. “Pretty sure they’re not legally allowed to roster me on that often. Work health and safety, right? That’s got to be a violation somewhere.”
“Who’s on scheduling these days?” Oscar asks, offering Lando a mouthful of rice.
Alex snorts. “Barbara, of course.”
“Ah. Thought she liked you?”
“Well, she did. Clearly her feelings have changed if she’s done this to me,” Alex sighs. “I mean, I get it. We’re short-staffed on a good day, never mind over the holidays. You’re out, Jenny’s out. Chris, Danielle, and Naveen are all taking time off. Logan’s gone home for a month – he won’t be back ‘til the 20th. We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel to fill seats at this point.”
Oscar grimaces. “Yeah, I know. There’ll be new starters in February though, right?”
“Apparently. James has ten down for operator training, four for dispatch.” There’s a pause as Alex slips George some greens. “I think the big boss wants to assign you some ducklings when you come back.”
“Really? Huh.” Oscar frowns. “Didn’t think he’d want me training people just yet. I haven’t been around that long.”
“Mate, you’re coming up on three years at this point,” Alex says dryly. “Sure, one of those years was as a part-time student intern, but you’ve stuck it out longer than most. There’s only a handful of us left from before you came onboard.”
The conversation moves on as Lando and George are asked about their work commitments prior to the season kicking off. George is tied up in more things than Lando, to no one’s surprise. With Lewis’s departure from Mercedes, he’s now the senior driver, and he’s been asked to play a role in helping Antonelli prepare for his rookie season. Lando’s mildly jealous. Even with all the silly season shenanigans of the past year, McLaren’s still floundering in their attempts to secure a second driver. They’ve got another posse of hopefuls lined up, but none of them look particularly promising.
The work rant wraps up once the plates are cleared. Alex starts stacking dishes, George swiftly rising to help him. Oscar and Lando both move to help, but are quickly waved off by the other dom.
“That’s alright, guys, you can leave ‘em.” He casts a conspiratorial look at his submissive. “George will take care of it, won’t you, poppet?”
George’s cheeks darken a tad, but he doesn’t complain.
Oscar frowns. “You sure? We’re happy to help.”
“No, no. Don’t worry about it,” Alex smirks. “Georgie’s such a helper, y’know. Loves to make himself useful.”
George is bright red by this point. He still doesn’t argue. The way he continues clearing the table unphased is revealing enough, anyway. Lando has to bite back another inappropriate giggle.
Alex has his number, all right.
(Again, the fact that they’re not dating is an absolute mystery. A tragedy, even.)
They migrate into the living room, Alex claiming one end of the battered leather sectional swallowing most of the cramped room, kicking his long legs out in front of him and slouching. Oscar claims the other, equally relaxed. Lando, who’d brought both cushions back in, places them back on the couch and plops down at Oscar’s feet, cross-legged with his back to the couch. He leans against Oscar’s legs, hooking an arm around his shin.
George follows a few minutes later, slipping in while they’re bemoaning the latest football fixtures. Alex makes grabby hands in his direction, tugging him down onto the couch next to him. He leans over, hand covering his mouth, and whispers something in George’s ear. George’s blush, which had faded somewhat while he was in the kitchen, returns in full force. He’s smiling, though, shy and sweet.
He looks happy. They all look happy, Lando muses, as he glances around at his friends and partner. Lando’s happy, too. This is what Christmas lunch with his family should have been. Warm. Easy. Comfortable. Time spent with some of the most important people in his life where he doesn’t have to hide the most important parts of himself. The thought’s a little bittersweet, but Lando doesn’t push it away. He’s glad he got to experience it at all, even if it’s not exactly how he’d envisaged it occurring.
It was a good idea from Alex. He’ll have to thank him.
They talk for maybe an hour or so more before Oscar glances at the clock above the Albon family’s mantlepiece. “We should probably think about heading off,” he says reluctantly, legs shifting under Lando’s weight.
Alex stretches, following his gaze. “Fuck, didn’t realise the time. Do you need a lift home?”
“We’ll manage, but thanks,” Oscar replies.
He nudges Lando to his feet before standing himself. George and Alex peel themselves off the couch and follow them back to the front door, lingering a step behind as Oscar and Lando get back into their shoes and coats.
“Staying over?” Alex asks his sub in a quiet aside.
George ducks his head. “If that’s alright, sir.”
“Aw, Georgie,” he croons, slinging an arm over his shoulders and squeezing affectionately, “you know you’re always welcome.”
Lando finishes tying his laces. Oscar zips up his coat. There’s a brief moment when Alex and George catch up to them where nobody really says anything.
Surprisingly, Lando finds himself breaking the lull. “This was nice,” he says. “Thank you for having us, sir.”
He catches Alex’s gaze, and hopes the older man can tell how grateful he is – for dinner, obviously, but also for planning the dinner. For thinking of him. From the way he smiles, Lando thinks the message has been received.
“Yeah, thanks. Dinner was delicious,” Oscar adds. “We’ll have to do this again. Return the favour, maybe.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Alex says, opening the door for them. “Have a great evening, lads. Oscar, mate, enjoy your leave. We’ll see you two in the new year.”
They say a last round of farewells before Oscar and Lando find themselves back out in the blistering cold. As they make their way down the steps, Oscar reaches over to hold his hand. “Time to go home?”
Lando grins. Home. He likes the sound of that. “Think so.”