Archive of Our Own

The thing no one tells you about becoming World Champion, the funny little side effect, is that everyone wants your attention. Not the press. No, this season, all the journalists are far more concerned with the Mercedes shitshow and the fact that Charles renewed his contract again, and Lando just zones out during the conferences, honestly grateful to be done with the incessant questions about him and Oscar’s relationship that were thrown at him last year, intentions always malicious and greedy. There’s a peaceful relief like no other that settles over him every weekend now that he has a championship under his belt. In an ideal world, he would have loved to defend his title, but when his car can’t finish the race half the time, he decides it’s better just to kiss that pipe dream goodbye and enjoy what he has. There’s nothing to prove now.

Everyone else, though, has their eyes on Lando. And by everyone else, he means all of the Monaco Grand Prix’s esteemed guests: the twenty-something-year-old microcelebrities sponsored by some athleisure or skincare brand, walking around with straight postures like there’s a million cameras on them when there’s only one, their own, held by some assistant who’s trying to capture as much glamorous footage as possible to make a hundred social media posts. Lando sees them roaming the paddock all weekend and recognizes none of them, spares them no mind, because whoever the sponsors decide to invite is none of his business, and he couldn’t care less. 

They, on the other hand, are vying for his attention. It’s easy enough to avoid them during the weekend, what with all of the McLaren security shuffling him from Point A to Point B, wasting no time, but once Sunday evening rolls around, the race is over, and Lando decides to celebrate his second DNF, cheers, by going out, all hell breaks loose. 

Leaning against the railing of a yacht, because it’s Monaco and everything must be on a boat, even though everyone looks a bit ridiculous barefoot with their fitted trousers and backless dresses, Lando is trying to remember the name of the girl who’s talking to him, moving her blonde hair out of her face with one poised hand, flashing a clean manicure and stacks of gold rings. He’s usually good with these kinds of things, but eight other blonde girls introduced themselves to him in the past hour, so all the names jumbled together in his head and he can’t pick out this girl’s from the mess.

“You know, I’ve never been to Monte-Carlo,” she tells him in her nearly offensively American accent, the kind where every word in a sentence sticks together like taffy. 

“Oh, really?” Lando says flatly. He meant to sound more interested, but the tequila shots he did earlier with a couple of brand ambassadors in low-cut tops and slick backs, cheering his name, are catching up to him. Plus the chilled white wine in his hand that he’s sipping from like it’s water. 

“Yeah, you know, I’m from L.A., so it’s such a long flight, and every time I’m in Europe, I’m always in Milan or Paris, so I never get to make the trip here. But I was invited out right when I was about to fly out of London, so I thought, fuck it, you know?”

“I thought you flew in from the Turks,” Lando says, nearly having to shout to be heard over the comfortable thump of house music playing from the speakers. 

The girl laughs, bright white veneers peeking out through glossy lips, and touches his arm playfully. “That was Cassidy!”

The other blonde with Prada sunglasses and sweet vanilla perfume. Christ. Lando hadn’t even realized he had spoken to two different girls. When did they switch?

He gives a laugh, trying to go along. “I thought you flew together.”

Flimsy excuse, but it doesn’t matter. She grins, either believing him or not caring. She is trying to cozy up to him, so he could say anything right now and she would still nod along. Whatever keeps her on the boat with bottle service and espresso martini shots. 

She also might be trying to sleep with him. Cassidy certainly was, eyes glancing at his lips every time he spoke, leaning in close, tongue curling around the thin straw of her drink suggestively. He’s considering it. She was better looking than this girl, now that he thinks about it, now that he’s realized they’re two different people. 

There was also another girl in a white halter top that exposed the entire sides of her boobs, which was nice. Her eyelashes were lifted to her eyebrows, and when she downed her Clase Azul shot and chased it with a bite of lime, she sent Lando a wink. If he can find her again, maybe he’ll see what his chances are there.

He really needs to get laid. The whole ordeal is a bit of a pain, if he’s being honest. He has to do the small talk at the bar, buy the girl a couple of drinks, gauge if she’s going to be weird about the whole fucking a Formula 1 driver thing, then take her to a hotel room because there’s no chance he’s bringing any stranger to his apartment. And nothing kills the mood more than having to stop right before she gets on her knees and make her sign an NDA, watching her awkwardly try to read her phone screen, words blurring together because she’s drunk, just desperately trying to find where to sign. 

Then it’s a 50-50 chance if it’ll be good. He comes every time, because he’s nothing if not diligent about his personal success, but sometimes the girl is moaning at a pitch too high that it gives him a headache, or she makes a face straight out of a porno that looks ridiculous in real life, or she thinks the best way to ride him is just bouncing up and down, slurring apologies when his dick keeps slipping out, and he has to take matters into his own hands. Still, it’s enough to scratch the itch. 

And then, even though the NDAs keep them from babbling to the press, they never keep them from whispering to their friends, and word travels, and each weekend, more and more girls capitalize on the very true rumor that Lando Norris is down for one night stands. With an increase in quantity comes a decrease in quality, and when does it stop becoming worth it?

But he hasn’t gotten laid in a while, and the frustration is beginning to get to him. He just needs a girl who’s good looking enough to get him hard and who will sign the stupid NDA so he can finally clear the mental fog that comes with any dry spell, no matter how short. Maybe he should just fuck this girl. She’s pretty, he supposes.

What he really wants, and what gets pushed to the forefront of his mind the longer he goes without hooking up with someone, an evil reminder of what he’s missing, is Oscar. 

The first time it happened was 2024, Constructor’s Championship cinched for McLaren for the first time since 1998, and the euphoria that coursed through the whole team was so pungent and palpable that, frankly, anything could have happened. 

Anything did happen. The impossible, the thing Lando only fantasized about at night, fist around his dick, happened: Oscar, drunk off god knows how many glasses of champagne (still less than however many tequila sodas Lando had), on his knees in the single-stall bathroom at the afterparty, and Lando, coming hard down his throat. He still gets lightheaded at the memory. The rosy flush on the highs of Oscar’s cheeks, the wetness at the corners of his eyes, the heat of his mouth. Lando, ever the gentleman, returned the favor, of course, and he still thinks he got more pleasure out of watching Oscar’s face scrunch up when Lando swallowed him down, hand tight in his curls, blabbering his name like a prayer. 

Lando shifts his weight between his feet to distract his body before he pops a boner right here. 

The issue is Oscar’s shy. It took him three weeks to feel comfortable even mentioning the incident in the bathroom, then three more weeks for Lando to convince him to do it again, in a hotel room this time, with proper privacy and wine that Lando had the room service bring up to them to loosen Oscar up a bit. Then, the two of them sufficiently tipsy, Lando had laid down on the bed like a temptress, flicked a condom toward Oscar, and told him to fuck him. 

Bless his heart he did, folded over Lando, breathing heavy, lips on his sweaty neck. Lando was so thrilled at the situation that he came faster than he had in years, even though Oscar’s rhythm was a bit awkward, hips stuttering when the sensation became too much, kind of like a virgin.

Lando had asked him after if he was a virgin, and Oscar turned a shade of pink Lando’s never seen before. 

“No, um, I’m just better at, uh,” Oscar struggled, clearing his throat, “receiving. Generally.”

Lando choked on a laugh so violently, he thought he might have burst a lung. Oscar rolled his eyes and turned away from him. 

“Mate,” Lando said, which was a strange choice of word all things considered, poking Oscar’s bare side, watching him squirm. “I would have fucked you if I had known. It’s just that straight guys usually act like I’ve killed their mother if I ask to put my dick in them. I just assumed.”

“I’m not straight,” Oscar mumbled.

“Well, I know that now.”

Lando took him apart in another hotel room just before pre-season testing. He fucked him through two whole orgasms, on his knees then on his back, listening to the pretty little hitched moans he would make the whole way through. Only when Oscar started whining about how he really couldn’t come again did Lando come on his tensed abdomen and called it a night. 

It was a good arrangement. It was so easy. No stupid NDAs or small talk. It was a beautiful arrangement, in fact, spoiled almost entirely as the 2025 season progressed, the gap between them in the championship closed, and things were a little too tense for either of them to feel good about hooking up after races. Oscar was so quiet for weeks after it ended that Lando thought things really were permanently fucked between the two of them. Then Oscar called him, they got dinner, and everything was smoothed over. Lando hadn’t even realized how heavily the whole thing was weighing on him until it was amended. 

So that’s where they are. Friends. Good friends, honestly, better than before. But not fuck buddies. That bridge has still yet to even be mentioned by either of them, let alone rebuilt. Oscar’s shy, so he won’t be the one to do it, and Lando can’t bring it up without feeling like an absolute asshole—Hey, man, I know I took your championship, but can I also fuck you?—so they’re at a standstill. 

Lando misses him like a limb, his dick misses him even more, but he can’t just call him up tonight and ask him if he’s down. He needs to navigate this with a little more grace. So he’s been picking up random girls, the way he used to before he started hooking up with Oscar, and the way he will tonight. 

He finishes his wine. The drunker he gets, the better of an idea it sounds. He should get another drink. 

“You look a little dry,” he tells the girl, pointing to her glass that still has about two fingers left of wine. “Let me get you something, I’ll be right back.”

She opens her mouth, but he doesn’t stick around to hear a protest. 

He’s looking for the bottle service, that beautiful table with three handles of liquor stuck in a tub of ice and glasses of garnishes on the side. Or the servers walking around with trays of cocktails and wine, either will do, though he thinks he’s had enough of slow sipping. 

“Lando!”

He turns around to see a girl in a corner waving him over with long nails. He would’ve smiled politely and continued on, but she’s sitting right by the bottle service table, so he supposes he can bear some conversation for a shot.

“Great race today,” she says to him in a bit of a slur, either drunk or just also from L.A. Her lips are painted a glittery pink, her top plunging deep enough for him to see the tattoo of a flower on her sternum. 

Lando nods, fiddling around for a glass. “For sure. Real fun to watch.” He pours himself a hefty shot of vodka. “Would’ve been nice to finish.”

She gives a breathy giggle, hand to her chest. “Right. I’m Isabel, by the way. I’m here with Stephen and Maya,” she says, like either of those names mean anything to him. “They told me you’re a World Champion.”

“That I am. Shot?”

“Yes!” she exclaims. “Oh, my god, I’ve had, like, a million already.”

Clearly. He pours her one anyway. If she falls off the boat, that’s her prerogative. He clinks his glass to hers and tips it back. 

He’s not even going to try flirting with her. She’s way too drunk and loud for his taste. Plus, she’s brunette, and he goes for blondes. Not that he has any distaste for other hair colors, but the last time he hooked up with a girl with brown hair, she had gotten on her knees, one hand holding back her hair, making it look all short, and he was so drunk that, for a brief moment, he thought she was Oscar, and he came before she even really started. She took it as a compliment, but Lando was humiliated, and for the rest of the night, even as he was fucking her, all he could think about was Oscar and how she wasn’t Oscar. It was a weird fucking night, and he doesn’t really want any repeats. So blondes it is.

He’s about to pour himself another shot and look for one of the other girls he’s been talking to when he feels firm hands smack his shoulders. 

“Hi, girls.” Max comes up from behind him and into his view. His eyes are a little glazed over in the way they get when he’s tipsy, and they’re trained on the vodka in Lando’s hand. That’s why they get along so well.  “How’s it going?”

“Hi, I’m Isabel.” She extends a hand, which Max shakes, because he’s polite. “Are you a driver, too?” Zero grace in how she poses the question. Drunk.

“Yeah, for McLaren,” Max says, and Lando has to hold back a laugh. He clasps a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Me and Lando, we brought that Constructor’s home last season. Oscar Piastri, nice to meet you.”

Lando snorts then, covers it with a cough. Isabel is giggling, clearly impressed. 

“Great year, Oscar,” he says to Max, who’s giving him his stupid smile. He pours the both of them a shot. 

“Call a car, we’re going out,” Max says quietly just to him. Not a question.

“Yeah?” Lando says, grinning. That’s where he does his best work: crushed in a club crowd, EDM thundering in his head, drunk. 

“Yup.” Max winks. “Cheers.”

They tap their glasses together. Down the hatch.

Lando’s already lost the girls he was talking to earlier. Whatever. Plenty more where that came from. He orders a car. The night is young.

He feels the bass under his feet before the door to the club even opens, and once it does, it hits him like a tidal wave, and he lays his eyes upon the biggest crowd of strangers he’s ever seen, flooded in a red hue and flashing lights. Max’s firm hands are on his shoulders, urging him forward, forcing him to cut through the sweaty bodies. There’s people calling his name before he can even reach their pre-paid booth. He smiles at some of them, waves at others, but god, he needs another drink first.

Once they find the booth, the tub of ice with liquor and champagne sitting in the middle like a treasure, and someone pours the group a round, he turns around and surveys his options. 

Seriously, who are all these people? Sweaty guys soaking through their white button ups, sleeves rolled to their elbows, unbuttoned down to their sternum. Pupils blown from cocaine, glancing around like wild animals. And the girls: bronze spray tans with those absurdly giant sunglasses that take up half their face, like ski goggles. Sticky, glossy lips, tits pushed up to the heavens, glitter on their collarbones, mascara clumping their eyelashes. Gorgeous, all of them, obviously, but looking at them like this, they become one big blob of gorgeousness and Lando really can’t discern one from the other. Nothing shatters his illusion of importance more than looking out at all of these blank, unrecognizable faces, wondering how any of them got an invite to what’s supposed to be the most exclusive nightclub in Europe. They seem to be letting just anyone in these days. 

But with all the drinks settled in his body, the sea of girls becomes a world of opportunity that pleases Lando more than it confuses him. He starts doing what he does best: talking. 

Usually, his tactic goes like this: he smiles at a girl he sees, waits for them to smile back, he goes over to offer them a drink, they talk and talk, and if all goes well, he’s calling a hotel to book a room and a car to get them there. 

This time around, he hardly has to lift a finger. The girls are coming to him. He’s never seen club security work so diligently to tell the flocks of people, girls and guys, that their booth is off-limits to regular guests. When Lando spots a girl that piques his interest, he does the cool, suave thing where he tells security it’s all good, and that’s enough to get the girl all giggly from the start.

They come and go, and Lando can’t even keep track. Slender, lotioned arms brushing against his, manicured hands on his shoulder, puffy lips up to his ear telling him something, probably their name. The names fly at him like a Top 100 Girls Names in the U.K. list. He doesn’t hear half of them. Every time they lean in, he gets assaulted with a thick cloud of sweet perfume that makes him dizzy and by the time his head stops spinning, they’ve already leaned back, smiling, expecting a response. But he could probably say anything and they would tip their heads back, the slopes of their necks gleaming under the lights, laughing like he said anything funny. 

The alcohol makes it fun. He flashes them a grin, brushes the small of their back with his hand, teasing, and asks them what brings them to Monaco. It’s never been easier. He didn’t know winning a championship would make getting laid so much easier, and he already had a high success rate. Max—other Max, that is, Verstappen—never warned him about it, but there’s also something about the long-term girlfriend and the everpresent Dutch stoicism that deflects all of that nonsense before it even touches him. Lando, on the other hand, young, hot, single, has no chance. The girls melt under his smooth talking, unbelievably receptive. The things people will do for exclusivity, to be able to go around knowing that they slept with someone famous, that they touched someone untouchable. 

Shots are poured with a heavy hand. Smoke curls from slim cigarettes, huffed into the air. The gaudy synth and crisp drums from the music rattles around in Lando’s head, blasting his eardrums, nestling in his ribcage, becoming an extension of him. There’s a girl who smells like sugar singing in his ear. There’s a guy gripping his shoulder, asking him if he wants a bump, grins even when Lando shakes his head. He still has Barcelona next week, this week essentially. If they pluck him out for random drug testing, he’s fucked. He laughs to himself, imagining being disqualified that way. It would make perfect sense for this shitshow of a season. And to think they won the Constructor’s by a landslide last year.

A strange feeling of discomfort lodges itself in his chest at the thought of Oscar. The two of them. The music swells around him, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the concept. Focus. Bigger, better things happening in the present moment. A girl is teasing him by tugging on his belt loops coyly, asking to do another shot.

He tosses his head back, looks to the ceiling, to the bright flashing lights. It almost feels like a prayer.

One girl throws a wrench in his predictable formula. She catches him off-guard. In line for the restroom, she comes up to him, eyes lined with dark blue, sheer shirt nearly exposing her entire torso if it weren’t for the thin bra underneath it, and leans in close to his ear.

“Where’s Oscar?”

Her breath is warm and minty. She pulls away, smacking her gum, smirking. 

He just blinks. Does he know her? He can’t recall. “What?”

She raises a pierced eyebrow. “Piastri?”

“What about him?” he asks stupidly. He definitely doesn’t know her. What the fuck is she asking for?

She laughs, swirling her thin straw around her drink with three limes. That’s way too many limes. She leans in close again, still having to shout to be heard over the music. “Where is he?”

Where is he, indeed? The question Lando is always asking. Probably tucked into bed in his apartment, lights off, asleep, soft breaths slipping past his open mouth. He doesn’t believe Lando when he tells him he sleeps with his mouth open. It’s only slightly, just a parting of the lips. It’s cute. Lando pokes them sometimes just to watch Oscar smack them subconsciously. 

“Oscar doesn’t go out,” Lando tells her, already regretting giving her any information. Not that it’s exactly secret. It’s pretty obvious actually. There’s not a single video of Oscar at a club out there, whereas there are many of Lando. Still, anything he knows about Oscar feels like his insider knowledge. Definitely not hers. “Why?”

Her smirk grows, tongue poking out the side of her mouth. “I’m trying to fuck him.”

Lando recoils with an obvious grimace. “The fuck?”

She rolls her eyes. “What? You’ve been talking to my friend all night trying to get her in bed. I can’t do the same to yours?”

“Who are you?”

“We can do it all four of us if you’re down.”

The men’s restroom stall clicks open and some guy comes out. Lando’s saving grace. He shudders and heads inside immediately, getting far, far away from the conversation. He can hear the girl cackling to herself as he locks the door. What the fuck is her problem?

His stomach turns at the thought of her cozying up to Oscar at the bar, swirling her three-lime drink, smacking her gum in his face, feeding him whatever lines she thinks will work. Touching his arm. Oscar’s so polite, he’d probably stand there and listen to her the whole night. Or, worse, Lando’s hysterical mind supplies, he’ll take her up on her offer. Worst of all, Lando will watch the two of them slip out of the club, hand-in-hand, back to his place where he’ll fuck her on his nice, white sheets and she’ll get to hear the way he make a little pathetic noise in the back of his throat and see the way he flushes from his ears to his neck when he comes. 

Lando finishes pissing, wets his hands in the sink, and presses them to his face. Oscar would never. It took Lando two years to pull him. There’s no way he’d go home with a random girl. His heart thunders against his chest. He’s never heard of Oscar casually hooking up. 

Unless he doesn’t tell him. Christ, it has been nearly a year since they last fucked. There’s no way Oscar’s been dry that whole time. Who is he fucking?

There’s a loud knock on the door. Lando rolls his eyes. People are so impatient when they’re drunk. He wets the back of his neck with cold water and emerges back onto the dance floor. 

Back to the program. He needs to expedite it. He can’t find any of the girls he was talking to earlier. They’re either lost in the thick crowd or he doesn’t remember what they look like. 

Except one. She sees him before he sees her, smiling at him from nearby the bar. Sure. She was nice. He’ll go with her.

“There you are,” she chirps at him when he comes over, hand immediately on his arm. Her gold necklace gleams under the light, sporting an A charm. Yes, her name was Anna, Lando recalls with a mental kiss to the heavens. “I lost you there.”

“Anna,” he drawls. “I was looking for you.”

She touches a finger to her lips, a shimmery pink nail, and grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiles and notices a lack of cup in her hand. “D’you want another drink?”

“Oh, no,” she says with a lazy shake of her head. “I’ve had plenty for now.”

Probably for the best. He doesn’t want her too drunk. This is a sweet spot. How can he get her in a car and to a hotel as soon as possible?

“So where are you staying?”

“I’m actually staying in Nice.” Not ideal. “You know, the trip is really not bad at all. I’ve heard a lot of students at the university here live in Nice. I’m looking to apply, so I think that’s a good arrangement.”

Cold horror washes over Lando. “How old are you?”

She laughs hard, hand on his arm squeezing. “Oh my god, no, I mean for a Masters program. Thank you, though.” She winks. He exhales in relief. “Nice to know I still look young.”

“And beautiful.”

She giggles. He’s close to sealing his plans for the night, he can feel it.

He’s still listening to her tell him all about what Masters programs she’s looking to apply to when he catches the faint scent of a sickeningly familiar cologne. His nerves light up, all of his attention switches onto high alert. He doesn’t even see him. He’s still looking at this girl when he feels a firm body pass in front of him, far too close to be acceptable for a stranger, and feels the brush of an arse against his crotch. His hand, on instinct, moves to grab a hip, but he’s already gone.

It’s then that Lando sees him: Oscar, already walking away, casting a look over his shoulder back at Lando, catching his gaze with a small smile, flashing a canine. Disappearing into the red glow of the crowd.  

There’s no fucking way. Oscar doesn’t party. What is he doing here, playing with Lando like he’s expecting him to chase him? 

Lando chases him. He mutters some stupid, half-assed apology to the girl and rushes toward the direction Oscar disappeared. He must be pushing past people a little too roughly, but he squeezes through and to the paid booth where he, indeed, finds Oscar saying his greetings to the guys there. Lando’s mates, mainly, but Oscar’s met them all enough times to be friendly. They return his greetings explosively, drunk off their arses, acting like they’re best friends, hands clasping. 

“Mate,” Lando breathes out, smacking Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar scrunches his nose, rubbing at the spot like it really hurt. “What are you doing here?” 

“I heard you were here,” Oscar tells him, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to say and doesn’t make Lando’s head spin.

“Who—” he begins, then spots Max grinning at him from across the table, shrugging his shoulders in time to the blasting music. Jesus, he knew it was a bad idea giving those two each others’ contacts. “And you didn’t text me?”

Oscar gives a small pout. “I did. You never answer.”

“No, you did––” Lando yanks his phone from his pocket. Fuck him, Oscar did text him. He was so busy, he didn’t see it. “Fuck. Well, how was I supposed to anticipate you showing up? I invite you out every time and you never take me up on it, and the one time I don’t ask, you show up anyway?”

“Keeping you on your toes.”

“Keeping me on my––” Lando cuts himself off with a tsk and pokes Oscar’s side. Just that brief touch reminds him how strongly he’s been craving any kind of touch with Oscar. “So what? Are you here to celebrate a terrific weekend?”

Oscar glances at the drinks on the table. “Well, if you recall, I didn’t do too bad myself.”

“Yeah, piss off.”

“And what are you celebrating?”

“Uh, Charles’s contract renewal?” Oscar laughs. “Who gives a fuck? Celebrating to celebrate.”

Oscar humors him with a hum. Something stirs in Lando’s gut, the familiar something of his sexual frustration vying for attention. 

“D’you want a drink?” Lando asks, even though he knows Oscar doesn’t really like drinking. Only if it’s champagne on the podium or a glass of wine at dinner. Or a sickeningly sugary cocktail. Still, Lando doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s nervous now, drunk off his rocker with Oscar right in front of him at a club. He doesn’t know the next step.

Oscar considers it. Lando can tell something’s up with him, because he actually says: “Sure.”

Oscar Piastri at a club taking shots. What driving a car with a shit engine will do to a man.

Lando snaps his fingers at one of his mates, directing him wordlessly to pour a shot. He wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music even if he shouted. His mate understands: he shoots him a thumbs up and tips the handle of vodka into a glass. Lando can practically see the regret slowly pass over Oscar’s face. 

He’s even more endeared when Oscar tips back the shot, face scrunching up, coughing after. Lando squeezes his shoulder.

“Good,” he encourages, fetching a lime for him. Oscar takes it gratefully and bites into it. One unpleasant thing after another, but the second is better. “Few more of those, and you’ll be right where I am.”

“I don’t think I want to be where you are.”

“You come to a club, and you don’t want to be fucked up?” 

Oscar chews on his bottom lip, looking a bit like he’s been caught. Why is he here? He’s not letting on. Lando needs to pull it from him.

Actually, he doesn’t need to. Because Oscar offers it himself: “I came for you.”

Innocent enough, except he’s looking at Lando with a focused stare, the kind Lando is used to seeing before he presses their mouths together. He thinks Oscar might be making a move. The idea is enough to send a chill of excitement down his spine. 

Fuck it, he’s drunk enough to throw out the bait, at the very least.

“So let me tell you my options,” Lando tells him, leaning closer. He throws one arm around Oscar’s firm shoulders and gestures another toward the crowd. “That girl by the booth there, her name’s Daisy.” He’s making shit up. He couldn’t recall her actual name for the life of him. “Model. That girl, the one doing a shot with that bloke, Evelyn, doing some shit on TikTok, probably makeup, she’s got these giant eyelashes. Somewhere on the dance floor, you’ll know her when you see her, Phoebe. I actually have no clue what she does, but she’s here on Alo’s dime, who isn’t? And over there, that’s Anna, graduated from some American uni a couple of years ago, looking to do a Masters here in Monaco.” He turns to look at Oscar fully, who’s not even looking at where he’s been pointing, just raising an eyebrow at him. “Thoughts? Which one should I go for?”

Bait, thrown. Because Lando knows that Oscar hates his casual hookups. He never says anything when Lando mentions some girl he had over the previous night, a complete statue of silence, but one time, when Lando sunk inside of him with a groan, Oscar wrapped an arm around his neck and muttered, strained, into his ear: “Do the girls you bring home feel like this?”

“Fucking hell,” Lando choked out, a thrill shooting through his body. Oscar bit down gently on his earlobe, and Lando was shocked he didn’t come right then and there. He shook his head. “Never.” He moved then, purposeful, bringing out shallow moans from Oscar. “There’s no one like you. You’re perfect. Always perfect.” And he meant it.

But Oscar’s never easy. “Well,” he begins, like he’s actually going to give Lando advice, “I’ve never known you to turn down a model. Evelyn seems to be kissing that bloke right now, so I think your shot there is gone. If you can’t find Phoebe, I don’t know how you’ll fuck her, and Anna might be a little too smart for you. Overall, terrible options.”

They’re getting close. Lando squeezes his shoulder. “Yeah? Well, you know, I’ve had a million girls come up to me tonight, I could make ten more options in half an hour.”

“Probably.” Oscar shrugs, touches Lando’s back. “But you’re not going to take any of them.”

Lando tongues the inside of his teeth. “Oh, yeah? And why’s that?”

Oscar grins, eyes fixed on him hard. “‘Cause I’m here.”

A chill passes through Lando. His stomach flips. The flicker of mischief in Oscar’s eyes should be a punishable crime, because Lando’s so turned on he could pass out. One of his friends comes up from behind Oscar, stealing his attention with a cheery greeting before that line of conversation can continue on, and Lando’s half-hard in his jeans. Christ alive. 

By the time Oscar finishes his brief exchange, Lando’s already ordered a car. Oscar gives him an expectant look, challenging him. There are his cards on the table, what will Lando do with them?

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he tells Oscar, leaning in close to his ear. “Meet me there in two minutes, so help me God, Piastri.”

A pleased smile spreads across Oscar’s face, and Lando has to leave before he kisses him right there.

Two minutes is too long. He waits in the bathroom stall, fingers drumming against his thighs anxiously, listening to the dull boom of the music. He counts the minutes, he really does. He counts sixty seconds, then again, then gets twenty-four seconds into a third minute before he hears a knock on the door.

“You’re late,” he mumbles as he pulls Oscar inside and locks the door, pushes him against it, and puts his mouth on his.

Relief. Oscar’s hands on his hips, fingers already sliding underneath his shirt, his lips responding to Lando’s. Lando grips his face, tugging him close, though he can’t get any closer, whatever. He missed the taste of his mouth. He missed the way he kisses, surprisingly eager for such a mellow guy. Maybe he was apprehensive the first few times Lando put his mouth to his, but Oscar knows him too well now to hesitate. 

And Lando’s too turned on to give him any time to. There’s a great benefit to being roughly the same height, which is when Lando grinds his hips forward, his crotch meets Oscar’s perfectly and gives them both the sensation they need. Add that to the list of things Lando missed: feeling the heat of their laps swell against each other. Feeling Oscar stiffen against him.

Lando wants to reach his hand down between them, to touch Oscar through his jeans and really feel him harden underneath his palm, but Oscar has other plans and better motor skills to execute them. He bites down gently on Lando’s bottom lip, then flips him around and holds him against the door. Lando makes a noise of surprise that starts out muffled against Oscar’s mouth but ends spilling into the open air when Oscar pulls away. Oscar sucks a spot on his neck and presses his tongue flat against it. Lando grips his hair tight, unabashedly groaning now. It’s so much so fast and only getting faster. 

Oscar kisses the slope of his neck, moving lower, much to Lando’s twisted pleasure.

“You know,” Lando begins, dragging his hands through Oscar’s hair as he kisses down Lando’s torso, sinking to his knees, kissing his waistband, “you could have just called me.”

Oscar looks up at him through his pretty eyelashes. “You seemed to be having so much fun with those girls. I would have hated to interrupt that.”

“Jesus, Oscar, I could be inside a girl and I would still drop everything to get to you if you called.”

“Wow,” Oscar says, undoing Lando’s belt with expert familiarity. “And I thought romance was dead.”

“When did you become such a smart-arse?” Lando asks, tapping his cheek.

Oscar tugs down his zipper. “It’s been a while since you fucked me, I had to do something with my time.”

“I––” He cuts himself off with a groan when Oscar presses his lips around the outline of Lando’s stiff cock through his pants. “I would’ve,” he manages through his next breath. “I would have at any moment. I just didn’t know if we were, like, cool.” He feels ridiculous just saying it, even more so when Oscar kisses the tip of his dick. “I didn’t want to, you know, assume.”

Oscar pulls off, wets his lips. “We are cool. Are we not?”

“Yeah, but––”

“I’m fine, Lando. I’ve told you. You know this.” He drags his palms on the outside of Lando’s thighs. “I’m good.”

Lando strokes his cheek with his thumb. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever really be sure that Oscar is good. He thinks that wound might just stay open forever. They could be on their deathbeds, and Lando will still feel a sting of guilt for taking the championship away from him, and Oscar will probably still feel a twinge of resentment. But there was no other way, he needed to win.

He drags his hand through Oscar’s hair gently and swallows hard. His precious Osc. He would give him anything. Almost.

Oscar says he’s good, and Lando doesn’t think he believes it, but he’ll accept it. They’re okay. They’re cool. 

“Cool,” Lando whispers. 

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Their car’s here. Oscar’s tugging down his pants, wrapping his soft fingers around his cock. He’ll call another car. 

Lando’s eyes flutter shut at the wet heat of Oscar’s mouth, taking him dutifully, all the way, lips to his base. He does that thing where he flattens his tongue to wrap around his shaft then sucks him deep until the tip of Lando’s dick hits the solid roof of his mouth, an act of absolute heaven, and Lando can’t stop the strangled noise that leaves him, eyes rolling back for an uncontrollable moment. He pulls off, licks a firm stripe over his twitching head, then does it again, and Christ, Lando really is going to pass out. 

He tightens his grip in Oscar’s hair. Maybe it hurts, but Oscar only hums around him, which melts Lando even more. 

“Oh, Oscar,” Lando groans. “Oscar, Oscar. Fuck. You––ah!” Oscar sucks him down sharply. “Fuck, I missed you.” His head is spinning. The whole room is spinning. The only thing simultaneously unraveling and grounding him is the feeling of Oscar’s mouth. 

His head hits the door hard when he throws it back. He can’t even feel any pain. All he feels is tight heat. He’s going to come fast if he looks at Oscar now, but the part of him that needs to see the image of Oscar on his knees with a cock in his mouth wins over the part of him that would be embarrassed.

Oscar’s lips are stretched wide around him, saliva dripping out the corners of his mouth with each bob of his head, and the wet noise the act makes is absolutely obscene. It’s too dark in the bathroom for Lando to see the flush on his cheeks, the one he knows he’s wearing right now. Oscar blushes so easily, it’s one of Lando’s favorite things about him. His complexion does him no favors either, the pink coming through so easily on his pale skin. 

Lando lets out a deep, strangled noise. He has half the mind to just grab Oscar’s head and fuck his face himself, he’s so desperate for it. The idea sounds a little too mean for the moment, and besides, Oscar seems to be having such a good time working on it himself. He’s moaning around Lando’s cock, eyebrows pinching slightly, looking up at him with big eyes. 

That’s what does it for him, meeting Oscar’s beautiful brown eyes, darkened by the dim lighting and made glassy with the beginnings of strained tears, and feeling him suck him down hard. Lando whines and comes without warning into Oscar’s mouth, already apologetic even as the tightness in his stomach unravels and pleasure washes over him. Oscar doesn’t complain. He pops off of him and swallows, something Lando can only watch with blank satisfaction. Oscar wipes the corners of his mouth with his thumb, and then he smiles. 

Lando bends down to kiss him. He doesn’t particularly enjoy tasting himself on Oscar’s tongue, but it’s worth it. 

“What do you want,” Lando mumbles against his lips. “Anything. Tell me anything, I’ll give it to you.” If he has to bend Oscar over the sink right here, he’ll do it. 

“Just call a car, please,” Oscar pants. He thinks he’s being subtle by grinding his palm against his crotch, but Lando notes it and plans a thousand ways to take care of him when he gets him in a bed.

When his second car arrives, he sends Oscar out first. Despite everything, Lando still has some mind to know being spotted leaving a bathroom at the same time as his teammate isn’t the greatest look. He waits a bit, then plays his least favorite game: leaving the club without being spotted. He moves so fast toward the exit, he actually collides hard with one of the girls he was flirting with earlier. He cringes and hurries away before she can even turn around.

The fresh air outside is like a balm. He sighs in relief and finds the car where Oscar is waiting for him in the backseat, looking pathetically turned on. Lando grins.

Up in Lando’s apartment, door securely locked, Lando pushes Oscar onto his bed. Too much time wasted getting here. He’s not waiting a second more. He presses his mouth against Oscar’s, already hard again. It’s like falling into an old routine. Muscle memory.

He tugs Oscar’s shirt off, delighted to see he’s still fit, probably even more so. He pulls his own shirt over his head. Oscar whines for him to hurry up, bless him, he has been waiting so long, so Lando tugs off his jeans, his pants, feeling the soft bare skin against his palms. Oscar’s cock twitches in the cool air, lying against his abdomen, begging for attention. He has such a nice dick, pleasantly big, doesn’t curve in an odd way that would be uncomfortable. It was nice when it was inside of him, Lando recalls. It filled him out quite well. Shame Oscar doesn’t know how to use it. Well, not too much a shame, because Lando quite likes fucking him. 

Lando spreads Oscar’s legs, kisses the insides of his strong thighs, and finally, with one finger slicked with lube, presses into him. He could come like this, just feeling the tightness around his finger, imagining it around his dick. 

“Come on,” Oscar breathes out. “I can take more.”

He always can. He adds in a second finger, feeling the slow stretch. Oscar only smiles. No discomfort. He’s right where he wants to be.

“I can’t believe you showed up to a club,” Lando mumbles. Sometimes he thinks he has Oscar all figured out, and then he goes and surprises him. 

“I was horny,” Oscar grunts, still managing some composure, all things considered. Lando curls his fingers just to see it unravel a little, to see Oscar’s eyebrows pinch. “Maybe you can go and get your dick wet with a hundred other people, but I can’t. So if you’re not fucking me––”

“Then no one is?” Lando tests in a voice that’s nearly a growl. 

His cock jumps. That might be the hottest thing Lando’s ever heard. Oscar needed him that bad. He got dressed and came all the way to a club, past his bedtime, in an environment that’s so far removed from who he is as a person, just to make suggestive comments at Lando in hopes it would get him bent over. He was that desperate. God, he’s going to ruin him.

He spreads his fingers wider inside of Oscar, feeling him stretch under the pressure. “No one touched you like this? Nothing to fill you out like this? Like me?”

Oscar groans and shifts on the bed, but he takes a steady breath in and out. He shoots Lando a half-hearted smirk. “I have dildos, you know.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Well, don’t go and ruin it.”

“Apologies for shattering your illusion. Do you have a thing for me being a virgin?”

“Maybe I would if you were.”

“Well, you asked me the first time we fucked.”

“The first and last time you fucked me? Yeah, I asked, you were shit at it.”

“Fuck off. We’re talking about you, not me.” Lando curls his fingers again to get him to stop talking. Oscar winces, but he’s resilient. Breathless, he continues: “You have a thing for me being all innocent and young.”

Lando scrunches his nose in distaste. “Don’t make it weird, you make it sound weird.”

“You’re the one always bringing up how I’m younger than you in all the content we film. By barely two years, mind you.”

Oscar’s a better listener than Lando gives him credit for. Maybe he should learn to stop talking so much. He shrugs. “Fine, maybe I do. It’s hot, thinking I’m, like, corrupting you, or something.” He grimaces. It does sound weird. “Like I’m the only one getting you like this.”

Oscar sighs. “You are the only one. Can’t say the same for you.”

Lando frowns. He’s still on this. He hadn’t realized just how much his little flings bothered Oscar. Sure, he likes making him jealous, but it’s not fun if it really irks him. Sometimes, he overlooks the fact that, just a few years ago, Oscar was the shy boy stepping into that McLaren office for the first time, completely out of his element, having to fit into a place that seemed to have everything figured out without him. He could use the extra reassurance. 

Lando grips one of Oscar’s legs and hooks it over his shoulder. He kisses the inside of his knee. “Oscar, baby,” he purrs, pushing his fingers in deep, curving them firmly. Oscar lets out a soft breath. “You’re the only one I want. I swear to you, I won’t touch anyone else. Even if I don’t get to touch you for another year. You’re worth it.”

Oscar’s struggling to steady his breathing now. “If you go another year without touching me, you’re going to have bigger problems than celibacy.” 

“Deal.” Lando bites the inside of Oscar’s thigh, spreads his fingers again, and decides that’s enough of that.

He pulls out of him. Oscar makes a small noise of dissatisfaction. So impatient.

He removes his own tight pants and grips his stiff dick, coating it with the lube that’s still on his fingers. There’s more inside Oscar, waiting for him. He’ll fit right in.

He lines himself up and pushes in, slow, to give Oscar’s body time to adjust. It hardly needs anything; Oscar sucks him in agreeably, tight, hot. Lando groans out roughly. 

“Fuck, Osc.”

Oscar’s hands grapple for Lando’s wrists. Lando’s hands are busy gripping Oscar’s hips, making sure he sinks into him just right. He spares one hand to hold Oscar’s, threading their fingers together. A deep sense of fondness washes over him, which only makes him even more desperate to start fucking into Oscar.

“Lando,” Oscar whispers, strained. “Move.”

He doesn’t have to tell him twice. Lando rolls his hips, moving in and out, gentle, almost timid at first, then when Oscar grunts in impatience, he picks up the pace. Then everything clicks into place and everything is right in the world.

There’s a reason this is all Lando thinks about when he gets back to his hotel room after races, body electric with adrenaline that goes straight to his dick, demanding relief. When he finally wraps a hand around himself in the shower, warm water pelting his back, bracing himself against the cool tile with an arm, this is the only memory that can get him groaning out and coming hard: Oscar, flushed a gorgeous pink, lips parted and trembling, gasping and moaning Lando’s name, leaking onto his own stomach, tight and slick around Lando, letting him carve out a space for himself to thrust into over and over again. The tops of Lando’s thighs hit the back of Oscar’s. He’s gripping Oscar’s hip hard, too hard. Everything feels hard. Every muscle in his body is tense, the stirring feeling in his lower stomach is tightening. He’s chasing relief.

He’s chasing Oscar’s first. 

“So good for me,” Lando grunts. He feels a bit stupid saying things like that sometimes, but Oscar soaks it up. It gets him whining and arching off the bed, searching for more. “You feel so good. Fuck. Taking me so well.”

“Lando. So—ah—just like that.”

“I’ve got you.” Lando spits in his palm and grips Oscar’s stiff cock. It jumps at his touch and throbs when Lando starts pumping it in time with his thrusts. Oscar lets out a loud, sharp moan that tapers off into a whimper. His arm twitches, wanting to cover his face, a horrible habit. Lando’s told him he hates it, that he wants to see his face, which is why Oscar holds himself back now, fisting the sheets instead. “So pretty like this. Fuck, Oscar, you’re so good.”

Oscar’s reaching for him now, hand helplessly clasping at air. Lando leans forward, folding himself over him, fucking into him deeper and faster. He can hear every noise Oscar’s making now so much clearer. He can really see the sweat beading at his hairline, trickling down his temples. Oscar throws his arm around Lando’s neck, and Lando catches his wet lips with his own. Thank God he can multitask. 

Oscar wriggles his hips, wanting more. This is all Lando can give him: he’s fucking into him hard, pressing into the spot Oscar needs him, the spot Lando could find in his sleep, and he’s jerking him off. Oscar can’t stop squirming, thighs tight against Lando’s hips, which means he’s getting there. 

Lando drags his tongue across his jaw. He kisses his neck, bites it. Oscar gasps. 

“Lando.” It’s the only thing he seems to be able to say. Good.

“I know, baby, come on.” He’s panting against Oscar’s neck. He’s close, too. He shuts his eyes tight to focus on his movements, keeping them steady, just like Oscar needs him to. “You’re doing so good. Like you were made for me, fuck.” His dirty talk might sound stupid, but right now it’s even turning him on. The idea that Oscar really was made to take his cock. “Come on, Osc. Come for me, I know you can do it.”

Oscar digs his dull nails into his shoulder, whimpering in his ear. “Lando, I’m—”

Lando drags his thumb across the tip of his cock, slams into him particularly hard, and Oscar’s coming over his hand with a bright moan, body trembling underneath him. Hot breath against his ear, sending chills down Lando’s back. 

Lando keeps fucking him, partly to help him through his orgasm, making sure he gets every jolt of pleasure out for him, and partly because he’s so desperate to come himself. He can hardly think. Oscar twitches, and Lando can’t help but continue thrusting into him, so warm, so wet. Tight around him. So perfect.

Oscar kisses his ear, and Lando comes apart. He slams into him and comes with a deep groan that drags out for the entirety of his orgasm. It hits him hard. He collapses on top of Oscar, shaking, panting. 

Oscar tightens his hold around him, an arm around his shoulders, another around his waist. Lando sighs a breath of relief, lightheaded. The world feels light. There’s none of the usual dread that hits him after a hookup, the understanding that he has to either leave or make the other person leave as politely as possible. There’s only comfort. The feeling of fitting right where he needs to. Oscar kisses the side of his head, Lando kisses his jaw. 

“I missed you,” Lando mumbles against Oscar’s neck when he can manage words, tasting the salt of his sweat. “I missed having you like this.”

“I missed you, too,” Oscar tells him, easing a tension in Lando’s body he didn’t know he was holding. He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear that.

“‘M sorry for coming in you,” Lando says, which is the lamest thing he could ever say, but he is sorry. Usually he does pull out and jerks off onto Oscar’s stomach or lower back because Oscar whines about the mess. Rightfully so.

Oscar chuckles, the vibration of his body passing onto Lando’s. “Just buy me dinner next time. Call it even.”

“I’ll buy you whatever. Every time.”

“Are you planning on coming in me every time?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Lando manages to lift his head to look at Oscar, who’s giving him a sleepy smile. He realizes then what he himself implied. “Do you think—I mean, could we, like, keep going? Like this, I mean? Would you want there to be a next time?”

Oscar touches his fingers to Lando’s face, traces his brow with his thumb, and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Everything in its right place.