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Rumor in the paddock is that Piastri got a tattoo.
Lando won’t lie and say he’s not curious about it; he’s curious as hell about anything to do with Oscar. He’s a little fucked up about it, to be honest, and that’s exactly why he’s trying to be so very cool about Oscar apparently getting a tattoo.
Except Lando’s never been cool about a single thing in his life.
Where is it? How big? Is it on his thigh? Probably not. Why would it be? It doesn’t stop Lando from picturing a tattoo on that thick, muscular thigh anyway, or picturing his head sandwiched in between them. He also knows the tattoo’s not on Oscar’s hipbone or his lower back, but he desperately wants it to be because how fucking hot is that? How delicious?
Fuck.
Yeah, he’s cooked. He has to start being normal about his teammate. Can’t keep having these thoughts about Oscar, daydreaming about them in all sorts of precarious situations. It’s really… unproductive. Distracting, really.
Because Oscar will be getting into a thousand-pound orange racecar about to kick his ass on the track, and all Lando can think about is Oscar bending him over the hood and fucking him silly, making his shit bounce on it.
It’s not—they’re not even like that. He thinks. He is for sure like that, a lot like that actually. But Oscar’s been a closed book, always so stoic and gives nothing away except a few lingering glances, which could mean anything from ‘I want you so bad’ to ‘Stop talking for the love of Christ’. There’s no telling. Could even be both of those things at the same time.
But God does Lando think about it. All. The. Fucking. Time. Getting his hands on that pale expanse of skin, tracing his tongue from one freckle to the next, biting down on that bulging muscle in Oscar's neck, what Oscar would sound like moaning into Lando’s ear. All the time, even in his dreams.
Safe to say he’s got a thing, a crush if you have to call it something, on his teammate. There are so many reasons why that’s a bad idea. He’s always known that, but he can’t get Oscar off his bloody mind. Almost feels like he needs to get it out of his system to get over it.
Get it in him to get it out of him.
He laughs out loud at that, and his mechanic turns to look at him, a questioning frown between his eyes, while the engine revs at indescribable decibels.
“Oh,” Lando waves dismissively. “No, nothing! Just—”
Just him being distracted by Oscar Piastri again.
It’s time to go, though. Time to get on the track and lock in for the last race of the season. He’s got a championship to win. He still casts a glance over at Oscar’s car in P3 before the starting lights begin the countdown sequence.
And surprise, surprise, Oscar’s already looking at his way. He shoots Lando a quick, kind of awkward salute.
Lando smiles, teeth and all, then remembers he’s got a fucking helmet on, and Oscar can’t see it, so he sticks his hand up and waves instead. Oscar shakes his head, and Lando can’t see his face either, but he pictures a grin. That Oscar-type grin, that sexy boyish grin. Fuck sake. Lock in, man.
Lando looks ahead, shakes himself out of it. The lights go on one by one, and then that bone-deep adrenaline takes hold of Lando, an anticipative vibration coming from his core, and all he hears is his heartbeat.
Locked in.
It’s so loud. Winning is so damn loud. Such a flood of emotions from that first realization to hugging his mom, a million and one things running through his mind at once, everyone wanting a piece of him. He forgets about Oscar’s tattoo for a little while.
They call him onto the podium, and he’s buzzing, barely registering anything; he’s functioning in an ecstatic daze. He accepts the trophy, goes through all the motions, pokes some fun at Max, and tries not to stare at Oscar smiling like that. It’s a lot. It's all a lot.
He pops the bottle and lets loose. Sprays it all over, at Max, at Oscar, and when Oscar ducks away to spray Lando back, body turning slightly to the right, he sees the dark cross etched into the left side of Oscar’s neck.
Dear God.
It really does wipe him out for a split second. Because what? What the fuck does Oscar mean he got a fucking cross tattooed on his neck? His neck? Lando was hoping for it to be somewhere sexy, wanking fuel and all. But in reality, he was thinking it’d be in a boring place like his biceps or back. Not his fucking neck. Oh God, what will Lando do now? What the hell is he supposed to do about this now?
It’s also so discombobulating—that’s a word he learned from his mechanic talking about Zak—because Oscar’s the kind of boy you find in a church with a comb-over and his best Sunday jacket on, saying "Good morning, miss" at the door, right? So the cross is appropriate, but on his neck? And now he just... looks like that?
Oscar brings him back to reality with a spray of fizzy rosewater to the face. Stings his bloody eyes. He wipes them and checks Oscar’s neck again just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating it.
He wasn’t. There’s a beautiful black cross on the side of Oscar’s stupid, thick, gorgeous neck. Hnng. Lando’s going to have a fucking time of it not pinning Oscar down and licking it and sucking a fat bruise all over it.
Oscar frowns. Lando’s been staring at him for too long now. Making this more obvious than it can be out here in the open. The media’s a vicious bitch, will take an innocent photo and turn it into something belonging on Pornhub.
Lando has to look away, but because there’s genuinely something wrong with him, he fucking winks at Oscar first. Yeah. With his hair sopping wet, rose water dripping down his face, his back to the cameras, he winks at Oscar.
Kind of kills him the way it throws Oscar for a second. A subtle falter in his movement, the slightest double-take at Lando, a blink of disbelief. But Lando clocks it.
Call it paving the way, Lando thinks.
Because he’s gonna have to fuck Oscar Piastri now.
The rest of the night is a blur. Party after party, drink after drink. Music so loud, Lando feels it in his bones, the buzz pumping through him like blood.
It’s not like him to overdo it, but he does tonight. It’s all he can do to keep from seeking Oscar out around every corner, in every crowd. He gets stuck on every tall guy with a mop of golden brown hair that slightly resembles Oscar’s.
The more he drinks, the worse it gets. Not even Sweet Caroline is enough to drag him out of it. He only ends up running his hands through a blonde’s hair, wondering what it’d be like if that were Oscar, gazing up at him with those pretty brown eyes. He keeps touching, sorry to whoever this man is, but his tipsy mind is picturing Piastri.
He knows this will end up on the internet, and he should care, but he can’t bring himself to right now. Charlotte can handle that tomorrow.
He dances to the banging bass until he’s sweaty and tired, and someone takes the bubbly he’s sipping from away from him. Their second party spot closes up too, and by now, Lando’s tired anyway, sticky with someone’s spilled drink and sweat, on a nice little high and ready to get in a shower.
“Hey,” he says to Max Fewtrell, who is unfortunately the designated driver for the night. “Where’s Oscar staying?”
“Here, I think,” Max says, pulling up to their hotel. “Probably asleep. It’s three a.m., mate.”
“Yeah,” Lando says, a little dejected now. “Probably.”
It’s a bad idea, anyway. This wicked time of the morning, all this adrenaline in his body. The liquor, too. He’d do something stupid. He’d go and fuck it all up. What if he knocks on Oscar’s door and says what he wants to say, and Oscar shuts the door in his face and goes to drive for Ferrari because nothing could be worse than that right now? What if he tries to kiss Oscar and Oscar punches him in the balls?
But what if he tries to kiss Oscar and Oscar… kisses him back?
What then?
Whatever, he can take a punch to the balls, so he texts Oscar on his way up to the penthouse and gets no response because Max was probably right. Oscar’s asleep like a normal man who doesn’t have an infatuation with his teammate.
He hits the button for Ground again and slides up to the reception desk, smiles in that way that he knows makes people go all weird around him, and just plain old asks the woman sitting there half asleep for Oscar’s room number.
She hesitates at first, policy blah blah, so Lando leans in, lets the smile go slightly lopsided, eyes just a little hooded, and bites his lip. “Please?” he says, innocently as he can, but she’s already butter, tapping away at the keyboard.
“1401,” she tells him. “And congratulations, Mr. Norris.”
Lando rewards her with one of those winks, and she rolls her eyes, so he gets his arse in the elevator before she changes her mind.
A new kind of adrenaline courses through him now. He’s got no damn clue what he’s going to do when he’s actually faced with Oscar, but that’s for later. He sprints down the hallway to the end, where Oscar’s room is, relieved when he sees light still shining through the bottom of the door.
He’s awake.
Is he alone, though? What if he’s got a girl in there? Lando pulls a face at that, stops in front of 1401, breathless now, heart pounding. Shit. This was dumb.
Well, he has to go through with it now. Figures if Oscar’s not alone, he’ll just pretend to congratulate him again and be off. He knocks, and now his heart’s thudding in his ears, adrenaline’s burned off all the booze. It’s just him standing there about to be stupid as fuck.
There’s a shuffle by the peephole and then, “Lando?”
Lando jolts. “Uh, yeah. Hi.”
When the door opens, Oscar’s standing there with this beautifully confused expression. He’s got an untucked black button-down on, halfway open from the collar down, so Lando can see his firm chest splattered with freckles. Barefoot, still wearing his slacks, and holding a half-full whiskey tumbler.
See, Lando knew he wasn’t sleeping. Oscar stares at Lando, who is still breathless and probably reeking of booze and the inside of a club. Ew.
“You have a neck tattoo,” Lando says like a damn idiot, then swallows, trying to catch his breath. He is a fucking athlete. Why is he breathless?
Oscar bites back a laugh. “I do,” he says in that quiet, Oscar-like way of his, only his voice is rougher now, tired, liquor-drenched. Fucking shit, Lando’s hard. It really is that easy. “Is that a problem?”
Lando shakes his head and doesn’t give himself even a second to think about it; he pushes forward, slips his hand behind Oscar’s neck, and drags him closer, then kisses him. It’s surprisingly gentle for how maddeningly crazy he feels right now.
And Oscar doesn’t, to Lando’s utter relief, punch him in the balls.
He does something way, way worse and kisses him back.
Without breaking the kiss, he slips an arm around Lando’s waist and pulls him inside. Shuts the door with his foot and then backs Lando up against it. He’s still holding that glass in his free hand, so he removes the arm around Lando’s waist to cup his cheek.
And oh Lord. It’s so much, it’s like winning; it’s the loudness of winning all over again. Oscar’s lips are so soft, so deft, he does what he’s doing so, so right. Lando’s proper bothered, has a fat boner in his boxers just waiting to be touched.
He hooks a knee around Oscar’s hip, letting him know what’s up, kisses a little harder, just a little more intentionally than before. He draws Oscar’s body closer to his, fingers curled into the lapels of his shirt.
Oscar finally puts that stupid glass down and lifts Lando right off the bloody ground. Their lips part for just a second, and Oscar gives him a fiery look, something dark and hungry, just a glimpse of it, and then goes for Lando’s mouth again. His palms now full of Lando’s arse.
Lando unbuttons his shirt just as Oscar lets go and dumps him onto the bed. God, he looks ravishing standing at the foot of the bed looking down at Lando. His hair’s all fucked up, the shadows fall just right across his face, lips kissed swollen. He slowly undoes the few buttons holding his shirt together and flaps the lapels back.
“Ah, fuck, mate.” Lando laughs, tossing his head back. He can’t actually believe this is happening, that Oscar, whom he’s been having fantasy after fantasy about, is now looking at him like that.
Oscar smiles, a cute, shy kind of thing. Fucking discombobulating. He can’t look like that, have a neck tattoo, and then fuck Lando’s shit up with a cute little smile. What is happening?
“What?” Oscar says.
Lando gets himself up and knee-walks over to Oscar. He takes Oscar’s face into his hands and just looks at him, runs the pads of his thumbs over Oscar’s lips. Oscar closes his eyes and chases the touch, rocks forward. Lando smiles and plants a soft kiss on his parted mouth.
It makes Oscar sigh, tongue sliding over the skin Lando touched. “Lando,” he whispers. “What are you doing?” He slips his hands into Lando’s shirt, along his bare flanks, and leans in to rest his forehead against Lando’s. “What are we doing?”
Lando doesn’t have an answer for him because, yeah, what the fuck are they doing? So instead of lying, he nudges Oscar’s face with his nose and kisses him again. Slow and nice, soft slips of his tongue into Oscar’s mouth while his hands make their way to the button on Oscar’s pants. He works it open easily and lets the slacks drop to the floor.
Lando trails his mouth along Oscar’s jaw, tips his head to the side to get a good look at that damn tattoo. And hell, like this, his neck muscles flexing in the lowlight, collar flared open, it looks even more delicious. Lando does what he’s been aching to do since he heard about the church boy’s scandalous tattoo, and licks a wet stripe over the inked skin, then sucks.
He doesn’t hold back, makes it hurt, he knows he does because Oscar whines the most beautiful sound. So Lando doesn’t stop. He slides his hands around to Oscar’s arse, squeezes over his boxers, and bites down on his neck at the same time. Feels Oscar gasp into his mouth. He gets a nip on his lower lip for that. Which means Oscar’s forgotten about the whys and the whats of this whole thing and is back to thinking with his dick. Nice one, Lando.
He smiles against Oscar’s lips and brings his hands back around, this time slipping one inside Oscar’s boxers. Shit, he’s big, really packing. Which makes this all the more terrible. A neck tattoo and a fat dick. Please. What was Lando thinking?
Then again, it hardly matters when Oscar lets out a sweet, sweet moan as Lando wraps his hand around it. He gives Oscar one last kiss and drops lower, too hasty to kiss his way down, although that would be the romantic thing to do, probably.
“Oh,” Oscar breathes, his fingers slipping into Lando’s curls. “Lando…”
And then Lando puts it in his mouth, and that hand in his hair gets real tight. It’s Lando who makes a noise now, a garbled groan as Oscar pulls. He feels his eyes flutter shut, the bite of mild pain, his mouth full of dick. Lando’s in fucking heaven right now.
He starts bopping his head, working his neck into it, really opening up his throat. It gets noisy, sloppy-sounding.
“Lando, oh my God,” Oscar says, breathy, head dropped back, mouth open. But his body’s stiff as a board, though. Holding back. “Lando,” he mumbles again.
Lando pulls off, keeps stoking though. “Piastri,” he says, mouth wet, out of breath, and eager to get back to it. He gets off the bed and sinks to his knees on the floor, level with Oscar’s cock now, then says, “Don’t be so boring, mate.”
Oscar goes, “Huh?”
But Lando puts his mouth back on Oscar, covers Oscar’s hand in his hair with his own, showing Oscar to push and hoping Oscar gets the fucking picture.
“Lando,” Oscar says again, like that’s the only word he knows, and hey, Lando’s pretty okay with that. “I couldn’t, I don’t—”
Lando groans, dick in mouth, and rolls his eyes.
“God, you’re stubborn,” Oscar tells him, eyebrows knitted together. But then he finally curls his hand into a fist around Lando’s hair like a handle and tugs Lando’s head backward, pulls him almost all the way off, then slowly slides him back on.
That’s fucking it, man, Lando thinks. God, he’s got issues, but this feels too good to care about it. He slackens his jaw and closes his eyes and just lets Oscar go to work, careful in the way he slides himself in and out of Lando’s mouth. Lando's scalp stings where Oscar's tugging at his hair, and his gag’s getting tested proper, but Lando is having the time of his life.
He opens his eyes for a second, swallows just then, and sees Oscar gasp, lips parted, painfully focused on what he’s doing to Lando’s mouth and throat, watching every move. He’s speeding up too, a good thing; Lando likes some movement, some roughness even.
The moment he spots Lando watching him, something in his expression softens, collapses almost, from an intense heat to a sweet endearment. And look, fuck. Lando blinks, and a blowjob tear trickles from his eye onto his cheek.
And fucking Oscar bites his lip and snaps his hips a few times fast, deeper too, forces a few more tears to bubble up. This bastard enjoys seeing Lando cry. There is honestly something the matter with both of them because Lando’s cock pulses in his slacks. He grips himself tight, and that somehow makes Oscar groan and push Lando off just to wank himself off on Lando’s cheek, hand in his hair, keeping Lando there.
And because of the things that are wrong with him, Lando sticks his tongue out and catches what he can, smiles too because Oscar is fucking dying, watching all that unfold. It visibly wrecks him, shreds through him with a violent twitch. But God, the sounds he makes are incredible. The most beautiful O face Lando’s ever seen.
“Oh, God,” Oscar says, broken, finished, looking at what he’s done. “I’d say sorry, but I think you like this.” He leans on Lando’s shoulders, catching his breath. When he finally straightens up, he offers Lando a hand off the floor. “Wait,” he says quietly, then takes his shirt off and uses it to wipe the jizz off Lando’s cheek and chin.
Lando wants to laugh, and this is not the moment for it. Things could be irreparably fucked up after tonight, and Lando wants to laugh. It’s really not the fucking time, but his teammate, his competitor, is wiping come off his face with a £600 Armani shirt at 3:30 in the morning. What a knob.
Lando smacks the shirt away, grabs Oscar's face, and kisses him again, hard. It makes him laugh anyway, mid-kiss, like the adult he is. Makes Oscar stare at him incredulously, that cute smile tugging at his mouth. Lando can’t help it, he cackles, loudly, goes slack with it, and knows that Oscar’s going to catch him.
He does. Says, “Christ,” and scoops Lando up before he hits the ground. “What’s so funny, mate?”
Lando can’t stop laughing. This is all just so silly, so ridiculous. “I can’t—you cleaning your jizz off my—” He cackles again.
“Alright,” Oscar says, but he’s looking at Lando with that incredible softness in his eyes. Lando’s seen it so many times before, whenever he’s talking to Oscar, even in interviews with the two of them that he plays back afterward. Oscar’s always looking at him like that.
Lando swallows, laughter dwindling now as he looks into those impossible brown eyes. He’s about to kiss Oscar again when Oscar’s hand runs over the thick bulge Lando’s got going on down there. Lando sucks in air like he’s drowning. “Yeah,” he says, because his mind’s gone. He unbuttons himself, makes things a little easier for Oscar, and then almost passes out when Oscar’s hand finally wraps around him.
“Lando,” Oscar whispers, nosing at Lando’s jaw.
“Hm?”
“Where’s your underwear?”
Lando’s eyes are closed, he can’t. Oscar’s hand is on his dick, and he can't. No thoughts. “I won,” he gasps when Oscar slips a tight fist over the head, “the World Championship. I don’t need underwear. Oh, fuck—”
Oscar laughs, a joyful, astonished sound bubbling from his chest that just makes Lando’s dick jump even more. And then he says, “No, darling, you don’t,” and kisses Lando as if he didn’t just say that. As if Lando’s head isn’t spinning from that tender, quiet ‘darling’ Oscar just dropped. As if his heart isn’t speeding like his McLaren did tonight.
Oscar pinches Lando’s chin, tipping his head to look him in the eye. His other hand lets go of Lando’s cock and comes up to his mouth, cupped. Lando’s confused because he can’t be asking what Lando thinks he’s asking. Not church boy Piastri with the fat dick and the neck tattoo. Can’t be.
But then he says, “Spit.”
Lando feels his eyes widen, his mouth getting ready to talk some shit, but Oscar raises an eyebrow, dead serious.
So Lando fucking spits.
And then the next time Oscar wraps his palm around Lando, it’s slick and deadly. No, really, Lando’s going for an embarrassing damn record here. He’s going to fucking come. Badly. Oscar works him over base to head without skipping a beat, so smoothly, feels like Lando’s doing it himself. Not one missed stroke.
He grabs hold of Oscar’s hair when he comes, yanks his head down to kiss him, but pleasure shoots through him, rends him apart, so he just kind of hovers against Oscar’s lips, moaning. Eyes locked with Oscar through it all.
“Shit,” he says shakily, barely coherent.
Oscar’s eyes flick between Lando’s, his hand now wet with Lando’s jizz. He kisses Lando, something stupidly gentle and ravaging all at once.
Lando fucking floats.
It's kind of awkward after that, though. They’ve let go of each other, cleaned up, washed their hands, and Lando wants to stay, but he doesn’t know exactly how to say that. Doesn’t know if Oscar wants him to.
Spending the night? Seems intense. Seems serious. Is that what this is? The stuff they just did was pretty intense, too. Lando’s never had someone look at him with that kind of endearment while he’s got their cock down his throat. Lando himself has never felt like this, so… overcome with it. With affection, he guesses.
He’d like to stay. He’s got to say something because packing it up and hightailing out of here right now’s going to seem like he was only here for dick.
And maybe at first he was. He’s not that sure anymore.
“Uh,” he starts, buttoning up his shirt. “What you doing for the rest of the night?” Real casual, nonchalant even.
Oscar looks out over his balcony to where the light swallows up the night sky in the distance. “It’s morning, Lands,” he says. He’s still shirtless, pants not done up yet, just hanging off his hips like the race suit sometimes does. “Probably taking a nap before my flight.”
He’s beautiful. Lando’s having a hard time taking his eyes off Oscar. Wants to stay even more now. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I mean, obviously. Long night, right?” He laughs nervously, tucks his shirt in.
Oscar runs a hand through his hair, eyes tired but watching Lando with that damn endearing look again. “Do you, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “want to take a nap with me?”
Lando grins, but he really wants to jump into Oscar’s arms and shake him and go yes yes yes fuck yes. Instead, he stands there with his hands in his pockets. “Gotta shower first. Been... a night.”
Oscar picks up his forgotten glass of whiskey from the side table and throws it back, and Lando’s got to be gone if his spent dick pipes back up because of that. He comes walking over to Lando, slips an arm around his waist, and kisses him, whiskey on his tongue.
When he pulls back, Lando smiles up at him. Oscar licks his lips. “Want company?”
And like, this couldn’t have gone better if Lando wanted it to. “God yes,” he says, and Oscar kisses that grin right off his face and then drags him to the bathroom by his wrist.
The clothes come off again, and the steam comes on, and their dicks come back to life. It’s a great fucking shower, especially the part where Oscar crowds Lando up against the glass and washes his back with a soapy sponge and then slips a finger between his arse cheeks and rubs, then acts like that’s normal and Lando’s not dying about it.
And this time, Lando won’t come so fast. He’s going to drag this out, so he lets his mind wander to anything but Oscar and what he’s doing to Lando. He for sure doesn’t think about Oscar’s fingers teasing but not breaching, doesn’t think about Oscar’s hard dick poking at his lower back as he moves, doesn’t think about the gentle and somewhat desperate kisses Oscar leaves along his neck and shoulders while those fingers work.
Nope. God, he doesn’t think about that at all.
Lando drops his forehead against the cool glass, breathing steadily, just about ready to push back on Oscar’s hand. “Oscar,” he says, basically ruined.
Oscar leans in, nudges his lips against Lando’s ear. “Yeah?” And shit, he sounds ruined too, like he’s barely holding on. Why the fuck are they even torturing themselves? They’re young, they can get off now, and probably do this again in half an hour.
Oscar’s fingers press harder against his rim, and Lando helplessly curls his fingers into a fist. “Fucking hell.” Lando makes one last attempt at keeping it together. “I, uh, learned a new word today.”
Oscar stills for a beat then snorts. “And what word’s that, darling?”
He’s not fucking helping with that shit. Lando’s cock pulses. “Fuck sake,” he says. “Discombobulating. It’s when—”
“Lando,” Oscar says, voice rough. He’s smiling, though. “Shut up.” Then he slips a slicked-up finger all the way inside, and Lando is finally free from this lunacy.
He moans. He really does. God, the sound he makes is downright awful.
But Oscar says, “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” and kisses the side of Lando’s neck, then adds another finger.
All in all, a great fucking night. Best he’s ever had.
Thank God for that damn tattoo.