Chapter Text
If Oscar’s honest with himself, the whole Lando thing started pretty innocently, with a crush, a little infatuation with his teammate. And it’s not that unfathomable, to be honest. Lando is real easy on the eyes, and he’s kind, he's funny, and extremely competent.
Ticks a lot of Oscar’s boxes with very little effort.
He doesn’t plan to do anything about it. He’s had crushes on boys before, in karting, in his junior racing years, even some guys on the current grid caught his eye when he just joined. Those usually fizzled out after some time, or Oscar simply detached before things got too real.
There’s no scenario in which that works out, especially now in Formula 1, so he’s happy to spectate, to watch Lando from the sidelines, spend time with him in press and promos. Fantasize about what it would be like to get with him and have the odd wank to a reel of Lando’s new photoshoot. He really doesn’t expect or want much more than that.
He is also aware that there are a bunch of photos out there that make his feelings for Lando extremely obvious if anyone’s paying actual attention. The public has taken many of them totally out of context, sure, made an innocent moment something it’s not, but others tell it exactly the way it is, and damn near expose Oscar. And there’s not much he can do about it; speculation runs rampant all the time in their world, cameras snap them almost constantly. But fortunately for him, McLaren’s PR is pretty good at their jobs, so nothing ever really blows up.
Which is not to say it doesn’t bother Oscar that the internet is full of incriminating evidence of his feelings for his teammate. He remembers clear as day the first time he realised it’s not that innocent anymore, but an actual problem he might need to get under control.
He’d been home at his folks’ for Christmas after the 2024 season, bored out of his mind and scrolling through his tagged photos. And God, there were pictures from angles he didn’t even know a camera was in where he’d been staring brainlessly at Lando. It hurt looking at them, seeing himself so vulnerable; it made him wonder if he wasn’t in too deep, deeper than he thought. If some of it had gone beyond simply crushing on a cute guy at work.
After seeing all that, he tried to stop multiple times when the new season kicked off, tried to keep his distance, but then Lando let out a high-pitched cackle, or touched his shoulder after a race, or said something surprisingly technical, and it felt like the hottest thing Oscar’s ever heard anyone utter. Or Lando lowered his voice in an interview when saying Oscar’s name, and it made Oscar feel like passing out.
Oscar can’t get away from it, from himself. Every day in the paddock with Lando just builds on Oscar’s infatuation. He can’t take his eyes off the guy, spends his free time imagining what it’d be like to have Lando on his knees with Oscar’s dick down his throat. What it’d be like to sink into him, to fill him up.
It really comes to a head after the Miami 1-2.
It’s a place of parties and sex and really hot people, and it’s a culture that Lando seems so very at home in. Which is exactly how it all started. Oscar’s seen videos of Lando in his more careless days, before he locked in, when he was out there every other weekend at some party, and he was doing just enough to stay in F1 and reap the spoils of it.
God, he was a sight then, still is, but that wild, gorgeous boy with sunglasses on inside a club. Yeah, what a fucking thing.
So Oscar guesses that’s why he’s a little less careful about it at the after-party. Wants to be close to Lando, to that guy he saw in the stories back then who got himself hoisted up in people’s arms and touched all over. Maybe it’s curiosity, because Oscar’s the pole opposite. Maybe he’s still high on dopamine after his third consecutive Grand Prix win. God, maybe it’s just his wet dream come to life.
The club’s pumping, smells like sweat and booze and fog juice. He sees Lando and Gasly over in the DJ booth and can’t help but gravitate that way. He’s suddenly nervous so he orders another drink and a shot, too, just to loosen up.
Oscar doesn’t dance—there’s no amount of alcohol in this world that could make him—and he doesn’t know the song Lando’s spinning either, but he gets a little closer to the booth where Lando’s fiddling with the knobs. Gasly spots him and slings an arm around Oscar’s shoulders, singing along to every vulgar lyric while Oscar just lets the bass vibrate through him.
Lando sees him a moment later, cracks a smile, a bright, eye-narrowing one, and beckons him closer. Oscar’s got no intention of going up there, but Gasly shoves him up anyway, and soon, Lando takes Gasly’s place beside Oscar, his arm slipping along Oscar’s waist to pull him close.
The dance floor erupts in cheers and whistles when it’s the two of them behind the decks. The cameras and strobe lights are nearly blinding, and Oscar does his very best not to look at Lando right now while he’s singing, hand in the air, with these multicoloured lights slashing across his face.
He keeps his wits about him and just goes with it. Doesn’t really have to pretend to dance because Lando moves enough for both of them, and he’s sure it looks believable from down there. But then the drinks kick in, and the shots settle, and he clings to Lando a little tighter during the next song.
When Lando drops the beat and everyone goes mad, he leans toward Oscar and says something. But his face is so deliciously close to Oscar’s, even if Oscar could hear anything, he doesn’t think he’d be able to conjure up a reply.
“What?” he all but screams back.
Lando turns into Oscar’s body and cups a hand over his ear. “I said you smell good.”
Oscar’s stomach swoops. “Oh!” He leans in too, and Lando turns his ear to Oscar. “Thank you. You, um, you too. Very Miami.”
When he leans back, Lando’s laughing. He cups Oscar’s ear again. “I smell like Miami?”
Oscar shrugs, still inches from Lando’s face. “You look like Miami.” And Christ knows what comes over him, but when Lando pulls back to look at him, kind of surprised, he gives Lando a quick once-over, from his crisp white sneakers to his popped collar.
A terrible expression comes over Lando’s face. Terrible as in gorgeous realisation that the yearning gazes in those photos aren’t just hyped-up fan nonsense or innocent moments taken out of context. He’s onto Oscar now, and whatever Oscar was going to do to hide it once he’s sober doesn’t matter anymore.
Lando returns the look Oscar gave him, biting down on his lip while he does it, so it’s even more terrible. And then he smiles, and Oscar’s got to look away because, Jesus, he’s gone hot down his neck, sweat’s beading in his hairline now.
He shakes his head, can’t quite get rid of the stupid fucking smile that’s on his face now. But whatever.
Much later, they retire to a crowded VIP area where a dancer does a pole routine on stage, and everyone’s dancing just a little too close and is a little too drunk to care what anyone else is doing. Oscar’s trying to make his way through the crowd to find a seat when a hand wraps around his wrist and tugs him back.
Lando looks at him, leans up to his ear, and says, “Be cool,” then positions himself in front of Oscar, turns around, and falls into a slow, swaying rhythm along with the people around them.
Christ. He’s on top of Oscar, their bodies only fractions apart, but so is everyone else. Oscar is pressed up against a girl’s back, and the guy in front of Lando is so close Oscar can see his freckles.
And it’s dark. And they’re a little waste. And Lando is right there, looking like that.
So Oscar steps just slightly closer, too. At first, he’s just moving to the beat with Lando. He wouldn’t call it dancing or anything really; he is simply too shocked, even if he may have had more than enough to drink now.
Because Lando is absolutely grinding back against him.
Be cool, he thinks. He looks the other way, but the proximity is unavoidable; he feels it all over, and has an burning urge to touch. So he slips his hand onto Lando’s hip, feeling his deliberate movements now, and maybe he tugs Lando back just a little.
Lando appreciates that because he places his hand over Oscar’s and squeezes. God, what the hell are they doing? Thank fuck for the incredibly shit lighting in this lounge.
They keep going like that because the songs get sexier, and the dancer is still holding everyone’s attention. Lando’s watching, but his attention’s on Oscar behind him; there’s no doubt.
By now, Oscar’s got a hard-on, and Lando’s just making it worse. Lando must feel the bulge behind Oscar’s zipper; he must be doing it on purpose. He pushes back on Oscar, gets him right against the dick, and Oscar nearly folds over.
He leans forward, lips near Lando’s ear, and takes a deep, stuttering breath. He squeezes Lando’s hip. “Lando, fuck,” he whispers. “What…”
At that, Lando turns around, with the most beautiful fiery look in his eyes. He nods to the door, so confident and direct that it almost knocks Oscar off his feet. Oscar wonders if this is what he’s always like: sees what he wants and takes it on the spot. There’s something thrilling about that. Something that makes Oscar’s dick pulse with interest.
It’s the whole opposites thing again, Oscar thinks, and it’s driving him insane. Oscar could never bring himself to proposition someone like this. Can't even image how.
He nods, instantly embarrassed about how fast. And then Lando’s weaving his way through the crowd to the door with Oscar’s hand in his, and Oscar’s panicking the closer they get to the exit. There’ll be hell to pay if they’re caught on video like this. And yeah, anything’s easy to explain away the next day, he’s learned that much, but this might get them in hot water for real.
“Lando,” he starts as they near the flashing cameras outside the club. “Lando!”
But Lando’s been through slightly more media training than Oscar has, and when the doors slide open, he lets go. God, Oscar’s heart pounds, but his dick’s aching now, more interested than ever.
Lando's whole demeanor shifts to something cold and uninterested as they approach the fans. He waves at the cameras, signs a few caps, and then passes them to Oscar as if he wants to sign caps right fucking now. Christ.
He does it anyway, follows Lando down the line, and poses for the pictures. Lando’s cool about it, pays almost no attention to Oscar, which surprisingly stings, but has to be some kind of media tactic.
There’s a black SUV waiting beyond the crowd with grid branding on the side panel. Lando heads that way, and when the door slides open, Gasly is already inside, grinning, sending the crowd into another frenzy.
Fucking brilliant, Oscar thinks. At least now the headlines won’t be ‘Norris and Piastri leave Miami club together’ but ‘F1 trio paints the town red,’ or some other cliche bullshit they like to write.
Inside, once the door’s closed, Gasly sits opposite them, smiling. “Nice night, boys?”
Oscar wants to die. He knows he’s got an embarrassing flush on his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, then lies. “Kind of tired now, though.” His dick is so uncomfortable, and he can’t risk adjusting it now.
Lando grins at Gasly, too. He drops his head back against the seat, folding his hands across his abdomen. Shit, he’s gorgeous. This is stupid. “Very nice night, yeah.”
Gasly looks at Oscar, then at Lando as if he’s figured them out. Which is pretty unsettling, but Oscar's still got this boner.
A little while later, the car stops at a hotel. “Okay, right,” he says. “This is my stop.” He reaches out to Lando and shakes his hand.
Lando winks. “Yeah. Cheers, mate.”
Gasly nods knowingly at Oscar before jumping out, and Oscar’s gone beet red. He has to know why Oscar’s got this stupid, guilty look on his face. He even looks like he’s the cover story here, like he knows that Lando fucks guys sometimes and doesn’t mind being the divergence. Jesus Christ.
“Yeah, so I think he knows,” Oscar says, slightly concerned.
Lando smirks like the devil himself. “Knows what, hm?” Then he hits the button for the driver's partition, and the moment it’s up, he’s planting himself in Oscar’s lap and kissing him.
And shit, any worries Oscar may have had are out the window. He couldn’t give a flying fuck anymore; Lando’s kissing him. It finally sinks in that this is actually happening, that he’s kissing the guy he’s been fantasizing about kissing all this time. Has him right in his lap, holy fuck.
He’s so preoccupied with that thought that he almost forgets to reciprocate. He quickly slides his hands along Lando’s back to bring him closer, delighted at how easily he goes. Oscar untucks Lando’s shirt and gets his hands on his bare skin, listens to Lando gasp about it.
It gets heated, messy, they kiss without direction, grabbing at each other. Oscar’s lips burn with it, fingers kneading Lando’s thighs, his ass. He wants to strip him bare and fuck him face-down on his seat right now.
Lando’s got his hands all over Oscar, too, in his hair, sliding across his chest, all while he does some filthy shit with his tongue that nobody’s ever done to Oscar before. He dips lower and sloppily kisses Oscar’s neck while sliding a hand between his legs and squeezing.
Oscar lets out a loud groan at that, indescribable pleasure coursing through him.
Lando quickly clamps a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, mate,” he says and laughs. “Ain’t soundproof in here.” His eyes sparkle like wet gemstones, a colour Oscar’s never been able to pin down, and he’s got a smirk on his face that is probably going to be the death of Oscar if he’s honest.
He feels a deep, tight clench in his chest, something that almost hurts. Blames it on the absolute horny shit they’re getting up to in this car and the inordinate amount of alcohol he consumed tonight.
Lando removes his hand and kisses Oscar again, softer this time, but his other hand stays between Oscar’s legs, stroking him off through his pants. And shit, he’s not seventeen anymore, but this is going to do it for him.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing Lando’s wrist, although all he wants is to see it through. “I’m gonna—”
“It’s that easy, Osc?” Lando teases, slowly dragging his hand away with that goddamn smile that makes Oscar feel like a madman.
He’s about to just fucking go for it when the car comes to a stop at the Hilton where they’re staying. “Alright,” Lando says, getting off Oscar and fixing his dishevelled self. A moment later, his hair is a perfect curly mop again, shirt neat and tucked in as if Oscar’s hands hadn’t just been under there pawing at him.
Lando reaches over, combs through Oscar’s hair with his fingers until it’s back in place, and Oscar just sits there and lets him, watching him in awe. He then nods over at Oscar’s crotch. “Fix that and play along. Come on.”
Oscar nods—what the hell else is he supposed to do—and adjusts his boner so it’s not painfully obvious when they get out. When they do, Lando jumps into a conversation that Oscar didn’t know they were having.
Says, “Balance just shifted, man. Front-left grained earlier than we expected.” He stops and does the autographing, and the photos, and the waving. All so smoothly, so easily, trained to precision because Oscar knows he hates the noise and attention. He barely even looks at Oscar.
Oscar remembers what he said and plays along, smiles at the random nonsense Lando’s saying, but it looks like he’s smiling at the fans while he signs. He’s not half bad at this. “Yeah, figured,” he says and sees Lando grin to himself.
The headline once again reads: ‘McLaren drivers shop talk after night out.’ instead of ‘Piastri sports massive boner after exiting Norris’ car.’
Fuckin brilliant. It’s doing nothing to help with Oscar’s boner. He’s learning that he’s kind of into this shit, actually. The sneaking, the very public risks they’re taking. God, he doesn’t want to get caught, but the thought that he might? Fuck.
They behave on the way up to Oscar’s room since there are cameras all over the place, but all Oscar wants to do is jump Lando in the lift. It’s pretty out of character for him. He’s got the patience of a saint, usually lets the other guy make the move. But Lando’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, so nonchalant, and Oscar’s burning up inside. It’s killing him.
Once they’re in the room and the door shuts behind them, Oscar’s got no reason to hold back anymore. Neither does Lando. They’re on each other so quickly it’s a head rush, that messy kind of tongue action, hands stripping off whatever material they touch.
Lando’s lightning with Oscar’s belt and zipper, and gets his hand around Oscar’s cock faster than he can comprehend. Kisses him with a faint moan and pulls himself out as well.
Oscar’s trying to pace himself, but Lando’s stroking him up so well he can’t fucking think straight. Feels so good, so stupidly good, he’s on the verge of shooting off, and he doesn’t want to stop. Not again.
But Lando steps out of his boxers, lets go, and crawls onto the bed. He drags Oscar down on him, and slots their mouths together. Only now their dicks lay trapped between them side by side, and Oscar can’t even remember how to kiss.
“Christ,” he whispers, pushing his hips forward just a fraction, his mouth nudging against Lando’s cheek as their cocks slide together. A friction-heavy glide, just the way Oscar likes. It’s blinding.
Then Lando hooks his legs over Oscar’s hips, tightening that gap between them, and lets out a rough moan. God, it’s the most beautiful sound. Oscar’s hips stutter against Lando even harder, but it’s just not quite enough. Oscar wants more, is desperate for more, he doubts he’ll make it through prep. If he gets his fingers inside Lando right now he's going to come.
“Osc,” Lando whispers, eyes shut, fingers digging into Oscar’s biceps and massaging with an eagerness that matches Oscar's own.
“Yeah?” Oscar noses along Lando’s jaw, trying to stop himself, trying to stave it off with kissing.
“You can just—you know,” Lando says quietly, nodding down his body, and it takes a second for it to register. “I’m good,” he adds when Oscar goes still with realization.
Oscar shuts his eyes, swallows. He’s seconds away from slipping his dick into Lando Norris, and while he definitely came up here to fuck Lando, he can’t begin to explain how unprepared he was for those words to come out of Lando’s mouth.
“Wow. Alright.” Oscar props himself up to look at Lando, slips his fingers between Lando’s legs to make sure, and yeah, he’s fine, he’s ready. Slicked up and soft. Fuck. “Yeah, okay.”
All night? You walked around like this all night? He wants to ask. Who did you do this for? Did you want it to be me?
But those are all questions far too intimate to ask. Questions he might not want to know the answers to, anyway. Tonight, right now, he’s choosing to just go for it before his brain ruins it for him.
He digs a condom from the nightstand drawer, tears it open, and slips it on, while Lando hikes his leg up. It’s inexplicable how utterly gorgeous he looks like this. All that golden tan skin against the white sheets, body on display in a way Oscar’s only been dreaming about, every muscle, every curve, those way-too-long lashes blinking up at him.
He steadies himself on the back of Lando’s thigh and lines up, and he won’t lie, he’s trembling. His other hand shakes around himself, unnerved by the way Lando watches him with his lip trapped between his teeth. Oscar can’t stand a second longer of not being inside him, so he pushes forward.
The sudden tight pleasure and Lando going “Ah, fuck,” at the same time does things to Oscar’s head he didn’t know was possible. He’s careful about bottoming out, although the slide’s pretty easy, and waits until Lando relaxes beneath him.
“Oh God,” Lando breathes, beckoning Oscar closer and kissing him when Oscar obliges. “Okay, good,” he says against Oscar’s lips.
And hey, Oscar’s been wanting to do this for a long damn time, so he lowers himself, rests his arms beside Lando’s head, and pulls back just to fuck in again. Does it over and over until he finds a rhythm that makes Lando's breath hitch.
It’s nearly surreal, feels so good, so tight, and Lando’s excellent at kissing. Oscar might not want to kiss anyone else ever again after this, and he’s pretty okay with that.
Lando throws his head back, groans on an in-stroke, so Oscar gets at his neck. Sucks a bruise into the side of it, and fuck, he tastes delicious. He’s getting breathless the more he chases it, Lando too, he’s clutching at Oscar like he’s falling, making the filthiest sounds.
“Fuck,” he says, looking up at Oscar and dragging his fingers through Oscar’s hair. “You’re gorgeous, Osc.” He closes his eyes, body bouncing with Oscar’s effort, and says it again. “Oh, fuck, you’re gorgeous.”
Oscar aches, flushed on the inside, and it burns all the way to the surface. It rushes over him like a wave of lava. He speeds up, feels mad with it now, whole body begging him for release. Embarrassing, desperate noises spill from his mouth, which Lando tries to silence with his fingers.
He sticks his thumb in Oscar’s mouth, and Oscar sucks down on it, heart racing, orgasm building. And then Lando says, “Harder, come on,” with this earnest, hungry look in his eyes, and Oscar’s so close to sobbing because this couldn’t be more perfect, he couldn’t be more perfect.
So he goes at it harder, hips slapping against Lando’s ass in quick succession until that sound and their whiny, breathless moans fill the room like a cloud, and Oscar’s enveloped in it. He won’t last much longer, so he wraps a hand around Lando’s dick, feels the wetness dripping down the side, and jerks him in time with the snaps of his hips.
“Lando, fuck,” he whispers, and a second later, Lando goes off. He twitches with it, arches up against Oscar and comes onto Oscar’s hand.
Oscar gasps and works him through it. Takes it easy with the thrusts because Lando looks fucked-out. He is so impossibly beautiful like this.
“Come here,” Lando says, pulls him down, and kisses him.
Oscar’s not far behind Lando, he’s barely hanging on. He gets his grip again and builds up a good pace to finish himself off. He's plastered to Lando’s body, lips pressed together, he keeps going, slips an arm between Lando and the mattress to grope at his ass, and uses that as leverage to fuck into him harder until all he sees is white.
He doesn’t have the strength to pull out; it’s too late anyway, and Lando’s hold on him is tight enough that he thinks maybe Lando didn’t want him to either.
“Jesus,” Lando whispers, clutching tighter onto Oscar. “Oh, that’s it.” He clenches around Oscar, making him whimper like a fucking puppy dog.
Oscar buries his face in Lando’s neck, fighting for breath. His body’s numb, weightless. He stays there just like that for a long moment, Lando still and quiet against him, his fingertips tracing gently across Oscar’s skin.
He’d hate to move; the last thing he wants is to peel himself off Lando’s body and get up. But when his heart finally stops thudding, he eases himself out gently. It’s a near-tangible loss, the tightness of Lando’s body and the heat of his skin. Oscar misses it instantly.
He goes to the bathroom and slips the condom off, wraps it, and bins it. His hands still tremble as he washes himself off, unsteady on his feet, still reeling from the last few minutes. All he wants to do is go back to bed, pull the covers up over them, and fall asleep against Lando’s body.
But when he returns to the bedroom, Lando’s busy doing up his zipper.
Oscar blinks. Quickly grabs a folded towel off the bed and covers up because now it all feels a lot less hot and much more vulnerable.
Lando’s leaving.
Because of course. Why wouldn't he? Oscar’s not sure what he thought tonight was, but now he knows what it isn’t. And maybe if he hadn’t been thinking with his dick he’d have realised it earlier.
“I, uh, fly out really early,” Lando explains, and can probably see the disappointment on Oscar’s face. He even manages to look like he feels genuinely bad about it. Then quietly, “Sorry.”
Oscar nods. A bitter taste settles on his tongue, an unease down deep in his gut. “Yeah, no. Of course. I mean, me too. Still have to pack.” He doesn’t; he never unpacked.
“Yeah,” Lando says, and comes closer. He carefully cups Oscar’s face and kisses him. Something too soft for this awful moment. “See you next week?”
God, Oscar is such a fucking dipshit for this.
“Yeah, see you.” His voice is so quiet, barely recognisable to his own ears.
He doesn’t see Lando leaving the room, just stares blankly at the carpet. The door shuts behind Lando after a few moments, and suddenly the suite is far too quiet. There’d been a thrilling buzz ringing in Oscar’s head all night, but it’s so quiet now.
Everything’s fallen flat.
“Fuck sake, man.” He covers his face with his hands and groans into the stillness. “Fuck, Piastri.”