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Lando’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like someone who’s already won Sunday.
Pole in the wet. On a track everyone said would not favour him.
He unclips his helmet and drags it off, and his balaclava follows, curls damp and wild, and his face open like it always is when he’s buzzing. Like he doesn’t know what to do with joy except shove it in other people’s faces.
Oscar doesn’t come to him. Doesn’t meet his eyes.
Because when Lando’s the one on top, it’s always on him to reach out first. Oscar won’t.
Lando notices, of course. He always notices. There’s nothing about Oscar he doesn’t track obsessively: the twitch of his mouth, the way he squints when he’s annoyed, the tone drop when he’s tired of Lando’s games.
Right now Oscar’s mouth is flat. There’s real anger there.
“Not happy for me?” Lando says as he passes him, low, cheeky, a little breathless from the heat. He edges closer, careful to keep the mics out of frame. “You're not seriously angry?”
Oscar doesn’t look at him. Takes off his helmet and says, like it’s a fact, “You only manage pole when my time gets deleted.”
It’s not even that harsh, but the way he speaks makes it land deeper than Lando wants it to. “Yeah, well, track limits are a thing for a reason, mate. If I took whatever line I wanted I could've shaved a bloody minute off my time.”
Oscar looks at him now. Properly. His gaze is almost murderous as he drinks from his bottle. “Piss off, will you?”
Lando doesn’t flinch, but the curl of his grin falters. That’s fine. He’s got backup.
Jenson’s already waiting near the media pen, half a head taller than the crowd, wearing his lanyard like a badge of honour and that smooth, tan face of his already warmed up into a smile. He always looks like he just stepped off a yacht.
Lando sidles up to him like it’s nothing. Oscar can see it. He makes sure of it.
“You were unbelievable,” Jenson says, low enough the cameras don’t pick it up. He pulls Lando in like an old mate, mic already in hand. “That was stunning. The way you held the rear through turn seven? Like you just refused to let the car get away from you.”
Lando lights up like a christmas tree. Grins wide, hands on his waist, wet curls sticking to his forehead. “Didn’t have much choice, to be honest. Bit of oversteer in the exit, but I figured I should send it anyway.”
Jenson laughs, low and fond. “You did. Speaking of your exits - cleaner than we’ve ever seen from you. You’ve been working on that, haven’t you?”
“You been watching me that close?” Lando throws it out like a tease, light enough to pass for banter.
But maybe someone on the other side of the lens would hear it for what it was.
The pause stretches, taut.
“Always.” Jenson’s smile doesn’t flicker. “Someone’s got to appreciate your lines.”
The way he says always makes Oscar shift slightly where he’s standing off to the side, pretending not to care.
But he always notices when Lando starts purring under praise. When he leans into it like a sun-drunk cat. When he bats his lashes like he knows what his mouth is for.
And every little thing Lando does lands like a private signal to Oscar. This is what you get for pushing me aside.
“Flattery from a world champ,” Lando says into the mic, glancing up through his lashes. “Careful. You’ll make me blush.”
“You deserve it,” Jenson replies. He’s got that look in his eyes that says he’d be saying much more if the cameras weren’t rolling. “That final lap in Q3 was a beauty.”
Lando tips his head back and laughs, loose and wicked. He knows what he’s doing. Knows Oscar’s watching, jaw tight, arms crossed harder. It’s a game they’ve played before.
Lando leans in a bit closer during the wrap-up, keeps his voice low as he makes sure the cameras are panned elsewhere and the mics far away.
“Your place or mine?”
Jenson’s brows lift, just a flicker, but he doesn’t look surprised. Instances like these were rare, but it definitely wasn’t the first time they'd been suggested.
“Or if you can’t wait… we’ve got the driver’s room. Bit cramped. But I bet a world champ like you could manage.”
It’s not subtle. It never is. He knows praise like that, especially coming from his mouth, turns the older guys on.
Jenson smiles, the kind of smile that can’t quite hide how far gone he already is. Shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s not already cornered. Because the second Lando frames it like that - if you can’t wait - it stops being his choice. Makes it sound like he’s the one begging. And he might as well be, because once Lando lays it out like this, plants the image of him fucked out on a mattress underneath him in his mind, he can't possibly say no.
And Lando knows it because he says it with that grin that dares a reaction. That boyish edge that doubles as a dare. He knows fully well which set of eyes are burning into his spine from across the paddock. Knows exactly how much sharper it’ll cut because of it.
Knowing exactly what it’ll do to Oscar.
In a few minutes, Lando’s already limp across the shitty pull-out bed by the time Jenson finishes tugging down his fireproofs, legs parted, breathing shallow. He’s still flushed from the lap, from pole, from the interview where Jenson all but worshipped his lap, said he took the corners like they were built for him.
Praise like that, said smooth and on air, goes straight to Lando’s bloodstream. And then takes a sharp turn south.
Jenson doesn’t make him ask. He never does. He isn't cruel like that.
He kneels slow. Grips Lando’s thighs like he doesn't own them but wishes he did, spreads them wider, and just looks for a moment. The room is dim, and Lando’s pussy glistens, already pink, a little puffy, slick even though no one’s touched him yet. It always does that, like it knows what's about to happen.
“You ever not ready for me?” Jenson murmurs, low and warm.
Lando shakes his head helplessly, stares at the space between his legs with bated breath.
Jenson exhales, eyes dark, but that smile never leaves him. “Fucking unreal.”
He pushes his thumbs into Lando’s folds and spreads him gently open, watching how everything glistens, how Lando’s hole flutters, once, like it’s trying to invite him in. His fingers graze the slick edges of his clit and Lando shivers hard, whole body going taut.
“You like knowing I’m watching you race?” Jenson asks.
Lando nods, lashes low, too dazed already to speak. There’s something raw about him today, soft, loose-limbed, like he’s handed himself over without hesitation. Trusting Jenson not to drop him.
And Jenson's a master in torturing in his own way. Because he dips forward, not breaking eye contact with Lando, watching his breath get shallower the closer his mouth gets to his pussy.
“You know, I didn’t even think I was into men,” Jenson says, almost to himself, dragging his tongue through Lando’s folds. “But then that night that you... what you did to me? What we did? Fuck.”
Lando moans, arms flying up to clutch the cushion behind his head. His body curls toward the heat automatically, cunt pulsing at the stimulation.
“Christ, look at you,” Jenson mutters. “All worked up from a clean lap.”
Lando’s voice is high, ragged. “When did you- was that the first time you thought about me like that?”
Jenson’s mouth is already back on him, lips dragging slow, tongue circling lazy. He smiles against Lando’s cunt, and Lando feels every tickling sting of his light stubble.
“You've been on my mind,” Jenson says, words pressed right into him, vibrating up through his hips. “Saw you dragging that car onto podiums it had no business touching.” A harder lick, up and deep. “But it wasn’t until a few years ago. Imola. You were standing there, and I was newly married but, fuck-” his mouth seals tight, sucking hard until Lando’s hips jerk. “I thought… I need to have you. Even just once.”
Lando makes a strangled noise. “Once?”
“Mm.” Jenson pushes his tongue inside, slow and deliberate, and it sounds wet. “That was the plan. Once, just to see how you’d look when I made you come. But once I got a taste-” another wet, obscene drag of his tongue, “-I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About ruining you before anyone else gets the chance.”
Fuck. Older guys. Always saying shit with their whole chest. Ruin you before anyone else gets the chance. It should make him cringe with how earnest it is, how straight-faced Jenson sounds saying it. Instead it just turns him on even more. Makes him feel the stretch of years between them, how many more women, or men, Jenson must’ve said things like this to, and how he still means it now, like Lando’s the only one that matters.
He presses his face deeper, forcing Lando open, speaking into him between slick thrusts of his tongue. “I thought about it for months. Fucking my fist to the thought of this. Wondering if you’d be loud, if you’d beg. But you’re better than I imagined. So much needier.”
Lando moans again, louder this time. His pussy’s already clenching, drawing in air, fluttering wetly like it wants Jenson deeper.
Jenson’s thumb draws slow circles, slicking him open. “You know you get wetter when I tell you you’re good? I’ve seen you, tight little thing, can’t even sit still in the seat after a clean lap. Fuck, I don’t praise you to get you all worked up, but you make it hard not to.”
His fingers part Lando, eyes fixed on the glisten. “And sure, everyone likes to hear they’re better than their teammate… but you-” He leans down, mouth sealing over Lando’s clit, sucking until Lando jerks, gasping. Jenson pulls back just enough to murmur, “This-” his fingers dip in, curling, “You get off on it. You’re better than Oscar. Better off the line, better through the corners, better here.”
Another curl, sharper this time. “He can’t keep you behind. Couldn’t even if I told him how. You’re faster. More special.”
Lando gasps, his whole body tightening around the intrusion. The way Jenson says it, like it’s fact, like it’s undeniable, sparks in his chest and shoots straight down. He hates how much it works on him, how every word goes to his pussy and makes his thighs twitch.
“That what turns you on? Knowing you’re better than Oscar?” Jenson’s voice drops, almost coaxing. “I saw his face. After quali. Fucker looked like he wanted to break something.”
“Jenson-” Lando whines, but he doesn’t tell him to stop. His thighs shake, and he tips his head back like he’s caught between shame and wanting to be filled up with more of it.
“You beat him. And now I get to taste you.”
He presses in with his tongue, flat and wide, and Lando arches, one hand gripping the back of Jenson’s neck. His other hand scrabbles for anything solid, ends up clenched in his own hair.
Jenson doesn’t let up. Licks him like he means it, like he’s starving. Uses his mouth like he knows what Lando likes now. Long, slow strokes to build him up, the occasional suck to his clit that makes Lando tremble. His hands are holding Lando’s thighs open wide, firm and immovable.
He murmurs praise into the slick. “So pretty like this. So fucking tight. You race like that and still come apart like this for me.”
Lando’s eyes roll back. He trembles, sweat pooling at his collarbones. His pussy is flushed and twitching, the folds so soft they barely hold shape, slippery and open for anything.
“Please- gonna-” he gasps, voice high and wet.
Jenson doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up. “You can take it.”
And Lando does. He comes hard, clit spasming under Jenson’s tongue, his hips jerking despite the firm hold. It feels like falling. Like losing. Like giving up every inch of control he fights so hard to keep on track.
But Jenson doesn’t stop. He keeps licking, gentler at first, then firmer again as Lando starts to gasp and twitch.
“Jenson, no- I can’t- 'S too much.”
“Yeah, you can,” Jenson says, breath hot against him. “You’ve got another in you. Know you do.”
He drags two fingers through Lando’s mess, rubs slow teasing circles around his spasming clit, makes him wail. Lando’s legs are shaking. His body’s wrung out, flushed pink all over, clit pulsing in aftershock. But still, still, the moment Jenson’s tongue finds that spot again, his back arches and his pussy leaks clear liquid.
“You like this, huh?” Jenson murmurs, voice so low it makes Lando moan again. “Letting me do whatever I want.”
Lando whimpers, nodding fast, hips stuttering.
“You earned this,” Jenson says, licking him harder. “That fucking lap. The way you committed, you deserve every second of this. You’re gonna come for me again?”
Lando chokes on it, fingers clawing at Jenson’s shoulder now, and then he comes again. Sharper, faster, body wrung out, mouth open in a high whine that falls silent. His whole pussy clenches down like it’s trying to keep Jenson there forever.
Jenson doesn’t move. Just keeps licking slow, steady strokes, not stopping until Lando’s gone boneless and half-limp, tears wet at the corners of his eyes.
Eventually, when Lando twitches and whines again, Jenson kisses the inside of his thigh.
“Pole position,” he says into Lando’s skin. “And still the best fuck in the paddock.”
Lando doesn’t speak. He can’t.
But he smiles.
That slow, satisfied, evil thing. Like he knows Oscar’s going to lose something a lot more important than a championship.
Lando adjusts his collar in the mirror, still flushed, lips bitten pink. His pussy still aches, sticky and sore between his thighs. Jenson hadn’t even taken off his watch or his clothes. Just pushed Lando open and kept him there, murmuring praise like it was instinct. Like the taste of Lando was enough to tide him over.
He didn’t even ask for anything in return. That was the part that turned Lando on the most. The way Jenson just wanted him, wanted to taste his win, his wetness, his ruin, and acted like that was enough.
Oscar wasn't like that. Oscar would’ve made him beg. Would’ve kept his hands off and used his voice instead. Low, tight, condescending until Lando was flushed and shaking with it. Oscar would’ve pulled off his fireproofs and walked away before even touching him, left him there soaked and aching, because Lando had the audacity to take pole.
There was a deep, cold place inside Lando that wanted that.
But today he’d let Jenson do what he always did, pull him apart sweetly and leave him glowing and pet-like, all soft post-orgasm warmth and no regrets. That was Jenson’s special kind of sickness. He made Lando feel good.
The door clicks open. Lando steps out first, chin high. Jenson follows, relaxed. A hand on Lando’s back like they’ve done nothing wrong.
At the exact same moment, Oscar steps out from his own room.
He’s holding his water bottle and chewing on the mouthpiece, his jaw tight. His gaze lands on Lando, on the pink in his cheeks, mussed curls, the glow, and something in his face locks.
No surprise. No confusion. No nod of greetings exchanged with the former world champion.
He turns and walks off without a word.
Lando watches him go with a flick of pleasure low in his belly. That exact clench in Oscar’s jaw? He’s going to remember it later.
“Your little boyfriend doesn’t look too happy,” Jenson murmurs at his side.
Lando smirks. “He’s not. But he will be.”
It’s race day.
The lights go out and Lando gets a clean launch. Oscar’s right behind, tight in his mirrors from the second turn. He’s the devil on hard tyres, pushing every exit wide. Takes the lead on lap two and Lando feels it. Rage. It surges and turns slick between his legs.
By lap 27, Lando’s back in front.
He converts pole to win. Oscar takes second. No champagne smiles. No radio jokes.
“This was a strategy loss,” Oscar says flatly over comms. “You gave him the better undercut.”
No congratulations. No handshake.
In the cool-down room, their suits half-unzipped, Oscar watches Lando with that same closed-off expression. Not angry. Just withholding. Like he’s already planning how to make him pay for it.
Later, after podiums and press, Lando walks into Oscar’s room without knocking.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Oscar doesn’t look up.
“We made a deal,” Lando says quietly, eyes flicking to the bed. “I won.”
Oscar sets his water bottle down. Moves toward him with calm, almost feline precision. “You think that counts?”
“I still crossed the line first.”
“You crossed the line because McLaren handed you my race.” His voice is mild, quiet, cutting. “And you even celebrated pole by letting Jenson tongue-fuck you in your driver’s room.”
Lando flushes hard but it doesn’t change anything. There’s no plausible deniability. Not like he particularly wants to hide it from Oscar.
“So?” he says, and it’s so provocative it should be outlawed.
“So,” Oscar utters, closing the distance. “Take off your suit.”
The words land and stay there, sitting between them like the heat in the room post-race. Lando’s heartbeat feels obnoxiously loud in his own ears, because of course Oscar would make it about this, make it about who gets under his skin harder, faster. He’s thinking about Jenson’s mouth and Oscar’s hands at the same time, and the overlap makes him feel filthy.
Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits, calm as anything, knowing Lando will crack. That’s the worst part. The way he’s right.
Lando shifts his weight. There’s nowhere to look that isn’t Oscar, so he lets his gaze drop deliberately to the floor like he’s conceding something, even though that’s exactly what Oscar wants. He can already feel the air against the sweat at his collarbone, the push of the zipper down, the humiliation of giving in before they’ve even touched.
Lando obeys. He always does.
Down to the tight, clingy fireproofs. He fidgets under the weight of Oscar’s gaze, then climbs onto the small bed without being asked. Face down.
Oscar doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks. The fabric leaves nothing to the imagination, every soft swell, the curve of him, the way the seam presses right up against his cunt. Even through the fireproofs, he can see the outline of his folds, the faint darker patch where it’s already damp.
Oscar brings his hand down, thumb settling against that place between his legs. A slow rub, nothing more. Lando hitches his breath, forehead pressing into the thin mattress. The fireproofs stretch, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric until Oscar can feel it.
He presses harder. A steady roll of pressure, back and forth between the soft folds, until Lando’s thighs clench. The fabric darkens just a shade more under his thumb.
“You wearing anything under this?” Oscar asks, low. The answer’s obvious. His thumb drags again, rougher this time.
Lando shakes his head into the bedding.
Only then does Oscar hook his fingers into the waistband.
He drags Lando’s pants down and reveals a glistening, soaked mess.
Of course he’s wet. He always is when he knows he’s about to be punished.
Oscar just hums, low and unimpressed. He drags his thumbs through the slick, slow, like he’s checking the quality of something at the market. Splits him open lazily, more interested in the way Lando shivers than in getting anywhere.
“Already dripping. Like you’ve done something to deserve it.”
Lando’s face burns hot against the sheets. “I-”
Oscar interrupts, still playing his thumbs over him. “Did Jenson have you like this too? Or is this just for me?”
It’s an awful question. Worse because Oscar doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Bet you think he’s impressed by you,” he says lightly, like idle conversation. “Pole position. Holding me off. Bet you wanted him to say you were the better driver.”
Lando shakes his head, but it’s the wrong move. Oscar’s tone sharpens without raising in volume. “Tell me,” he says, and it’s not a command, not exactly, just a reminder that Oscar already knows.
“I- wanted-” The words knot in his throat.
Oscar smears the wetness wider, careless. “Say it. Or maybe I'll record a video of you like this begging for me and send it to him.”
The thought should mortify him. Should make him snap out of it, shove Oscar’s hand away. Instead his hips give a tiny, involuntary roll into Oscar’s palm. A choked sound slips out of his throat, high and needy, and it’s the wrong reaction but he can’t stop himself.
Oscar notices, of course. He always does. The corner of his mouth curves like he’s discovered some dirty little secret. “Oh,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers in a slow circle over his glistening hole, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Lando bites down hard on his lip. Doesn’t answer, but his body betrays him, the arch of his back, the way his thighs tremble. It gives him away.
Oscar rubs his clit once, carelessly, and Lando jolts.
Oscar watches the reaction like he’s gathering data. “Always this easy to get you wet? Or is it because of me?”
Lando swallows, eyes darting away. “…I don’t-”
“Don’t what?” Oscar doesn’t bother waiting.
His hand settles heavy on the small of Lando’s back, pinning him down, grounding him. The pause stretches, just long enough for Lando to tense, and then the crack of palm on skin rings out sharp.
The sting lands right over his hole, a wet, obscene sound that makes his breath catch. Lando jerks against the pillow, hips twitching as though he’s trying to escape, but he only pushes himself higher, offering more.
Oscar rubs the spot once, like he’s soothing the heat he just left behind, then lifts his hand and does it again. Another smack, harder this time. The jolt travels straight through him, white hot and humiliating and perfect.
By the third spank, Lando’s thighs are trembling, slick spreading messily down his skin. He buries his face in the pillow, muffling a sound that’s half–whimper, half–moan. Instead of recoiling, his hole twitches. Greedy, involuntary.
“You wanna be a good boy?” Oscar murmurs, dragging his fingers across the fresh sting as Lando frantically nods into the bedding.
Before the next strike, Oscar spreads him open with both thumbs, slow and merciless. The fireproofs half-peeled around his thighs leave him bare, vulnerable, everything on display. His hole clenches and flutters under the scrutiny, glistening with slick. Oscar tilts his head, watching the little spasms like he’s studying a machine part, then drags one thumb lower to press at the hole, not entering, just teasing.
“Greedy little thing,” he mutters, almost to himself. He holds him stretched wide like that, watching every twitch, until Lando squirms against the pillow and whines. Only then does Oscar let go, his palm drawing back before landing another sharp slap across the exposed pink flesh, right where it stings the most.
Lando’s fingers curl into the bedspread, and whatever he tries to say tangles on his tongue.
“You win one race and melt like this? Embarrassing.”
Lando gasps, “I-I won fair-”
“You won because my pit was late,” Oscar says, voice steady. “Don’t pretend otherwise.” Three more slaps. One after the other, wet smacks that echo in the room. His pussy grows wetter each time, folds puffing out, the sound messier.
“You like this,” Oscar says, almost amused. “You like being punished for beating me.”
Lando’s voice cracks. “No, I-”
Oscar cuts him off. “Don't lie. You wanted to win, and now you want to be fucked for it.”
He slaps again, harder, and watches a spurt of slick drip down to the bedspread like he’s already been used.
“Next time I tell you to give me space, you give it,” Oscar says, voice low, cutting. “You don’t defend. You don’t fight me when I want through. Do you understand?”
Lando’s eyes squeeze shut. His head tips forward against the mattress, words tumbling out wrecked and mindless. “Yes- yes, of- of course.”
Oscar doesn’t let him off. His palm lands sharp again, forcing another gasp out of him. “Say it properly.”
“I- I’ll move, I’ll let you through,” Lando stammers, breath catching.
Another slap, harder. “Not good enough. Say it like you mean it.”
“Yes! I won’t fight-” Lando’s voice breaks, the words coming out strangled. “I’ll do what you tell me, I’ll give you everything, just-please-”
Oscar leans in close enough that his breath hits Lando’s ear. “That’s better. That’s how I want to hear it.” Oscar’s mouth curves like he’s pleased, but there’s no warmth in it. “You listen. You obey. You don’t fight me when I want something. You don’t fight me when I tell you to let me past.” His tone sharpens. “That’s the deal, right?”
Lando’s eyes squeeze shut. He doesn’t answer. His chest stutters like he’s trying not to sob.
Oscar’s voice dips quieter, almost musing. “Funny thing, though. Not everyone makes you earn it. I know how he is. All sweet talk. Telling you you’re perfect, making you come again and again just because you asked nice enough.” His fingers slide through the slick, spreading him open like he’s checking what’s there, nothing careful about it. “But he still lets you finish. Lets you have it easy.”
He drags two fingers slowly up through the slick, pressing briefly to the clit, then down again to tap the hole, once, twice, three times, each tap heavier, wetter, on the cusp of entering. “I tell you the truth. And you don't come unless I want you to.”
Lando whimpers, biting it back too late.
Oscar pushes his thumbs wide, holding him open indecently. His tone is flat, almost lazy. “You look good like this. Pretty. Anyone else would give in.”
And Lando believes him. That’s the worst part. Anyone else would’ve fucked him by now. But Oscar doesn’t. Because it isn't about getting his dick wet.
He holds him there like it’s nothing, like the whole point is to watch Lando fall apart, to make him admit out loud that he’s not enough. That he’ll always trail behind, always come second if Oscar says so.
The next slap is the hardest yet, right over his hole, and Lando’s whole body jerks. His pulse is pounding, every muscle taut to keep from tipping over that edge.
“Keep it in,” Oscar orders, his voice quiet but absolute. “Don’t you dare.”
Lando’s breath comes in short, uneven bursts, the ache between his thighs unbearable, and he barely holds. Oscar’s hand stays on him, teasing, keeping him right there.
“See, that’s why you’re here,” Oscar says. “Not for the praise. Not for the win. You’re here because I’m the only one who makes you stay in this. Until you forget about him. Until you remember you’re mine.”
Then he flips Lando over, peels the fireproof pants completely off and tosses them aside. Lando’s flushed, teary eyed, thighs trembling.
His pussy’s pink and puffy, twitching, lips swollen and glistening. The clit pulses visibly.
Oscar kneels. Spreads him open. Watches the folds stretch.
“Look at you. Don’t even need prepping. Just open and dripping, waiting for it.”
Lando shakes his head, shame burning hot in his cheeks.
For a moment, Oscar doesn’t touch him at all. He just hovers there, head bent, close enough that the heat of his breath skims over swollen skin. Lando’s chest stutters with shallow inhales. His pussy clenches on nothing, leaking without permission, like his body can’t stand the anticipation another second.
Oscar looks up then, meeting his eyes, holding the gaze even as his mouth tips closer. It stretches the moment unbearably, like everything’s slowed down to the beat of Lando’s pulse.
“Didn’t plan on eating you,” he says quietly, almost offhand, though the words drag. His breath ghosts hot across slick folds.
And then, finally, his tongue flattens and drags a long, deliberate stripe up Lando’s slit, slow and sweltering.
Lando moans loud, hips jerking.
“But you make such a fucking mess.”
His tongue drags again, slower this time, catching everywhere, tasting. He suckles at the clit until it twitches under his mouth, then lets it go, wet and swollen. His fingers prod at the entrance, pulling the lips apart, showing how he clenches around nothing. The cunt pulses against his tongue, already begging.
Lando is gone, already.
“Worked up easy, huh?” His words are muffled against the slick, almost careless. “Bet he loved that. Made you think you were his best.”
Lando claws at the sheets. “Don’t- don't talk about hi-”
Oscar presses his tongue flat and hard over the clit until Lando breaks off, a raw sound caught in his throat. Then he pulls back, just enough to talk. “Did he tell you you’re a good little driver? That what you liked hearing?”
Lando’s head spins. He doesn’t mean to, but the image of Jenson flickers sharp behind his eyelids, his mouth there just yesterday, slower, sweeter, saying things Oscar never would. The overlap makes him dizzy, like he’s living both at once, like his body can’t tell the difference between who’s using it now and who used it last. The shame of it makes him tighter, wetter, his chest heaving at the thought that he’s so needy, so slutty, he can let two different men bury their faces between his legs back to back. It’s enough to make him feel like he could come just from the realization.
Two fingers sink inside before Lando can beg. Tight, wet, greedy. He pushes slow at first, then curls them cruelly, finding the spot that makes Lando’s hips snap up.
“You want to come?”
Lando nods frantically, eyes half lidded.
Oscar grabs his stomach with his free hand, holding him down, keeping him open. Then he tongue-fucks his clit while driving his fingers in at an unrelenting pace. Lando’s thighs clamp tight around his head, his voice breaking.
The second his face shifts, eyebrows pulling, mouth twisting toward release, Oscar pulls back. Fingers sliding out, tongue gone, leaving Lando wrecked, soaked, gaping for more.
Oscar wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks down at him, hungry. “Not yet.”
Lando lets out a sob, overstimulated and dripping.
“Please, Osc, I earned it-”
“You earned nothing,” he says, calm. “Say it.”
Lando gasps. “What-”
“Say I’m the better driver.”
Lando’s lip trembles. His pussy pulses visibly, mess running down his thighs.
“I- I-”
Oscar slaps the pussy again. “Say it.”
“You’re- you’re better,” Lando cries, voice breaking.
“Say it properly.”
“You’re the better driver,” Lando sobs.
Oscar watches the slick drip down his fingers, sees how the clit twitches like it heard that. He hums, almost approving, thumb dragging slow circles over the mess, spreading it further across Lando’s folds. “There it is.”
Lando’s thighs quiver violently, muscles locking and unlocking. He’s been held at the edge too long, so long his body doesn’t know what to do with itself. Every nerve is buzzing. His breath comes in broken gasps, lips shining wet with spit. He babbles without knowing, words falling apart - please, please, don’t, I need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything. His hips stutter against Oscar’s hand, chasing friction like an animal chasing a bone it can’t quite reach.
Oscar doesn’t give it to him. Not yet. He slides two fingers inside instead, deliberate, steady, curling them just so. The heat is unbearable. “This,” he says under his breath, almost like he’s talking to himself, “this is why he can’t handle you. He spoils you just because you look at him pretty. You're no good when you get what you want.”
He punctuates it with a thrust, hard enough to make Lando cry out. Then another. Then his mouth closes over the clit, tongue rough, fast, merciless.
The combination is too much. Lando’s whole body locks, heels digging into the sheets, eyes wide and unfocused. He’s already gone, already toppling, no warning. His orgasm rips through him, volatile and messy.
The first gush hits Oscar’s hand with force. Then another, wetter, spilling down over his wrist, soaking the sheets beneath. It doesn’t stop. His pussy clenches and pulses around Oscar’s fingers, squirting again and again until it feels like there’s nothing left inside him, and still his body wrings more out.
Lando claws blindly for something to hold, nails scoring the sheets before they catch around Oscar’s forearm. He clings there, desperate, knuckles white, as if the solid weight of him is the only thing keeping him tethered. His mouth falls open on a broken stream of babble, half apologies, half pleas, nonsense spilling out between sharp breaths. Every time the aftershocks rip through him, his grip spasms tighter, nails biting into skin.
His thighs tremble violently, muscles fluttering and failing to hold themselves open, but Oscar keeps him spread, thumb hooked cruelly against the soft inside of his knee. Lando’s curls are plastered to his temple with sweat, his brows drawn like he’s hurting, lips swollen from biting them raw. His eyes roll glassy, trying to focus but unable, like he can’t even track what’s happening to his own body.
And still he gushes, a weak pulse with each contraction, until the sheets are ruined and his whole body is shaking like he’s been stripped down to nothing.
“I- Nnnnh... fuck- oh, fuck-” he babbles, half words, half sobs, staring down at himself in horror at how wet he is, how uncontrollably it came out of him. His face burns red. “I didn’t- I didn’t mean-”
Oscar sits back slightly, fingers glistening, sheets ruined. His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, there’s a faint curl at the corner of his mouth. “That's all it takes?” He says it like a fact, not an insult. Still, it lands like a taunt.
Lando covers his face with his hands, whining, shaking.
Oscar doesn’t stop touching. His wet fingers drag lazy circles over the clit, overstimulation making Lando flinch, cry out. “Pretty, though,” he adds quietly, almost to himself. “Can’t lie about that. Pretty cunt, dripping like it’s begging for more even now.”
Lando whimpers into the back of his hand, body jerking helplessly. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to get away or closer. Every nerve is fried. He could come again from nothing.
Oscar knows it. That’s the worst part. He knows exactly what this does to him, and he lets him drown in it.
And Lando’s left staring at him, wrecked, knowing Oscar gave him nothing, except the proof that he could take everything.
There’s no undoing it. No pretending he hasn’t shown Oscar the worst, most desperate part of himself. It sits heavy in his chest, shame and hunger and arousal all knotted together, impossible to tease apart.
And yet, even wrecked, even emptied, he knows he's waiting for when it happens again.