Archive of Our Own

I’m working myself up to a nice warm bliss

Lando likes to be warm. Oscar figured this out very early on, he’s observant like that. Lando shows up on Thursdays nuzzled into a sweatshirt, not a single curl out of place, even if it’s well above thirty degrees. Oscar runs warm, sweats at the thought of the summer sun. He usually opts for something light and casual, fitting for the weather they’re having. 

It doesn’t raise any of Oscar’s alarms when Lando strolls into the paddock in an oversized hoodie and baggy jeans. It’s Lando. He looks good, if a little out of place. Oscar doesn’t pay any mind to the way Lando keeps to himself, tucks himself into corners of the motorhome to doze and nap. Oscar also doesn’t clock Coulthard’s comment post race about Lando smelling incredible. Lando does smell incredible, even in normal circumstances. Warm with a little spice, heady like a summer evening. 

It’s just that Oscar’s been focused. He’s leading the championship, fighting for the dream of his life. His mind has been swirling with telemetry and strategy, braking points and racing lines. So he missed it. All the little nuances he normally picks up on. All the things he usually can’t help but notice. 

Oscar finally pieces it together in the press conference. The realization lands hot and heavy as he’s sat on the couch with Lando leaning over him. He catches the scent of him, just briefly. It’s warm cinnamon, sticky and sweet but not from champagne. 

Oscar’s eyes snap up to where Lando is sitting, in Max’s spot. Stretching and shifting like he’s struggling to get comfortable. If you didn’t know, the small beads of sweat gathering at Lando’s temples would look normal. They just finished a race after all. Oscar’s own hair is still dark at the base of his neck. But Lando likes being warm. Normally as soon as the balaclava lines fade from his cheeks, Lando’s shivering in his sweat damp nomex. 

But there’s sweat gathering on his brow, and his cheeks are red and ruddy, and he smells down right edible .

Lando’s in heat.

Oscar curls his toes in his boots to keep himself firmly planted in his spot on the couch. He doesn’t look at Lando again. Can’t. Not if… he… they’ve never…

It takes all of Oscar’s strength to sit still during the press conference. His body is alive. Switched on like he’s racing another sixty-two laps. He doesn’t dare take a deep breath. Can’t fill his lungs with cinnamon, and not do something. Oscar catches the moment Max notices too. Max stiffens, giving Lando a quick once over before covering his mouth and nose with his elbow and feigning a cough. Something red hot curls in his stomach and his mind fills with a sickening chant of ‘ mine, mine, mine .’ And it’s… Oscar’s not like that. Never has been before.

Lando handles the press conference remarkably well. His voice doesn’t tremble, and he answers all the journalists' questions with his usual sense of humor and honesty, drawing people in with his openness even as the sheen of sweat grows thicker on his skin. It’s both a relief and a punishment when they’re split apart for their remaining media duties. Easier because Oscar can finally breathe without fighting every nerve in his body that’s telling him to mark and claim. But more difficult because when Oscar caught Lando’s eyes before parting ways, he looked dazed. Eyes glassy, pleading, and impossibly blue-green. Oscar had put a hand on Lando’s shoulder then, feeling the thick corded muscle under his fingertips, and let his hand linger as Lando shivered imperceptibly. 

“Okay?” he had asked. Lando nodded and smiled his normal grin, but it didn’t land. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. Too far gone. His response hadn’t settled anything in Oscar's chest. Oscar got through his media duties only thinking about the warmth of Lando’s skin on his hand. How he should have squeezed Lando’s neck. Run a finger across the shell of his ear. Smoothed his own scent into Lando’s warm cinnamon.

But also —that would have been entirely inappropriate. Lando’s not his . They’ve never been that way. Never more than teammates. Coworkers. Maybe even friends on a good day. So it’s all a bit new to him. The distraction. The not being able to think about anything other than the flood of instinct begging to be acted upon.  

It’s not that Oscar’s never thought about it. His teammate is Lando Norris . He’s thought about it. He just can’t do anything about it. They’ve got championships to win, a professional relationship to maintain, and always a flight to catch. It doesn’t matter that Oscar wants to nose into the hollow of his collarbone and lick a wide stripe up his neck. It doesn’t matter that Oscar wants him. 

Oscar’s scent must be going musty and thick in the engineering room. Everyone keeps throwing him sideways glances and sifting away from him. Jon notified Andrea before the debrief that Lando was ill and wouldn’t be in attendance. Oscar nearly storms out, dick half hard and teeth on edge when catches the faint whiffs of cinnamon that cling to Jon and Will. But he stays. Reasons that they’re not like that. Him and Lando. 

But he does go looking for him afterwards. It’s sort of an accident, a habit ingrained from Oscar’s very first season in Formula One. 

“Oh, so you’re off then?” Lando had said after their first race weekend, feigning nonchalance but clearly irritated. He was commanding for an omega. It wasn’t bad, it just caught Oscar off guard at first. Made things stir hot and deep in his belly like he was a teenager again. 

“Yeah,” Oscar had said hesitantly, not sure what Lando was getting at. 

“Well I usually make a point to say goodnight to everyone before I leave for the night.” Lando gave him an appraising look. Head to toe. Sizing him up. It raised the hair at the back of Oscar’s neck. 

“Yeah, I,” Oscar had searched for the words, unsure of what Lando wanted from him. “I said ‘thank you’ to all my mechanics, and yours too.” That had worked, and Lando deflated, eyes and shoulders going soft. 

“Mine too?”

Oscar had taken a step towards him, “Yeah. Even thanked catering.” 

“So you were going to leave without saying goodbye to your teammate?” Lando hadn’t asked it provokingly. It was phrased like a genuine question. 

Oscar leaned into that softness, kept his tone low and sincere. “Goodnight Lando. Have a good one, yeah?”

And…and Lando hadn’t preened exactly. But he looked soft and satisfied when he said, “goodnight Oscar. Good work this weekend.”

Needless to say, after that, Oscar always found Lando at the end of a race weekend to check in and say goodbye. 

So it’s somewhat out of habit that Oscar knocks on Lando’s driver room door. There’s no response, and there’s barely any light seeping out under the door. If it weren’t for the sweet spicy scent concentrating around him, Oscar would have thought that Lando had left for the night.

“Lando?” He tries again. There’s no response. “Lando,” Oscar takes a steadying breath, “Can I come in?” 

Still no response but there’s a faint rustling on the other side of the door. Oscar has to school the panic creeping into his scent down, doesn’t want to come across overbearing. Doesn’t want to cross a line. He just wants to check on him, make sure he’s alright. So he cracks the door open, and peeks his head around.

The room is dark save for a small light in the little closet alcove. Lando is sitting folded in a tight ball in the corner of the small room. His knees are tucked against his chest, and his arms are wound tightly around himself. He's got a team sweatshirt on, and another one of his hoodies draped over himself. Like he couldn’t find enough material to settle into. Not even a blanket. 

“Lando, are you — ” Oscar nearly chokes on the wave of sweet warmth flooding his lungs, “ — are you alright?” Oscar doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about the way his own scent goes a little haywire. Thick, earthy, and so obviously aroused. Lando’s eyes blink open, sluggish, meeting Oscar’s gaze. He nods then closes his eyes again, allowing his head to lull back exposing the column of his neck. 

If it wasn’t Oscar that would be reckless, bearing his neck like that. Hell, even Oscar’s feet stutter in the doorway where he’s planted himself. 

“‘m cold,” Lando says at last, eyes still closed. 

“You’re sweating.” Oscar is barely holding himself together. He can’t barge in and wrap Lando up. That would be…he can’t . They can’t. They’re teammates .

“I know,” Lando lets his head fall forward, “but it’s not warm.” He pulls the sweatshirt he’s draped across himself tighter. Like he’s trying to generate warmth from the outside in. 

It’s Lando’s voice — low and slightly pained — that has him pulling his own sweatshirt off and crossing the threshold to the curled up omega before Oscar’s brain has even registered what’s happening. 

“Here,” he says, holding out the sweatshirt for Lando. He looks up at Oscar, blinking slow, before pulling the fabric towards him. Oscar stands perfectly still watching Lando cover himself with his hoodie. Lando sighs and closes his eyes again once he’s done arranging Oscar’s clothing on top of himself. 

Oscar needs to leave before the way their scents are intertwining into something heavy and cloying convinces him to do something he shouldn’t. Before the image of Lando draped in Oscar’s clothes becomes something tangible. Something Oscar could have. He’s probably crossed one too many boundaries already. He’s about to leave when he watches a shudder wrack through Lando’s body. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, concerned. There’s three layers of clothes on top of Lando but he’s still shivering. 

“Can’t get warm.” Lando pulls his knees in tighter against his chest. There’s sweat glistening on his brow and shining in the hollow of his throat. Oscar can feel the humid heat of him from where he’s standing. Lando shifts again, trying to get comfortable, and lets out a soft whimper. 

It feels like ice poured down Oscar’s back. His shoulders tense with want and his scent gets loud enough he can taste it on his tongue. This is bad. Oscar needs to leave. He’s never felt so terrifyingly compelled to pin someone down. Claim them. Nose into their hair until their scent goes clear and sated. 

“I need to leave,” Oscar chokes out, his pulse bounding harder than it does before lights out. Lando’s eyes snap open, they’re clearer than have been since the press conference. Oscar is standing statue still, a bit of a deer in the headlights. He needs to move, get out of there before he does something he knows Lando doesn’t want, but he’s frozen. 

“Don’t,” Lando says quietly, pulling the hoodie Oscar had given him up to his nose and mouth. He inhales Oscar’s scent and lets out another quiet little whimper. “Need to be warm.”

It occurs to Oscar then that Lando doesn’t just need to be warm — he needs to be safe. Needs to feel comfortable and cared for. And he’s using Oscar’s clothing, his scent, like an inhaler to help him breathe through the worst of it. And… it’s over. Oscar can’t fight this anymore. Can’t let Lando feel cold and exposed right now. But he has to ask before anything happens, “can I sit?”

“Yeah.”

Oscar lowers himself to the ground with the same amount of focus he needs to corner in an F1 car. He picks his reference, and makes sure to fold himself close enough that their shoulders are touching but nothing else. He needs to make sure Lando can stop this, scoot away if it’s too much for him. But Lando just leans his head on Oscar’s shoulder. 

For a few minutes, that seems like enough. His eyes are still closed and his skin is still fever-warm, but he relaxes and a bit of the sharpness in his scent starts to dissipate. They’re silent. Oscar keeps his palms splayed wide and placed solidly on his own thighs. But after a while, Lando starts shivering again. 

“Here,” Oscar says, breaking the silence. Lando lifts his head from Oscar’s shoulder. “You can sit here. It’ll be warmer.”

Oscar opens his legs so Lando can sit with his back against his chest. This might be a terrible idea, but Lando looks so tired and desperate. Oscar would hold himself still all night if it meant that Lando could get some relief. When Lando climbs over into his space, Oscar’s met with the full feel of him. Curls against his neck, Lando’s furnace hot back against his chest, and the smell. Oh god , the smell of him. Oscar winds his arms around Lando, just trying to keep him warm and comfortable. 

He’s not sure how much time passes in the dark of Lando’s driver room. It could be minutes or hours. Oscar nearly starts sweating and shaking himself in effort of keeping still with an omega in heat in his arms. But he wants to be solid and safe for Lando.

In the end it’s Lando who breaks the silence. He shifts back a little, tipping his head back even farther so he can peer up at Oscar from under his eyelashes. “I can smell how fucking noble you’re being.”

“What?” 

Lando looks obscene this close to Oscar, neck bared, heat thick in his scent. He hums a little, then tips his head back down, shuffling back further, removing any millimeter of space between his back and Oscar’s chest. “I can smell how much you want to,” he says.

Oscar feels a bit incredulous. Of course he wants him. He’s choking with need right now. But he can’t do anything about it. They’ve never even talked about this kind of thing before, let alone been in this incredibly torturous situation before. 

“I’m an alpha,” Oscar says desperately in explanation, because surely Lando can’t blame Oscar for wanting him. Every alpha Oscar’s encountered wants Lando at least a little bit.

Lando scoffs. “Yes, you muppet. I’m in heat, and you haven’t moved a muscle.”

“Can’t.” Oscar is feeling sort of frantic now. Like a quali lap. He’s on the absolute limit. One wrong move and he’ll send it into the barrier. 

“You can,” Lando says, and there’s a different note to Lando’s scent that’s starting to settle around them. Heavy. Tantalizingly inviting. “ Oscar ,” Lando whines.

“Lando,” Oscar warns. 

“ Please .” It comes out soft, a whisper. Lando leans his head back again, angling his face slightly so his nose just barely brushes under Oscar’s jaw. 

Blood roars in Oscar’s ears, and his arms involuntarily tighten around Lando’s middle. Everything is red hot, simmering, boiling. And Oscar guesses he never really stood a chance trying to hold back. One of Oscar’s hands flies up to cup Lando’s jaw, guiding his nose up to his neck where his scent is thick and concentrated. Lando makes a small sound in the back of his throat. It’s not quite a keen.

Oscar takes a moment, with Lando’s burning skin pressed up into his neck, to savor the position they’re in, to feel the heat of Lando against him. Then he pulls away slightly and Lando makes a noise of displeasure, but Oscar is a man on a mission now. He gently moves Lando so he can take his turn burying his face in the back of his neck. It works like a drug on Oscar. It’s rich and sweet, and it has his mouth watering and his ears ringing. It’s one thing to smell Lando in the air around them, and it’s another to breathe it in right at the source. 

Lando begins to squirm and shudder as Oscar noses into the curls at the back of his neck, and Oscar is firmly aware of the discomfort he’s experiencing. The heat started hours ago, and Oscar…well Oscar needs to keep him warm. Satisfied. He places a quick kiss to the back of his hairline, and Lando goes boneless, slumping even further into Oscar’s chest. 

“Lando,” Oscar starts, his voice low and husky even to his own ears. He needs to maneuver him, get him to a place where Oscar can take care of him.

“Need,” Lando says, pained and restless again. Oscar’s been hard since he smelled Lando in the press conference, and he’s aching now with Lando so close and basically writhing in his lap. 

“What do you need?” Oscar places his hands on Lando’s hips, steadying him. Holding him still. 

Lando just whimpers again, like he can’t quite say what he wants out loud. He hasn’t moved since Oscar held him still. Oscar’s not sure which is worse: Lando rolling his body against him or being soft and compliant in his grasp. He lifts the corner of Lando’s sweatshirt, slowly so Lando could stop him if he wanted to, and lets his fingers brush the soft warm skin above Lando’s hip. Lando hums and relaxes. 

Oscar keeps drawing patterns into the soft skin of Lando’s belly, and taking deep breaths of Lando’s scent, careful to notice how it changes. 

“More,” Lando says at last. And Oscar doesn’t need to be told twice. He splays his hand out wide on Lando’s stomach, bringing him impossibly closer. He hooks his chin over Lando's shoulder, and kisses down the line of his neck to the point of his shoulder. Slow and deliberate, mourning the heat of Lando’s skin when his lips meet the fabric of his hoodie. 

Over and over again, down the muscle, across the top of his shoulder, back up to the corner of his jaw, Lando’s breath hitching and catching with each purse of Oscar’s lips. And then, because he can’t help it, because the arousal is so loud in Lando’s scent, because Lando is supple and compliant to every miniscule bit of guidance Oscar offers him, he kisses up behind Lando’s ear nipping at the lobe. 

It’s intimate. Too intimate. Something usually reserved for mates. But Lando’s back arches in pleasure, and he turns in Oscar’s lap, his soft lips finding Oscar’s in the quiet shadows of Lando’s driver room. 

The kiss is slow. Everything is slow and warm, a beautiful counterbalance to how fiercely quick they are when they’re racing. Lando clambers around so he’s straddling Oscar, the press of their groins nearly too much. Oscar’s body is alight with desire, and his pulse is racing. He’s barely moving, but his body is burning from effort, muscles taught with restraint.  

Oscar runs his tongue along the seam of Lando’s lips, asking for permission. Lando opens easily, moaning at the gentle intrusion. Oscar keeps everything slow, deliberate, even when Lando becomes impatient, trying to take more than Oscar is giving. 

“Be good,” Oscar whispers, pulling back slightly when Lando tries to rush and push. The response Oscar’s met with nearly stops him cold. Lando makes a tiny, broken sound, and bares his neck completely. Oscar’s heart stutters painfully. 

The chuff that rumbles low in Oscar’s chest is quiet and involuntary. The whole situation is like something out of the recesses of Oscar’s mind, something he would have shamefully brought himself over the edge with in dark lonely hotel rooms in the very beginning of his F1 career. Back when being teammates with Lando Norris was new and almost too much for him. 

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” he murmurs softly, bringing a hand up to Lando’s curls. He guides Lando’s head back up so he can look him in the eyes, making sure he’s not too far gone with the simple order to ‘be good.’ Oscar’s a little far gone himself at the moment, but a small bead of sweat glistens as it slowly rolls down Lando’s temple. Right. 

“Do you want this off?” Oscar asks, gathering himself, fingers finding the hem of Lando’s team hoodie. Oscar hopes he relents, knows he wants to be warm, but he’s literally feverish with his heat. Lando shakes his head ‘no.’ 

“ Yours ,” he whines, lashes slightly damp as he meets Oscar’s eyes. “I want yours off.”

He’s bold and beautiful even in heat. 

Oscar guides Lando’s hands to the hem of his shirt, closing his hands around Lando’s encouraging him to grab hold of the fabric. When he feels Lando’s fingers wind tight, he lifts his arms up helping Lando pull the fabric over his head. It’s a bit awkward to maneuver with how they’re sitting: Lando’s legs folded up on either side of Oscar, chests nearly touching. 

Lando doesn’t toss the shirt aside like Oscar expects him to. Instead he pulls it into his arms, cradles it against his chest, tries, but ultimately fails, to subtly sniff the fabric. So Oscar gently pulls his shirt out of Lando’s hands. Lando looks a little distraught for a moment before Oscar reaches up, curls his fingers around the corner of Lando’s jaw, and guides him to the crook of his neck.

Lando’s breathing evens out, and the heat of him against Oscar’s bare skin feels right. The closer Lando is to Oscar the more he seems to relax. Still Oscar knows he must be burning up in all his layers. Knows the sweetness in his scent is indicating how deep in his heat he truly is. How much he must be aching. 

So Oscar leaves Lando’s face warm against his neck, and reaches down to run his hands under Lando’s shirt again. Oscar rubs his palms up the muscle of Lando’s back, taking time to press and massage any place that feels tight. His skin is hot and tacky under Oscar’s hands.

“Lando,” Oscar tries. Nice and gentle, so he doesn’t get spooked. “I need to take this off of you.” Lando’s already shaking his head ‘no’ where it’s pressed against Oscar’s neck. “C’mon it’ll be warmer. You can cuddle up to my chest.” Lando lets out a small huff, but then nods his head once, giving Oscar the permission he needs. 

Oscar manages to get Lando out of his layers without disturbing him too much. He can’t help the way his eyes drag up and down Lando’s torso. He’s seen Lando’s shirtless before, but he’s never had the opportunity to look . To see the way gooseflesh pebbles the tanned skin, and how his necklace lays perfectly between his pecs, begging to be pulled on. Oscar wraps his bare arms around Lando’s bare torso, one hand finding its way to the nape of Lando’s neck and stroking his hair. 

Lando whines a little, soft and pliable to Oscar’s touch, but desperately needing more. The skin to skin contact — Lando’s damp breath on Oscar’s neck, the weight of him pressed against Oscar’s aching cock —it ’s driving him mad. He lifts his hips, instinctually, helplessly, and groans as the friction sends sparks of pleasure licking up his spine. 

Lando whimpers in Oscar’s ear. It’s a small, gasping noise, and it sends another wave of pleasure curling right into Oscar’s belly — makes the alpha in him puff up in pride. Lando might be the one in heat right now, but the way Oscar needs him is primal and urgent. He's not sure he’ll ever recover from this.

Oscar guides Lando’s face up from where it’s glued to his neck so he can capture his lips in a kiss. It’s more frantic than the kiss before . Oscar’s pulling Lando’s lips between his teeth, exploring his mouth with his tongue, and Lando responds beautifully, making small encouraging noises, and grinding his hips down to get more pressure and friction. 

It feels insane. Oscar’s going insane. His arms wind tighter around Lando, fingers digging into the edges of Lando’s shoulder blades. He draws him down and closer, and grinds up. Lando gasps again, and when Oscar relents just a little to look at him, his cheeks are gorgeously flushed, lips swollen and wet and… Lando’s close . 

Oscar’s barely done anything at all, and he’s right on the edge for him. Oscar could make him come like this. Kiss him and grind up on him and tell him he’s pretty. Lando would let him. Would probably beg for it even. But Oscar doesn’t want to get him off all rushed and sloppy so he’s sticky in his pants. He deserves more than that. Oscar needs to give him more than that. 

He manages to pause long enough to get out a single syllable, “Lan.”

“Osc,” Lando murmurs back.

“Let’s get these off, yeah?” Oscar’s hands travel down Lando’s tanned warm skin until they settle right above the waistband of his trousers. The space between Oscar asking to take Lando’s trousers off and Lando nodding his head ‘yes’ feels massive and terrifying. This is sort of the point of no return — though Oscar figures the point of no return happened well before today. But Lando does. Nod his head yes, that is, and Oscar releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

It’s an awkward tangle of limbs to get both of them out of their trousers. Lando gasps and whines, and barely tolerates being unglued from Oscar’s skin for even a moment. Then he’s finally there, all situated on Oscar’s lap with only the thin barrier of their pants between them. Lando’s scent is icing sugar thick, Oscar can smell the slick, can feel the dampness on his thighs and he’s doing everything in his power to stay focused. Oscar has one arm slung low around Lando’s hips, keeping him close but steady. He brings his other hand up and wipes a few beads of sweat from Lando’s collarbone, then lets his hand travel down. Over his chest. His nipples. The hard and smooth lines of his stomach. 

Lando watches Oscar’s hand as it travels down his body, their foreheads bowing together as Oscar works down to where Lando needs him. Then he dips his fingers under the waistband, their breaths hitching at the same time. Oscar glances at Lando’s face, and they’re so close to each other, foreheads touching, that Oscar can’t even focus his eyes. It’s silly and Lando looks cross eyed and ridiculous from this angle, and Oscar snorts a little because it’s funny. Lando giggles too, cheeks flushed and beautiful. Oscar kisses him, teeth clacking as he smiles into it. 

This Lando. Sweet and happy and warm, warm, warm in his lap. This Lando might be Oscar’s undoing.

“Come on, Osc,” Lando says, breathless and a little impatient. “Need it.”

“Okay,” Oscar breathes, all business again. He wraps a hand around Lando, and a shiver works its way down Oscar’s spine at the feel of him —of finally, actually touching this gorgeous, needy omega . Oscar strokes him, holding on to the little punched out sighs he makes. 

Lando is totally responsive to him. He’s always been open, unafraid of how he feels and how it comes across, and in this setting — completely exposed and at the mercy of Oscar’s touch —Lando is ethereal. Every pant of warm breath fills the space between them. Every drop of his scent impossibly sweeter, every movement more supple. Oscar has to focus on the mechanics of what he’s doing to keep from dropping himself. Methodical but fluid. Every twist of his wrist relaxed but purposeful. Every stroke in perfect time with Lando’s breathing. 

“ Oscar? ” Lando says his name with the end turned up, like a question, like he’s desperate, like he’s… begging . It’s ice and fire in his belly twisting in pleasure, in pride. Oscar’s never been so turned on in his life, never smelled his own scent go so deep. The knot at the base of his dick is already starting to swell. 

“S’alright,” Oscar rushes out, but he keeps his movements slow. Oscar kisses him through it. Swallows his gasps, and maintains his rhythm as Lando shudders against him. It lasts hours. It’s over too soon. When Lando’s small noises become slightly pained Oscar slows, gentles, stops. He hadn’t meant for Lando to come like this —messy and simple , but he’s not done yet. Figures he can make up for it.

Oscar keeps him close as Lando breathes and recovers. He uses his clean hand to brush damp curls off of his forehead. Maybe Oscar’s imagining things or maybe he’s really tuned in, but he swears Lando’s skin is a few degrees cooler. His scent has quieted a little bit, less sharp and persistent, but possibly even more alluring. The note of satisfaction mixed with all that cinnamon sweetness fills Oscar with want. His instincts are still thrumming under his skin, he can feel his pulse ticking in his neck and fingertips. 

His instincts are going to be insatiable after this. The alpha in him will never let him live this down. Oscar spares a brief concern about how they’re going to go back to being teammates after this. How he’s going to act normal after having Lando in his lap all sweet and compliant. How he’s going to fucking sit next to him in the debreif or, hell, even be across the garage from him. 

Lando must catch the anxious spike in Oscar’s scent, because he leans back, arching an eyebrow at him. His eyes are more clear than they have been, his normal confidence peeking through. “Don’t be noble. Not now.”

And, god , Oscar’s not even sure what Lando means by that. He takes one last careful look at Lando’s face. His flushed cheeks and damp eyelashes, the sweat still glittering in the hollow of his collar bones, his wet lips. He’s gorgeous, and even more so because he looks clear and certain.

When Oscar winds an arm around Lando’s waist and tips him back, sucking his lip between his teeth, he’s not noble. He’s thinking about coaxing Lando back to hardness. When he strips Lando of his pants and trails slow bruising kisses down his chest as he thinks about Lando seeing the marks for days to come, he’s not noble. And when he pushes a knuckle into Lando, so slow and precise Lando nearly cries with want, he’s not noble. 

Oscar’s three fingers deep when Lando starts to get impatient with his pace. He whines about Oscar being “too slow,” and lifts his hips urging him to go faster. Oscar gives him a slightly stern look and leans down to nip at his hip. But Oscar’s eyes roll back in his head when he gets there. He nearly blacks out with the scent of him concentrated in the crease of his hip. He doesn’t miss the small whimpers escaping Lando’s lips or the way he clenches around him. Oscar’s dialed up to eleven. His reaction time to Lando’s body is instantaneous. Like nailing a start, getting the best launch off the line at lights out. 

Lando’s close again. Sweaty and whining. Flushed all the way down his chest, a few marks from Oscar’s mouth blooming red. 

“So good,” Oscar says, voice thick with awe and affection. He doesn’t have time to unpack how fond it sounds — because Lando’s clenching around his fingers, impossibly tight, and spilling over his stomach. “ Fuck ,” Oscar curses in suprise, his own dick kicking at the sight.

Lando’s chest is heaving, wild, “I didn’t—”

 “S’alright.” Oscar pets his curls, soothing. “You’re good.”

Lando’s eyes flutter shut with the touch. He’s shaking again, but not like before when he was desperate and cold. Oscar lets his fingers slide out, slick and slow, never taking his eyes off of Lando splayed out on the new carpet of his driver room. Lando whines at the emptiness, and opens his eyes to find Oscar’s.

“You’re good,” Oscar says again. Then softer, reverent, “so good.”

Lando’s lips quirk up in the slightest smirk, then he tips his head back crushing his curls into the carpet and looking up at the ceiling. “ Jesus .” 

Oscar drinks in the sight of him—his necklace stark and metallic against his flushed skin, the curve of his spent cock heavy on his stomach, the slight quiver in his thighs. The image is going to be burned behind his eyelids until he dies, Oscar thinks. 

“You look like you want to eat me,” Lando says, but it’s not fearful, it’s calm, lighthearted. He probably should be afraid. Oscar feels wild. 

“I sort of do,” he admits, brushing his fingers against Lando’s cheek bone. Lando just turns his face toward Oscar’s hand, nuzzling into the touch, nipping at his palm. Oscar shudders. 

Lando’s slick is cooling on Oscar’s fingers, a reminder that time is still passing even as they’re cocooned in Lando’s driver room. Oscar stretches down beside him, relishing the warm press of their thighs. Lando turns his face toward Oscar, pupils blown wide, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, and licks his lips. Oscar groans, and kisses him, if anything so he doesn’t have to look at him anymore. 

It’s not rushed, but Oscar’s brutally persistent with it. Sucking on his lip, just to pause. Breathe, then start again. Oscar can tell from the small noises Lando’s making that he’s a bit overwhelmed again—barely recovered but still leaning in, desperate and trying to rush. 

Oscar slows the kiss even more, stops it. “C’mere.” He moves to sit up, cringing internally as his tacky hand presses into the carpet. Oscar hopes the janitorial staff will forgive them. Lando props himself up to his elbows, looking both slightly annoyed and slightly confused. “On my lap, come on.” Oscar says it gently, softly, but Lando still responds to it like it’s a command. He climbs over to where Oscar’s settled himself against the wall, his muscled thighs bracketing Oscar’s. He’s nearly unbearably attractive like this, all slick and warm and right on Oscar’s lap. 

Oscar brings a hand to the nape of Lando’s neck, and swallows hard before asking, “like this?” Lando nods slowly, eyes glassy, scent deeply sweet. “Okay,” Oscar breathes, slightly squeezing Lando’s neck. Not enough to properly scruff him, that would be too much, but enough to let him know Oscar has him. 

When Lando wraps a hand around him, Oscar can’t help the noise he makes. His cock is beyond hard, leaking and already swollen at the base. It’s a good thing Lando’s too deep in his heat to make fun of him for it. But he does look Oscar in the eyes, almost timid, almost asking for reassurance. “ Fuck, yeah. ”

Oscar brings both hands to Lando’s torso, steadying him, encouraging him, fingertips warm but light on Lando’s ribs. He leans forward, and Oscar shifts his hips up. Oscar watches every micro expression cross Lando’s face when he finally sinks down—every millimeter slow and slick. Their chests nearly touch with how deep they’re both drawing their breath, but aside from that, they stay still. Lando adjusting, Oscar restraining every urge within himself. 

“ Osc ,” he says, breathless. 

“Just stay here,” Oscar soothes. His tone of voice is much more gentle and quiet than his body feels. Oscar’s desperate to fuck up into the tight heat of him, make him take every inch, but the image of Lando how he first found him—shaking and sweating and trying to get warm—plays through his mind. Lando just needs to be cared for.

It’s not the messy and desperate ordeal Oscar assumed it would be. Heat sex with Lando is total surrender. It’s Oscar giving in by holding back. It’s Lando so rushed and needy, he’s forced to stay slow. More than anything it’s full and warm . Their scents tangle around each other creating something that smells nuanced and complete. It’s thick, earthy, but also sweet. Like a rivet of melted dark chocolate. 

It doesn’t take long for Lando to start making small noises, clenching around Oscar. Oscar has to clamp his fingers on Lando’s ribcage to ground himself. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. Oscar can’t even imagine what Lando’s feeling, but by the looks of it, with tear tracks stark on his ruddy cheeks, Oscar guesses he’s equally if not more overwhelmed. 

Lando lifts up the smallest amount, more of a grind than anything, testing how much Oscar will let him take. Oscar moans helplessly—too open, too overwhelmed, too proud to hold back. 

“C’mon, take what you need,” Oscar says, voice low. Not necessarily a command, but not not a command either. “Be good.”

Lando cries out, head lulling to the side. Oscar can barely look away from the curve of his neck, the spot where his scent gland is, where he would bite. He slides a hand up to cup Lando’s cheek, feeling the salt on his skin. He forces Lando to look at him, making sure it’s not too much. Making sure Lando’s on the right side of pleasure and overwhelm. 

“Yeah?” He asks, thumb rubbing across Lando’s cheek. He nods into the hand cupping his face. Then Lando looks down to where they’re connected and starts to move. Between Lando’s slick and the sweat at every point of contact between them, the slide is hot. 

Lando’s pace is punishingly slow, an incremental roll of his hips then a controlled push down, his thighs shaking in effort. Oscar probably deserves the torture with how slowly he did everything else. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to stay concentrated, to not move. He wants to stay here forever, keeping Lando full, giving him what he needs, but he’s also not sure if he’ll last another second. His nerve endings are firing all over his body, waves of pleasure rippling over his skin leaving gooseflesh in their wake.

Lando gets into a rhythm, his mouth dropped open in a soft ‘o’ shape as he works himself to a warm bliss on Oscar’s cock. Only when Lando gets a little sloppy, trying to hurry, does Oscar open his eyes. He catches Lando’s gaze, gives him a stern look, only meant to be a reminder that he doesn’t need to rush. Lando whimpers, going teary-eyed again.

“ Alpha. ”

Oscar’s brain goes momentarily offline, he only realizes that Lando’s coming when he clenches tight around him. Oscar thrusts into him, once, twice, his knot expanding before he’s tipped over the edge, Lando’s fluttery aftershocks coaxing Oscar’s orgasm out for what feels like hours. His ears are ringing with the intensity of it, and the air around them feels humid and hot. They’re locked together, Lando warm and boneless in Oscars Lap. He nuzzles up under Oscar’s chin, breathing in his scent, making Oscar shiver as another wave of come pluses out of him. 

Lando mumbles something into the crook of his neck, and Oscar has to push his head back against the wall to get Lando to lift his head and say it so Oscar can hear him. 

“Hmm?” Oscar isn’t able to form words yet.

“You’re warm,” Lando says, contentedly, then curls back up against Oscar’s chest. Oscar’s probably actually overheating, but he’s definitely not going to be moving any time soon. 

He hums in acknowledgement, and lets his cheek squish against the top of Lando’s head, the cinnamon scent soothing and comfortable. He wraps his arms around Lando, massaging his palms into the muscle of Lando’s back. He must be exhausted after finishing a Grand Prix and then dropping immediately into his heat. 

Time slips by as they sit tied together, and when Oscar’s knot finally softens enough that they can separate, a subtle vibration brings Oscar back to the present. It’s soft, quiet, barely there. Oscar looks down at Lando in complete awe. He thought it was a myth, or something that only mates experience. He’s never heard or seen an omega purr before. Oscar’s not even sure Lando’s awake right now, but his throat and chest are vibrating with the softest little sound. 

“Lan,” he whispers, and his heart nearly breaks when the purr ceases. 

Lando lifts his head, rubbing his eyes, clearly having just been dozing with Oscar locked inside him. “Huh?”

“My legs are going numb,” Oscar says dumbly. 

Lando sounds a little bit heartbroken when he says, “oh.”

“I’ll still hold you,” Oscar adds quickly. He wriggles his toes a little, flinching at the pins and needles feeling in his legs, “Just…we need to get cleaned up. I don’t even know what time it is.”

Lando huffs, but lifts himself up with shaking thighs. He loses his balance as his muscles give out and has to grip onto Oscar’s shoulder. He laughs, and Oscar laughs too, placing his hands on Lando’s hips to steady him. 

“That good, was it?” Oscar teases. 

Lando shoots him a glare, but he’s settling down right beside him, gluing himself to Oscar’s side again. Oscar wraps an arm around his back to pull him in closer. “No, I just did all the work.” All confidence and hot air. Beautiful and commanding. Just Oscar’s type. 

And as with all things Lando Norris, it’s best to just go with it. Lean into it. “You did,” Oscar concedes, voice earnest. Then, with a slight quirk of his lip, “ so good for me.” 

It has the desired effect. Lando inhales sharply, then reaches over and pinches his shoulder. “Dickhead.” Oscar laughs again, rubbing the sore spot. “That’s not fair,” Lando says, and his voice is light. Still teasing. Still joking. But the words make a pit open up in Oscar’s stomach. The reality of what just happened comes back to him. He pulls Lando in close to his side again, but it’s a desperate cling. 

If Lando notices the change, he doesn’t comment on it. He’s still warm under Oscar’s arm and pressed against him. It’s anchoring Oscar in the room, and keeping the panic at bay. Oscar turns and presses a lingering kiss against Lando’s temple. “I don’t know how to go back,” he admits quietly against Lando’s skin. 

“Do you want to go back?” Lando asks after a few moments. 

Oscar’s head throbs, and his chest tightens. It doesn’t feel that simple. Of course Oscar doesn’t want to go back to the way things were. But this isn’t something small, this feels very big. They just had heat sex, and it didn’t go badly. Worse. It went very well. He has no idea how they would manage fucking each other and racing each other. How he would manage if that’s all Lando wants.  

“I waited for you,” Lando says, all open and raw, candid in a way Oscar never manages to pull off. 

Oscar lets out a breath, incredulous. “What?”

Lando chuckles low. Adjusts himself under Oscar’s arm, pulling Oscar’s hand down so he can play with his fingers. The distraction works, and Oscar feels his chest loosen slightly. “I waited for you,” Lando says again with finality. Like it’s supposed to clear everything up. 

“I didn’t —” Oscar scrubs his free hand over his face, hoping he’s read all the clues right. “—I just didn’t want to mess anything up or do something I couldn’t take back.”

“I know,” Lando says simply, tracing the outline of Oscar’s hand with his finger. “It was stupidly hot.”

“So we don’t go back?” There’s something soft and blanket warm folding over in Oscar’s chest. Something like hope. He squeezes Lando’s fingers in his own. 

“Forever forward,” Lando says too loud, proud of his own joke. Oscar groans and rolls his eyes, that fuzzy hopeful feeling gets bigger. After a moment, Lando speaks again, voice solid and sincere. “I don’t think there’s much to go back to. Like, I don’t think we’d have to change much. I’ve always been who I am with you.”

I’ve always been who I am with you. Oscar repeats it in his mind like a mantra. His scent goes thick and deep again. 

I’ve always been who I am with you. Bold, confident, unafraid of his mistakes. 

I’ve always been who I am with you. Open, honest, wholehearted. 

Oscar noses into Lando’s curls, and breathes in a lungful of cinnamon. Holds it in his chest where all the other soft and tender things about Lando are. He places a single kiss behind Lando’s ear. Not a bite. Not a mark. But maybe a promise. 

“Good,” Oscar says at last. 

Lando groans, “I swear to god if you call me ‘good’ one more time, we’re going to have to go again right here.”

----------

The changes aren’t even strictly noticeable. They’ve always orbited each other with gentle teasing and easy competition. When Lando wins the next race in Monaco, Oscar pulls him into a hug before he can even think twice about it. From every camera angle, it looks friendly. Supportive. Just teammates. When Lando sniffs him in the press conference after Oscar wins in Barcelona, they joke, Oscar leans in, dares him to do it again. Just them being teammates. Coworkers. Maybe even friends on a good day. 

But Oscar’s had Lando. And Lando’s had Oscar. And they’ll have each other for a long time to come.