Work Text:
Oscar exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady, his expression neutral. The cameras were everywhere—there was no escaping them. He forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes, but one that would pass for composure. He could hear Mark Webber's voice echoing in the back of his mind like a mantra: Never let it show. Even when you're breaking, never let them see. The media didn't deserve that part of him. They never did.
And this—this wasn't even his lowest. Singapore stung, sure, but it wasn't Baku. Baku had been humiliation wrapped in carbon fiber and bad luck. A DNF. An abrupt end. It still went down in headlines next to his name. He had learned to live with that.
Oscar told himself he was fine. He was fine. He could manage himself just fine.
Still—right at this moment—his eyes flicked, unbidden, toward the screen in the media pen. He shouldn't have looked. Shouldn't have cared. But there it was—the feed of his team celebrating. His team. Orange-clad engineers cheering, laughters, smiles too wide, too genuine. World Constructors' Champions. Lando near the center, beaming.
Oscar forced his gaze away before it could linger too long. It was fine. He was fine. He had his own obligations—the post-race interviews, the endless repetition of half-truths dressed up as optimism.
The microphone hovered near his face. Oscar blinked, drew a breath, found his media smile again. The questions came, predictable as rain on race day. "Tough race today? You started from 3rd and finish as 4th. How are you feeling?" "Team's achieved another huge milestone—what does it mean to you?"
He answered them all in that practiced rhythm, voice smooth, words neat and empty. He had gotten good at it—filling silences with nothing. "Yeah, it's tough, but that's racing. The team did an amazing job. I'm proud of them." Lies. Or maybe not lies—just parts of the truth he could bear to share.
No one needed to know about the twist in his gut watching Lando lift the trophy. No one needed to know that he had wanted to win too. They would say it wasn't his day, that he just needed to be better in the next race.
Oscar smiled again at the cameras.
He was fine. He had to be.
Oscar was really trying to mind his own damn business.
He had finished packing—his things were already stuffed back into his backpack. He tugged the zipper shut, slinging the bag over his shoulder. The McLaren shirt was nowhere to be seen. He had wore something else, something plain—a white shirt and black pants. No orange. He had enough of orange for today. Enough of the team, enough of the cameras, enough of pretending.
He had played his part, took some pictures and videos with the team and Lando for the World Constructors' Champion posts in the social medias. Oscar got poured champagne all over him, both him and Lando were smiling and laughing with each other—Oscar didn't even know whether Lando was being genuine or playing pretend like Oscar. it didn't fucking matter.
Oscar just wanted out.
The fluorescent lights of the motorhome made his eyes ache, and the air smelled faintly of champagne, sweat, and rubbers when he walked out. Journalists still roaming like vultures even though the race had ended a few hours ago, the occasional flash of a camera from a corner. Voices carried across the paddock: laughter, interviews, the hum of celebration that didn't belong to him—that was probably George—maybe.
Oscar groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.
He wasn't in the mood.
Oscar decided to take the narrow route between the paddocks instead of the main pathway, the one that wound between team trucks and temporary walls where only staff usually passed through. It was darker there—less risk of being stopped, less risk of being seen. The floodlights still cut through the night, too harsh and artificial, but maybe the shadows would be kind enough to hide him. Oscar doubted it, but whatever. He just needed to get out, reach the car park, and be gone before anyone could ask him another fucking stupid question.
Oscar was halfway through the narrow lane when he stopped dead in his tracks.
What the fuck.
Pressed against the side of a wall just ahead of him—barely hidden from view—was Max Verstappen, unmistakable in that Red Bull jacket, his head tilted back, a low, guttural sound escaping him. And right there, caging him in, was Charles Leclerc. Hands braced on either side of Max's body, mouth on his throat, the kind of closeness that made Oscar's skin crawl for reasons he couldn't even explain.
Oscar froze, blinking once, twice, like his mind was trying to process what exactly he was seeing. It wasn't subtle. Charles' mouth was on Max's neck, deliberate and unhurried, like he owned the moment—and Max, judging by the glazed, half-lidded look in his eyes, wasn't objecting. Max looked utterly gone, breath hitching, lips parting around a sound that was half moan, half chuckle.
Seriously? Here?
Oscar wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. He didn't have the energy for either though. He just wanted to keep walking, to ignore them entirely. But his body wouldn't move—because how were you supposed to act normal after seeing that? This wasn't a nightclub. This was the paddock. The paddock.
He told himself to move. Ignore it. Just walk. You've had a shit day, don't make it worse—
Then Max's eyes opened.
It was brief, a flicker in the dark—but Oscar felt the air shift instantly. Max's gaze snapped toward him, sharp even through the haze. Their eyes met. Oscar swallowed hard, cursing silently. Max's lips curled into a smile that could only be described as wicked, all sharp amusement and growing awareness. Oscar didn't like that. He didn't like being seen, didn't like being acknowledged by that look.
"Charles, stop for a bit," Max said, voice rough, the sound of it scraping across the narrow passage. "We have an audience."
Charles groaned against Max's skin, the sound low and annoyed, like he didn't appreciate being interrupted. "Seriously, mon cher?" The accent made it sound even sharper, irritated.
Oscar's fingers twitched at his side. He really, really didn't want to be here. Walking back meant dealing with the press again, walking forward meant walking past them. Either way, he was screwed.
Then Charles turned his head.
His eyes found Oscar—sharp, glacial, cutting through the shadows like knives. "Oscar? What the hell are you doing here?" His voice wasn't his usual smooth, public tone. It was rawer. Dangerous.
Oscar stared right back, face blank. "That's supposed to be my question." He said flatly. "Are you two seriously going to fuck here? Get a fucking grip, mate. Someone could walk in on you."
Charles' expression twisted, dark with annoyance. "Get out. Leave."
"Oh, I will."
And he did. Oscar walked fast, barely looking at them as he passed, brushing past the heavy smell of sweat and cologne, past the sound of Max's laughter that followed him like static.
Then, a few minutes later, he could still hear it as he walked—Max's low, breathy moan echoing faintly down the passage. Oscar rolled his eyes, jaw tight, his steps getting quicker.
Animals. They were fucking animals.
By the time he reached outside, the paddock noise was still loud behind him. He exhaled slowly, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. The night air was thick and humid. He pulled his backpack higher on his shoulder and started walking toward the car park without looking back once.
The hotel room was quiet. Too quiet.
Oscar lay sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, his body still humming from the chaos of the race. The room's air conditioning hummed softly in the background, the only sound besides his own slow breathing.
He had showered the moment he got in. Hot water, too hot, until his skin stung and his head cleared just enough to stop replaying the race in his mind. Singapore. A shit pitstop. P4.
He could still see the glow of the track lights and the way his stomach had sunk when he had seen the celebration without him.
But now Oscar just felt empty.
He rolled onto his side, dragging the blanket half over his waist. His phone was on the nightstand, the screen still lit from earlier. Messages from people he didn't have the energy to reply to—it didn't fucking matter.
He exhaled through his nose and shut his eyes. For a few seconds, he almost let himself rest. The exhaustion felt bone-deep—the kind that no sleep could really fix. He thought of Mark's voice again. Keep it together, no matter what. Oscar had done that. He had smiled, answered stupid questions. He had done everything right.
So why did it still feel like losing?
He turned his head toward the window. Singapore's skyline blinked outside, neon lights reflected against the glass. The city was still awake, but he wasn't part of it. He never really was. He just moved through it—like a ghost with a race suit and a smile.
Then his phone buzzed. Again. Short vibration, sharp against the silence.
Oscar frowned. For a moment, he didn't move—just stared at the phone lying on the nightstand. Then, with a sigh, he reached over and grabbed it, more out of habit than curiosity.
Lando's name was on the screen. A few messages from him.
Lando: "the team wants to celebrate tonight!!"
Lando: "zak is going to rent a biggg yacht. can you believe that?"
Lando: "the team had already prepared some fancy suits for us, said it was a gift from a sponsor. zak wants us to wear it!"
Lando: "it's in my room. you should get in here. your room is next to mine, right? i'm in 705"
Oscar stared at the messages, expression unreadable. Lando's tone was so normal. So light. The same way he had always texted—half teasing, half casual, like everything was fine. Like nothing had gone wrong today. Of fucking course.
Oscar's thumb hovered over the screen. He read the messages again, slower this time, each one digging just a little deeper. The team wants to celebrate. The team. The same team that had celebrated Constructors' Champion without him on that stage. Fucking hell.
He could still see that moment playing in his head—the screen flashing with orange, everyone cheering and full of joy. And Lando in the middle of it, also smiling, also full of joy. Oscar had watched it from the media pen like a ghost watching his own funeral.
Now, Lando was texting him like none of that had happened. Like Oscar hadn't spent the last few hours pretending it didn't sting.
Oscar let out a slow breath as he sat up, the mattress creaking beneath him. Fine. If this was how Lando wanted to play it—acting like nothing had happened, like the whole day hadn't been one long humiliation—then Oscar could play along too. He could be just as fucking cruel. Maybe even crueler.
He swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself up, dragging his hand through his hair. The motion felt almost automatic. He didn't bother checking the mirror, he didn't need to look put together. Let Lando have the shine for now.
The hallway outside his room was dim, lined with the kind of polished silence that expensive hotels specialized in. Oscar's footsteps were soft against the carpet, but each one landed heavy in his chest. He stopped at the door marked 705. Lando's room. For a second, he just stood there, his fist hovering mid-air.
Then finally, he knocked.
A pause—footsteps—and then the door opened. Lando stood there, framed by the light spilling from inside, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world.
"Come in, Osc!" Lando said easily.
Oscar stepped inside without a word, his nod stiff, the kind of gesture that meant nothing. The room smelled faintly of a musky cologne. There were clothes draped over the chair, a few ties on the bed.
And there was Lando.
He had already put on his own suit, the kind of thing that made him look more like a model than a driver. The crisp white shirt, the perfect tailoring, the subtle shine of cufflinks. His curls were styled, his jaw clean, his whole look polished—like the very image of success that the team would want in the photos.
But when Oscar looked at Lando's face, really looked, he saw it: the faint drag in his expression, the tiredness just behind his grin. His eyes gave him away.
"Let me get your suit—" Lando started, already turning toward the chair.
"You look like shit, mate." Oscar cut in, voice low, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
It landed perfectly. The kind of jab that sounded casual but was meant to sting.
Lando froze for half a second, not enough for most people to notice—but Oscar saw it. The way his shoulders went just a little tense, the brief flicker of something in his eyes before the smile returned, smooth and practiced.
"Oh yeah?" Lando said, tone light, but the air between them shifted, something fragile cracking just slightly beneath the surface.
Oscar leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Yeah. Thought the celebration would've fixed that."
Lando chuckled, forced and too short. "Guess I didn't celebrate hard enough yet."
"Guess not."
For a moment, they just stood there. The silence stretched between them, thick with everything they weren't saying. Oscar's smirk stayed—sharp and deliberate—but his chest felt heavier than it should. Lando's gaze flickered away, toward the window.
Oscar knew he should stop. He should let it go. But the words sat on his tongue, bitter and metallic. Oscar really wanted to be cruel.
"Funny." Oscar said quietly, almost to himself. "You look the part. Perfect as ever. Guess that's what they all love about you, huh?"
Lando's eyes flicked back to him, that grin still stuck in place—but it didn't reach his eyes this time.
Oscar smiled wider, but it wasn't kind.
Lando's grin twisted, sharp enough to cut. "What? Pissed that I finished above you?" His voice turned sharper, all that easy charm turning brittle around the edges. "It's racing, Oscar. Get fucking over it. The race is already over."
It was like the air in the room shifted—something hot and sour slipping beneath the surface. The grin on Lando's face no longer looked harmless. It looked dangerous. Fake, practiced. The kind of smile people gave when they knew exactly where to twist the knife.
Oscar let out a short laugh, dry and humorless. "Right." His tone was calm, almost too calm—the kind of calm that trembled beneath the surface. "You're Lando Norris, after all. You always get what you want, get your way. Everyone's always hovering at your feet, fixing your shit for you."
Lando's expression faltered for a split second, then hardened again. His eyes narrowed, that flicker of heat returning. "Oh wow," He said, his tone mockingly amused, venom curling around each word. "So this is how you want to play it? And people say you're the cool, rational one. How fucking cute."
Lando took a step closer, just enough to make Oscar feel it. "Just so you know, Oscar—every driver would've done the same move that I did when presented to. Whatever it takes to win, yeah? We're Formula One drivers. You think I would just let you win easily?" Lando's grin spread again, wolfish and cruel. "Well, sorry to break it to you, you whiny fuck, but I want to fucking win too."
The words landed like blows. Sharp, deliberate, each one dragging against something Oscar had been trying to keep buried since the race ended. Something brittle inside him cracked open.
And before he could stop himself—before he could even think—Oscar moved.
He crossed the space between them in two fast strides, the sound of his footsteps heavy against the carpet. His hand shot out, fisting the front of Lando's collar. The motion was violent, sudden, born from every ounce of restraint finally snapping. He slammed Lando into the wall, hard.
The sound echoed through the room—a deep, hollow thud that made the framed picture beside them rattle. Lando's breath caught sharply, a hiss escaping his throat as his back hit the plaster. Oscar's grip tightened, dragging the fabric of Lando's pristine suit into a wrinkled mess between his fingers.
Lando's hand came up automatically, gripping Oscar's wrist. His skin was warm, his pulse quick. He looked up, eyes flashing wide for just a moment before narrowing again.
Oscar didn't move. His body was close enough that Lando could probably feel the heat coming off him, the tension radiating between them.
"You're a fucking piece of shit, Lando." Oscar muttered, voice sounded sharp and dangerous. It wasn't a shout—it didn't need to be. There was enough weight in those words to make the air feel heavier, thicker.
Lando's chest rose and fell, his breathing uneven. His lips parted, but he didn't speak immediately. He looked way too annoyed.
Then, slowly, he smiled again. Smaller this time, but sharper. "Right back at you, teammate." He breathed, his voice a bit rough.
The sound of it crawled down Oscar's spine. He could see the pulse in Lando's throat, the faint tremor under his jaw where his fingers pressed too tightly. Oscar's grip flexed, his knuckles white, the fabric of Lando's collar biting into his hand.
For a second, he thought about it—about actually doing it. About how satisfying it might feel to finally break that composure, to see Lando's perfect face twist into something real.
But he didn't move. He just held him there, the silence between them stretching taut like a wire about to snap.
Lando's smile stayed, but it looked unsteady now. His breath brushed against Oscar's face, hot and uneven. The two of them stood there—still, locked in place—as if the world outside the hotel room had stopped existing.
It was hatred. But it was also something else. Something messier.
Something that pulsed under Oscar's skin, dangerous and alive.
"Get on your knees." Oscar's voice cut through the silence, low and cold—so calm it was terrifying.
For a second, Lando just stared at him, unblinking. His mouth twitched—half in disbelief, half in something else. Oscar could see the pulse at the base of his throat, the flicker of defiance still holding on like it had a chance.
But it didn't. Not against Oscar, not now.
Oscar's grip on his collar didn't loosen. His knuckles stayed pressed against Lando's skin. "You heard me." Oscar said, voice rougher this time. The tension in his jaw was visible, his teeth clenched so tight it hurt. "Don't make me say it again."
"You've lost it already, huh? Didn't know it would be this quick this time." Lando rolled out a mocking laugh. "You're really—"
"Shut up." Oscar snapped. The words came out harder than he expected, his control slipping, cracking at the edges. His fingers flexed against Lando's collar, knuckles white, his pulse hammering in his ears. "On. Your. Knees." Oscar repeated, each word clipped, deliberate. His voice didn't rise, but it carried the kind of authority that didn't need to.
Lando stared at him, his eyes sharp, but this time, he didn't move to fight back. His breathing was shallow now, his chest rising and falling, his jaw tight like he was swallowing the last of his pride.
Oscar could see it—the exact moment that defiance faltered, giving way to something else.
Something that almost looked like obedience.
And as Lando's knees finally touched the carpet, Oscar's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. Oscar didn't smile. He didn't gloat. He just stood there, every muscle in his body wound tight, his heart pounding against his ribs like it wanted out.
Again, and again. Oscar could never get enough of it. Seeing Lando there, the perfect, sweet golden boy finally stripped of that endless, infuriating practiced smile—Oscar finally felt something that wasn't just anger.
It wasn't peace, not even close.
But it was something.
The air in the hotel room was no longer silent. It was filled with the raw, wet sounds of use, the choked, guttural noises Lando couldn't suppress. Oscar watched, his own breath coming in sharp, controlled pants, his body a rigid line of tension.
Oscar's hand was a vise in Lando's curls, dictating the rhythm, a brutal, piston-like motion. He was buried deep in the heat of Lando's mouth. Oscar's other hand, braced against the wall, was the only thing holding him upright as he watched, mesmerized, by the ruin he was creating.
This was fucked up. Oscar knew it. The knowledge was a cold, sharp stone in his gut. But it was drowned out by the roaring in his veins, by the sight before him. Once again, he really enjoyed this. It was so fucking thrilling to have Lando Norris on his knees—for him, for Oscar.
Lando's perfect suit was crumpled, Lando's face was a mess. Tears cut through the faint sheen of sweat on his cheeks, and his eyes, screwed shut, glistened with the effort of the violation. Lando wasn't fighting at all. He was allowing it. A living, breathing surrender.
And it awoke something dangerous in Oscar. Something that wanted to claw its way out of his chest.
A low, guttural sound escaped Oscar, half-groan, half-laugh. "Look at you, Lan." He rasped, his voice thick with a venomous kind of awe. He stilled his hips for a moment, letting the full, suffocating weight of himself rest on Lando's tongue. "This is what you're really for, isn't it? To take it. So perfect for me."
Lando's eyes fluttered open. They were blurred with tears, but the look in them wasn't one of pleading. It was a sharp, startling clarity. A challenge. He made a choked sound around the obstruction, a garbled attempt at words that vibrated against Oscar's flesh.
Oscar tightened his grip in Lando's hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose the strained column of his throat. "What was that? Couldn't quite hear you with your mouth full, baby." He pulled out quite entirely, the sudden rush of air a cold shock. A string of saliva was falling, glistening on Lando's lips.
Lando gasped, his body shuddering as he dragged in a ragged breath. His chest heaved, but his gaze, when it found Oscar's, was searing. "Is that all you've got?" He said, his voice wrecked, raw as an open wound. A twisted, bloody smile touched his swollen lips. "I thought you were angry, Osc."
The mockery. The absolute, infuriating defiance was back.
It was a spark on gasoline.
A raw, ugly laugh tore from Oscar's throat. "You want more?" He didn't wait for an answer. His other hand left the wall and clamped hard around Lando's jaw, fingers digging into the hinges, forcing his mouth back open. "Fine. You'll take what I give you, Lando."
Oscar drove back in, deeper this time, a brutal, unyielding thrust that stole the air from both of them. He fucked into the wet, tight heat with a new, frantic rhythm, all pretense of control shattering. He was animal, he was vengeance, he was the embodiment of every bitter, jealous thought he had ever swallowed.
"See?" Oscar panted, his words fracturing with the force of his movements. "You're so perfect like this. On your knees. For me."
And Lando took it. His body shook with the force of it, but he took it all, his gaze locked on Oscar's with a dizzying, terrifying clarity. He wasn't defeated. He was participating in his own destruction, and in that, Lando was somehow winning too.
It was hatred. It was toxicity. It was the only thing that had ever felt entirely, perfectly real between them at that very moment.
The transition from the raw, private violence of the hotel room to the glittering, public stage of the yacht was absolute. By the time Oscar and Lando arrived, the party was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of salt, expensive perfume, and champagne.
Oscar was a portrait of something refined, encased in an impeccably tailored suit. The fine wool and silk were a shield, hiding the animal tension that still thrummed beneath his skin. He moved with a calm grace, accepting a glass of champagne with a nod, his expression a mask of cool, professional satisfaction.
Beside him, Lando was a masterpiece of restoration. His infamous curls were perfectly styled, every strand in its place. His suit was another brand new. The media smile was firmly affixed, a brilliant, practiced curve of his lips as he greeted some of the people there. But it was a fragile facade. If anyone had cared to look past the shine of his smile and into his eyes, they would have seen a lingering, glassy sheen. And his lips—they were the true tell. Slightly swollen, a faint, vulnerable redness at the corners that no amount of cool composure could fully erase.
Good. Oscar thought, the memory a dark, private thrum in his blood. A brand, visible only to him.
"Hey! Glad to see both of you here! Good job, boys!" Zak's voice cut through the din, slurred and overly loud. He swayed slightly, glass in hand, already deep into his celebrations.
Lando showed the full force of his camera-ready smile on Zak. "Thanks! So happy for the team!" He said. Then, his gaze slid to Oscar, the smile tightening at the edges, transforming into something sharper, more intimate, and infinitely more challenging. "Couldn't have done it without our Oscar right here. Our World Championship leader!"
The words were a compliment only in form, but the tone sliced differently. There was no warmth, no genuine praise—just the thoughts of someone who knew exactly how to make it sting without leaving a mark visible to anyone else. And in Lando's eyes, Oscar saw it: a flicker of that same goddamn, indestructible mischief. Even after being physically wrecked, after being reduced to a sobbing, choking mess on his knees, the arrogance hadn't been extinguished. It had merely been sharpened into a needle meant to prick Oscar's composure. The sight of it sent a jolt of pure, undiluted rage through Oscar's system. His fingers twitched with the visceral, shocking impulse to wrap them around Lando's throat right there, to squeeze until that defiant glint was replaced with the blank, oxygen-starved truth of who held the real power.
He forced the impulse down, locking it behind his own smile—a tight, strained thing that felt more like a baring of teeth.
"Right. Of course." Oscar's voice was a study in forced neutrality. He let the pause hang for a beat, long enough to be uncomfortable, his eyes holding Lando's in a silent battle. Then, he delivered the counter-strike, his tone dripping with a false, sweet warmth that was more insulting than any outright hostility. "We couldn't have done it without you too, Lando."
Oscar's words hung between them, sweet poison wrapped in civility. He watched Lando's smile falter, just for a fraction, before it steadied again, sharper than ever—as if the brief crack in his armor had only made him more dangerous. It was as if every flicker of Lando's eyes were daring Oscar to try again.
If Oscar wanted, he could strip that perfection bare again. And Lando knew it. He always did. Oscar would actually do it.
They stepped closer to the rail, the night air sharp against their faces, the lights trembling on the water below. Oscar let the party noise wash away—the laughter, the clinking glasses, the easy congratulations in the background.
Oscar tightened his grip on the glass, then lifted it to his lips. Sipping it for a moment. He kept his face calm because composure was the blade he trusted most.
"You are a fucking cunt, Norris." He said, each word deliberately quiet, like a blow delivered with a whisper.
Lando only laughed at his side, the sound rough and rasped—probably due to the fact Oscar had just fucked his mouth not too long ago. "And you're a fucking sore loser, Piastri." He said. "I heard you wanted the position back. You really are ridiculous."
"Must be nice, huh? Being the team's priority," Oscar shot back.
Lando shrugged, effortless. "Now you're just saying shit. If I were truly the priority, I wouldn't have to deal with team orders either. Also, if I were truly the team's priority, in 2024 the team should've focused more on me, yeah? Is that what you're trying to say?"
Lando's words scraped under Oscar's skin and lit something that wasn't reasonable—an animal ignition that heated his chest until he could feel the pulse at his throat. He watched the way Lando sipped his own drink, the little confident tilt of his chin, and the way Oscar wanted to strangle him right there and then.
Lando's voice was steady, the rasp cutting through the night air like a dull blade. "I did my job. I did what I had to do to get ahead—to try to win. You probably didn't even expect I would make that bold move, yeah? Here's the thing, Oscar. This is racing. Don't ever underestimate anyone."
Oscar's jaw tightened until it ached. "I'm not underestimating you." Never. You're my fucking rival. Don't ever say something so distasteful.
"Never said you do," Lando replied, eyes glinting with that infuriating confidence. "I'm just saying—everyone's got the same hunger. Remember me and Max? We had that stupid conflict in qualifying—he got bitter he couldn't get pole, and it blew up. It was ridiculous that he blamed me, but as you know, Oscar. Don't always expect everything to go your way."
Oscar's chest tightened. Lando wasn't wrong. But the acknowledgment didn't soothe him—it sharpened the edge in his mind. Oscar could feel it coiling inside him, a cold, calculated pulse beneath the heat of his anger.
The pulse in his temples throbbed, a sharp counterpoint to the slow, deliberate calm he tried to maintain. Lando's grin was infuriating—too confident, too effortless, too aware of the effect he had on him.
"You really do know how to get under my skin, don't you?" Oscar said, voice low, controlled but edged with the heat he couldn't entirely mask.
Lando tilted his head, his laugh sounded mocking. "Deep down, you know I'm right." He said, voice teasing, almost clinical in its effect. "And maybe you can't just admit it. Today's race? I was better than you."
Oscar's chest tightened further. "Better? Didn't you admit you made contact with Max? And people thought you made contact with me too, apparently."
Lando's grin widened, sharper now, a slash of confidence and something darker. "I still got what I wanted though, didn't I? A podium." His eyes glinted under the lights, challenging, unrepentant.
Oscar's fingers tightened around his glass, feeling the chill bite into his skin, and he forced himself to breathe evenly. He could taste the metallic tang of frustration, the pulse of raw irritation and unwilling admiration for Lando's audacity. Every word, every smirk—it all filed away like marks on a ledger.
Oscar let the words hang, the tension thrumming between them. The impulse to hit, to shove, to force that smugness into something ugly—but he didn't give in. Not now.
Oscar already had a plan.
The moment they step back in their hotel later, Oscar is going to really fuck Lando up.
Oscar really wanted to kill Lando.
Lando Norris—this moment, this chaos, this utter surrender beneath him. Oscar's chest burned, his grip tight on Lando's hips, feeling every tremor, every involuntary arch, every sharp inhale. Lando had always been bright, always cheerful, sometimes just out of reach—but now, face to face, eyes locking, trembling and taut with tension, he let himself be entirely Oscar's again.
Every motion, every jerk, every gasp stoked the storm coiling in Oscar's mind. He could feel Lando's body yielding, giving over willingly to him, every shiver, every arch a deliberate invitation. It was perfect. Lando's surrender wasn't resistance—it was permission, and it made the control, the domination, feel sharper, more absolute. Lando was obviously doing this on purpose. He let it all happen, letting himself be torn apart so prettily that Oscar's hunger only intensified.
"Look at you. So fucking ruined already." Oscar spoke almost mockingly as he thrusted harder, drinking in the sight of Lando trembling beneath him, buckling and gasping, letting himself fall apart under Oscar's weight. Every quiver, every ragged breath, every tremor of pleasure and surrender was a proof—proof that Lando was entirely his here. Oscar's mind coiled darker, sharper. He could take everything, claim everything, leave Lando undone and breathless.
Oscar's chest burned, his movements relentless, each thrusts brutal. He felt the tension in Lando's muscles, the way he arched and pressed closer, and it only made him want to push harder, rougher, deeper, until every last inch of Lando's control was stripped away.
And yet, even in the middle of surrender, Lando's grin flashed. A crooked, infuriating smile, sharp and smug, despite the tears running down his cheeks. "Look at you, always trying to be in control." Lando rasped. "How fucking cute, Osc."
Oscar froze for a heartbeat, drinking in the arrogance. Fucking brat. He wanted to break it, erase it, make that smile disappear—the sweet little defiance made Oscar hungrier. He let himself sink into it instead, letting every motion, every rolls of thrusts become sharper, more consuming. It was a thrill of watching Lando offer himself up and still dare Oscar to push harder. Still being a damn brat.
You're fucking mine. Oscar thought, chest burning, heart hammering. Mine, and you're still laughing. Still trying to get under my skin. His rhythm became even more punishing, fucking into Lando. Oscar could feel Lando's body tremble beneath him, giving, shaking, opening. Oscar wanted to consume it, imprint himself into Lando completely, leave him trembling and undone in the prettiest, cruelest way imaginable.
He pressed harder, moved faster, chest flush against Lando's, driving his hips in a punishing rhythm. Lando moaned, laughed, hissed—every sound a dagger of pleasure, of torment, of invitation—and Oscar wanted all of it. He wanted Lando broken, consumed, to see if Oscar could truly control him. And the truth was, he could. He had, he would, again and again, until every smug line, every tear, every flash of that grin fell away so prettily.
Oscar's hand shot up, tangling in Lando's curls, yanking his head as he slammed his mouth down against Lando's. Hard. Brutal. No softness, no hesitation—just sharp teeth, lips crushing, demanding. Lando gasped, a sound torn between shock and the raw, undeniable pull of pleasure. Oscar drank it in, every ragged inhale, every tiny tremor igniting the storm coiling tighter in his chest.
"So fucking tight for me." Oscar hissed against Lando's lips, teeth grazing, pressing him closer, closer, until every inch of Lando was pressed against him. Each motion was sharp, punishing, consuming—like he was marking Lando, staking claim in a way that was rough, permanent, inescapable.
Oscar's eyes drank in every detail of Lando beneath him. His curls sticking to sweat-slicked skin. His pretty eyes, usually so sweet and bright, were teary and dark at the edges, glimmering with raw need. It made Oscar's chest tighten, coil, a dark satisfaction bubbling inside him.
It wasn't enough just to take; Oscar needed to see it, feel it, taste the way Lando fell apart underneath him. That was where the thrill sat, in the proof of it—in knowing he could draw this out of Lando again and again, and Lando would give it to him, again and again.
"Oscar, you feel so—fuck—" Lando rolled a moan, voice cracked.
"Shut up, Lando." Oscar snarled, the words half-breath, half-command, as he pushed his cock harder, deeper, holding Lando down with his weight.
Lando gave a broken, breathless laugh at that, the corners of his mouth lifting in a crooked grin even as his face was already a mess by the tears running down his cheeks. It sent a jolt through Oscar's chest, it made him want to take more—to be even crueler.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He dove in, teeth sinking hard into Lando's neck. Lando's loud, ragged moan tore through the room, a sound that fed Oscar like nothing else. Every pulse, every tiny jerk beneath him, every quiver of muscle pressed against him—it was intoxicating.
His fingers tangled in Lando's curls again, tilting his head just right, biting again, harder, deeper. He felt the tremors running through Lando's body, the way his hips twitched into him almost of their own accord, and it made Oscar pulled out his cock before thrusted in one slam, again.
Every gasp, every broken sound was a mark of possession, a proof of the dark, consuming power Oscar wielded in this moment.
Lando was falling apart for him—and Oscar was drinking it in, lost in the twisted satisfaction of seeing Lando ruined so perfectly, so willingly.
In the morning light, the room always told the same story: one of them gone, the other left with the aftertaste.
Oscar stared at the cold hollow where Lando had laid down, he let out a short, humorless laugh. Of course. Of course Lando would vanish on his own terms. It had always been like this—an intoxicating, dangerous rhythm they both kept stepping into. Today was Lando, the next time might be Oscar. Neither of them wanted to end it.
There was a dark kernel inside Oscar that tightened at the thought of loss—not a plan of harm, but a raw, possessiveness. The idea of Lando actually leaving, breaking things up between them—it felt like a physical blow, like the world trimming itself down to a single, unbearable absence. Oscar imagined himself unravelling, emptied. That thought made his gut go cold. It was ridiculous and honest: losing Lando would kill something inside Oscar more thoroughly than any violence could.
So he let himself smile instead, a small, dangerous thing. They would always come back to each other anyway, they would roll back into the same chaotic orbit. This was their routine.
Oscar laughed again, this time out loud, a dry, ugly sound that cracked through the quiet room. He felt so fucking ridiculous. All of it—the rituals, the fights, the nights that left him wanting to ruin Lando more than anything else—and still he couldn't stop. He would really rather kill them both than to let this end. Even when Lando pissed him off until his hands shook, even when Lando was the reason for his anger, even when they were poison in each other's veins—Oscar needed it. Needed him. Needed Lando. It was the only thing that made sense.
Now, Oscar was on his bed all alone, staring at the ceiling, the sheets cooling around him. His thoughts drifted back to the race. Did it even matter anymore? Whether he was one step below Lando or above him?
Someone between them would always get pissed anyway. It was all the same shit. Same loop. Same fight. Same burn. And they were both too far gone to stop.
Oscar reached over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand, thumb flicking across the screen automatically. A new message waited for him.
Lando: see you in the next race!
Oscar stared at it for a beat, lips twitching with something between a smile and a snarl.
Oscar: See you, mate.
His thumb hovered over the send button before he pressed it.
As always, they went on with their lives. The track would pull them back together soon enough. The hotel room would be warm again soon enough. And Oscar, staring at the glowing screen in his empty room, felt that dark, twisting thing settle in his chest like a promise.
He would never let this end.