Chapter Text
Lando’s always liked Oscar. Since he was the cute little rookie, quietly smart and secretly funny, right up to now – the sexy, confident world championship leader – Lando’s wanted him. The problem is, and always has been, Logan. Oscar’s boyfriend.
He’s still around, just not in the same places anymore. Different series, different schedule. Half a world apart most weeks. Which means Oscar and Logan don’t see each other much. Not like they used to.
And maybe that’s why it happened.
After Shanghai, Oscar and Lando went out. Celebrated. Too much, considering neither of them really drink. Then came the mistake. Just a tiny one. A kiss that lasted a few seconds, but stayed in Lando’s mind for weeks.
They didn’t talk about it.
Then Suzuka happened.
Oscar showed up at his hotel room, one thing led to another and that night, they made more than just a tiny mistake. Lando didn’t, doesn’t, question it. How could he, while wanting Oscar so much? And Oscar wanting him so much in return. Enough to lie, to cheat, to keep coming back. Every race weekend since.
It isn’t just about sex. Between nights and early mornings, between flights and press and all the noise, they’ve gotten closer in every way. Lando knows the small things now: the way Oscar hums under his breath when he’s tired, the glint in his eye when he’s hiding a smile, the tight press of his lips when he’s trying not to cry. Lando knows how those lips taste, how they feel against his own, how Oscar’s body feels in and around him. He knows what it’s like to fall asleep and wake up with him right there, skin to skin, breath to breath.
All the way to Budapest, everything is golden. On track, off track. Lando can’t shake the feeling that this is all inevitable now. Like all of this, Oscar and him and the way they drift to each other, was always supposed to happen. There’s a rhythm to it that feels written into the universe like stars or gravity or fate.
Lando lets himself believe it. Believe that this is more than sneaking around. It isn’t just an accident or a mistake. The curve of Oscar’s smile when their eyes meet, the weight of his hand resting heavy and sure on Lando’s waist, the praises he whispers in Lando’s ear – those things mean something. Maybe even love.
They fall asleep without space between them, bare like there’s nothing to hide from. And when they wake, it’s just as natural. Oscar’s hair is a mess, Lando laughs as he smooths it down with one lazy hand. They stretch into each other, stumble half asleep to the sink, brushing their teeth shoulder to shoulder. Lando’s chest aches with how much he wants it to stay this way. Domestic. Ordinary. Perfect. He wants it to be real.
He asks, just casually, “Where’s Logan racing this weekend?”
“Somewhere in America. Like always.” Oscar’s voice is even, but there’s a flicker of confusion across his face. “But you know that. Why are you asking?”
Their eyes meet in the mirror and Lando suddenly feels shy. He looks away first, but he can still feel Oscar’s eyes on him.
“Just wondering, Osc.” Lando shrugs. “You never talk about him is all.”
“I don’t want to talk about him with you,” Oscar says defensively.
It isn’t harsh or cruel, but stings anyway. Lando tries to pretend it doesn’t, tries to keep the peace.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Okay.”
Lando forces a little smile and drops it. But it doesn’t feel dropped. Oscar doesn’t seem to move past it. Doesn’t soften again. The tension sits heavy on his shoulders through the morning and the race and everything after. By the time they’re back in Monaco, he’s gone all the way quiet, withdrawn like he never let Lando in at all.
At first, he tells himself it’s fine, that the silence he’s receiving could be normal. They aren’t anything, not officially. Not yet. Maybe this is how it looks while they’re taking things slow. Summer break could be good: time, space, proof that this is strong enough to survive the gap. They hadn’t made plans together, or discussed each other’s plans at all really, and Oscar’s probably busy.
A week passes before Lando starts sending little things. A tiktok he thinks Oscar would laugh at. A picture of some snack he’s trying. A selfie while playing a video game. Casual. Meaningless. He tries to convince himself it doesn’t matter when he receives no reply. Another week and he sends more, thumb hovering longer before pressing send: a blurry photo from a run, a random saw this and thought of you. He can’t stop, even as each bid for attention is swallowed into nothing .
By the end of the third week, every buzz of his phone makes his chest tighten, only to break when it’s never Oscar’s name. His thoughts circle back to that last morning together, the question about Logan, the sharp edge in Oscar’s voice. Maybe he pushed too far. That has to be it.
He stares at his screen until he can’t take it anymore. Fingers trembling, he types out a long apology, words spilling about how much he misses Oscar. He knows he must look pathetic, needy, but he sends it anyway. And because words don’t feel like enough, he attaches a photo of himself too. In his yellow Piastri shirt and nothing else, thighs spread wide, angled just so. It’s shameless, desperate, but it’s all he has left to offer if Oscar won’t answer anything else.
It takes an hour. An eternity of staring at his screen, hating himself for what he’s done, tempted to throw his phone across the room. Then the notification lights up.
Come over ?
Lando’s whole body jolts with relief. Excitement floods through him so fast he doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t care about the wait, or the silence before it. He’s already moving, already out the door like he might lose the chance if he doesn’t go now.
Oscar’s already at the door when Lando arrives, like he’s been standing there waiting. He pulls Lando in before he can even say hi, arms around his shoulders, mouth pressed to his like he’s been starving. It knocks the breath right out of him and nothing else matters. Lando’s heart flips, hands fisting in Oscar’s shirt, holding on.
They don’t talk. They don’t need to.
It’s clumsy, urgent. Lando’s shoes are kicked off somewhere, both their clothes are peeled off in the hall. Oscar tugs him through the apartment like he can’t get him into the bedroom fast enough.
Lando tells himself it’s eagerness. Oscar missed him just as badly. It isn’t only about this, hands and mouths and the heat between them. The way Oscar pulls him closer, holds him down, pushes in too soon – it’s wanting. Oscar really wanting him.
Oscar groans into his ear, “You feel so good.” It’s raw, heavy with need, and Lando swallows it down like proof. Like love. He doesn’t stop to think about it being the only thing Oscar’s said since he arrived.
They don’t leave the bed for hours.
Oscar gets up first, calls Lando’s name from the bathroom. Lando follows the sound obediently, goes to see Oscar’s already under the shower. He tilts his head, gestures Lando in with a grin.
Lando joins; their shoulders brushing, hips bumping, steam wrapping around them until the world feels small and sealed off. Lando reaches for the shelf, eyeing the two different bottles of shampoo. Curious, harmless, he pops the cap on each, sniffing one and then the other.
Before he can choose, Oscar plucks the second bottle from his hand and sets it aside. “Not that one,” he says, firm but quiet.
Lando blinks up at him. “Why not?”
Oscar’s eyes soften, lips tugging into something that could almost pass for tender. “Because I want you to smell like me.”
The words sing in Lando’s chest. Heat rushes to his cheeks, though the shower is already hot enough. He bites down on a grin, but it still slips through. Oscar kisses Lando’s small smile and Lando doesn’t question it. Doesn’t think about who the other shampoo smells like or what it means that it’s there.
Oscar kindly washes his hair for him, slicking shampoo through Lando’s curls with steady fingers. Lando lets him, eyes closed, leaning into the touch. It feels like a massage, like being cared for. Being claimed. Oscar’s nails scrape lightly over his scalp and a shiver runs down his spine, though he tries to play it off.
Oscar snorts, amused, and without warning he fists his hand in Lando’s hair, tugging his head back under the spray. Lando sputters a bit, but goes easily, water streaking down his face.
“Good boy,” Oscar teases.
It shouldn’t make Lando’s stomach twist the way it does. But it does. Heat coils in him, dizzying, and he laughs to cover it, swatting blindly at Oscar’s arm.
Oscar’s mouth brushes his ear. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” His laugh rumbles against Lando’s skin before it softens into a kiss at his neck. “However I want, whenever I want.”
Lando nods against the grip, breath catching. The bite that follows, sharp on his shoulder, makes him gasp. It hurts, but he doesn’t mind. The water beats hot against his skin, and that’s fine too. All he feels are sure hands, an insistent mouth, and desperate movements demanding more. He takes it as proof of wanting, of needing.
“Say it,” Oscar murmurs against damp skin.
“Yours,” Lando breathes instantly.
Oscar captures his mouth in a deep kiss, wet and heavy, like the word binds them together. And it does. God, it does. To Lando, it means everything.
Oscar’s touch shifts from careful to hungry, and Lando goes pliant, heart racing. Because this, this, is what he’s been waiting for. To be claimed by Oscar.
He lets himself be spun, pressed hard into the tile. Oscar’s grip digs into his hip, firm enough that Lando knows there’ll be a mark later, holding him exactly where he wants him. Fingers tangle in his curls, tugging his head back hard enough that Lando winces but he gives. And gives and gives. Because he can’t imagine doing anything else. Because Oscar has always been the thing he wanted most, long before this.
Lando’s still stretched, but not enough for it to feel good when Oscar thrusts into him without more prep. Still, Oscar doesn’t slow. It isn’t roughness, not really. Just Oscar losing track of himself, blinded by love, too caught up to notice. And Lando lets it happen, thrilled by being wanted this badly.
The intimacy of it makes him certain this isn’t just sex. Certain that here, now, Oscar is choosing him. Loving him in the only way he knows how to, even if he won’t say it.
When they’re both breathless, holding each other up against the tile, Oscar rests his forehead on Lando’s shoulder. His hand is still firm like he doesn’t want to let go yet. Like they’ve built something here under the water.
Eventually, Oscar straightens, shuts off the tap, and reaches for a towel without a word. He rubs at Lando’s hair first, quick and careless, then sets it over his shoulders. Lando wraps it tighter around himself, muttering that he’s cold.
“Let’s get some clothes on you then,” Oscar says, guiding him back into the bedroom.
He searches around in his closet for a moment, then pulls out a hoodie. A Piastri hoodie. He tosses it over and Lando pulls it on. He drowns in the fabric, feeling branded, feeling owned.
“You look good in my clothes,” Oscar smirks. “That picture you sent me? Fucking perfect.”
Lando blushes at the memory. “Don’t expect any more like that.”
Oscar laughs, low. “Don’t need any more when I’ve got the real thing.” He fists the front of the hoodie and yanks Lando in, unbothered, possessive. “You’ll stay the night, won’t you?” he asks between kisses.
Lando nods instantly. He wears the hoodie to sleep, convinced it means something bigger. That maybe Oscar wants the whole world to see him this way, even if he never says it out loud.
Oscar’s on his phone when Lando wakes, thumbs flying across the screen. Sunlight spills into the room and Lando props himself up on one elbow to look at him.
“Good morning,” he says softly.
“Morning,” Oscar hums back without looking.
Lando continues watching him anyway, admiring his fluffy hair and freckles. He thinks he’ll never get tired of seeing Oscar like this. Unguarded, up close, and his. But then his gaze drifts past him, to the nightstand, to something he missed in the heat of yesterday. It’s nothing dramatic, just a photo. Oscar and Logan. Arms looped around each other. Smiling into some bright summer sun.
It hurts somewhere deep in Lando’s bones, his throat is tight with a lump he can’t seem to swallow down.
Oscar finally looks up, follows his gaze. Without a word, he sets his phone aside, reaches over, and flips the frame face down. For a moment, he studies Lando’s expression like he’s trying to measure the damage, waiting for a crack to show.
Lando forces a small smile, a silent gratitude for the consideration.
“Come here,” Oscar says, tugging him across his lap. He pulls Lando down, kisses him slow and certain, sealing the moment shut.
It means more that Lando’s the one here now. That picture doesn’t matter, it’s in the past. This kiss is proof enough of the future.
Then Oscar’s phone buzzes. He pulls away without hesitation, already typing before the kiss has cooled on Lando’s lips. Lando waits, patient, trying not to feel the sting, trying not to notice the pinch in his chest while Oscar’s attention narrows to the screen.
When Oscar finally looks up again, he smiles like nothing happened. Lando, helpless, smiles back. And just like that, everything is fine again. They move through the morning like two people sharing a life, space, and themselves.
Later, afternoon heat seeps through the blinds, a controller passes lazily between them on the couch.
Oscar stretches, then hooks a hand behind Lando’s knees and pulls his legs across his lap like second nature.
“Comfy?” he asks, grinning.
“Yeah,” Lando breathes, though he feels something much deeper than comfort.
He pretends to focus on the game, but really he’s watching Oscar’s profile. The slope of his nose, the faint crease at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. Lando groans when he loses a round, like it isn’t his fault for not paying attention. Oscar clears the level with ease, smug, before passing the controller back.
Lando takes it, determined, but Oscar’s thumb is rubbing absent circles into his shin, slow and unthinking. The touch drifts upward, along his knee, tickling enough to make Lando twitch. Oscar huffs in quiet amusement, not looking away from the TV.
Then Oscar’s fingertips trail a little higher, between Lando’s thighs, beneath the hem of his shorts. He murmurs casually, “Love how soft your skin is.”
Fireworks go off in Lando’s mind. He knows it isn’t I love you, but it feels close. Maybe Oscar can’t say he loves Lando outright, but he loves things about him. And isn’t that the same thing?
Lando’s chest aches so hard he fumbles the controller, his character dying instantly, the screen flashing defeat.
“You’re so unfair,” he accuses even as he can’t keep the smile from pulling at his lips.
Oscar pinches the inside of his thigh in answer, quick and sharp. Lando yelps, batting at his hand, “Hey!” He reaches to pinch Oscar back, but Oscar catches his wrist easily, laughing.
It devolves quickly into a back and forth. Lando twisting, reaching, Oscar batting his hands away, both of them laughing. Lando moves, trying to get on his lap to get the upper hand, but Oscar moves faster, stronger. Suddenly Lando tips backward, off the couch, spilling onto the rug with a thud.
“Cheater,” Lando huffs between laughter, kicking out weakly. Oscar just grins and slots himself between Lando’s legs.
He dips his head, going in for a kiss, but Lando turns his face away at the last second in resistance, still giggling, still trying to get a pinch in. Oscar growls in amusement and catches both his wrists, pinning them overhead against the floor.
“Brat,” Oscar says, eyes glinting.
Lando rolls his eyes, but his heart jumps. It feels affectionate, like a secret. Something only Oscar calls him, something only Oscar sees. And Lando’s thrilled at the banter.
Oscar stills, gaze sweeping over him, his eyes darkening as he wets his lips. “Be good for me, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lando breathes without hesitation, the smile slipping into something softer. Because it’s Oscar asking, and Lando would do anything for him.
He lets Oscar tear away his clothes with the eagerness of a kid tearing into presents on Christmas morning. Lando doesn’t protest, just laughs breathlessly, willing as always.
Oscar’s mouth follows close behind his hands, teeth scraping, biting at his throat, his shoulder, his nipples. Marks bloom fast and dark, scattered like constellations across his chest, each one sharp enough to sting but slow enough to linger.
The carpet burns at his back when Oscar fucks into him, rough and unrelenting, but Lando doesn’t care. Not when he gets to look up into Oscar’s face, flushed and determined, every line of him straining with want. It feels primal, instinctive, the way Oscar holds him down, takes what he wants like it’s his by right. And Lando feels it too. Feels pulled by the same wild current, every nerve alight with the need to comply, to be pliant, to be easy to love. He tells himself that’s what this is: love. Twisted through their bodies, written in skin and heat and low moans.
Sweat drips down on him, heavy and hot and Lando treasures it. Treasures the roughness, the weight, the single-minded hunger. Because if Oscar gives it all to him – his strength, his effort, his want – then maybe he’s giving his heart too.
Oscar collapses against him satisfied, heaving, his weight pressing Lando into the rug. Lando basks in every breath, every beat of Oscar’s heart reverberating through him. He runs his hand through Oscar’s damp hair, fingers gentle, glowing in the aftermath.
But Oscar’s hands don’t roam the same way, not like they did before. They rest heavy and still on Lando’s skin until his breathing evens out. Then he pushes himself upright, stretching like he’s shaking off the moment.
“I’m starving,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s go pick something up.”
Lando laughs, trying not to sound too giddy. It isn’t a date really. But it’s going out together. In public. Not hiding.
Even though Oscar doesn’t kiss him, doesn’t take his hand, doesn’t even step close enough for their shoulders to brush, they walk together. Side by side. So Lando pretends the space between them doesn’t matter. He has something rare, something so special it doesn’t need to be seen to be real. Let the world pass by without noticing them; Lando knows the truth.
At the bistro, Oscar orders without asking, rattling off for both of them before Lando can open his mouth. Lando blinks, surprised.
“How’d you know what I wanted?”
“You’re predictable,” Oscar answers with a shrug.
Lando’s smile falters, just a little, stung by how careless it sounds. But Oscar catches it immediately, leaning in, with a grin. “It’s not a bad thing, Lan. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”
And just like that, the sting is gone, replaced by the dizzying rush of being known, of being seen exactly as he is, and appreciated for it.
When the food finally comes and they head back to the apartment, Oscar spends the whole walk on his phone. Barely looking up, barely answering when Lando speaks. But once they’re inside, he tosses the phone aside and spreads the food before them on the coffee table. He sits close enough that their knees knock together on the couch.
Oscar steals a fry without asking, and Lando swats at his hand, laughing when Oscar just smirks and takes another. It’s stupid, small, and domestic. Lando wants to live in it forever. Oscar steals the last one and Lando opens his mouth in protest, but Oscar’s there before the complaint, shoving the fry between his lips instead. Lando takes it, cheeks burning, convinced this is what love looks like when no one else is watching.
It gets late, the TV playing with neither of them really watching. Lando’s sprawled across Oscar, draped in his lap, head tipped against his shoulder. He could stay like this forever, content in the weight of Oscar’s arm circling his waist, in the absent way his fingers trace shapes against his hip.
Then Oscar tugs at his shirt. “Off,” he commands.
Lando obeys without thinking, rewarded when Oscar strips his own off too. They shift, tangled together, until they’re lying down. Lando tucks himself closer, cheek pressed into Oscar’s shoulder, inhaling the warm scent of him, something that smells like home.
Without warning, Oscar picks up his phone and angles the camera toward them. Lando immediately curls in tighter, hiding his face against Oscar’s shoulder.
“Let me get a picture,” Oscar says, nudging him with his phone.
“Thought you didn’t need any more pictures,” Lando teases, though inside he’s buzzing. The idea of Oscar wanting a photo of them like this feels monumental. Evidence. Of what they are together.
“Well, not while you’re here,” Oscar replies easily. “But you have to go home eventually.”
The words punch the air out of Lando’s lungs, shattering his fragile illusion, until Oscar adds quickly, firmly, “Not tonight. You’re staying with me again tonight. Just… eventually.”
The reassurance settles him. He looks at the screen as it lights up, their reflection staring back: shirtless, pressed so close it should be obvious to anyone who sees it. Lando’s heart kicks hard. If this got out, if someone else saw – if Logan saw – there’d be no denying it. No hiding, no pretending they were just teammates or friends. Anyone would know.
He beams at the camera, radiant, waiting for the click. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Oscar nudges him again, “Want your chest in it.”
Lando blinks, nervous. Shy. He’s only sent Oscar the one – not even really – nude picture, because Oscar had been ignoring him. This feels different. Now he’s marked up, overexposed in ways the camera won’t soften.
“Roll over,” Oscar says, sharper now. When Lando hesitates, Oscar doesn’t wait any longer. He shifts Lando easily, manhandling him into the frame.
Lando stares at the screen, at the version of himself caught there, barely recognizing the flushed cheeks and dark marks scattered across his chest. For a moment it feels like looking at a stranger. But he forces a smile, convinces himself it’s fine. If it’s what Oscar wants, then it means something.
Oscar finds an angle that pleases him, free hand tweaking Lando’s nipples to full attention. “There we go,” he murmurs low, “Show me those pretty tits. You look so fucking sexy like this.”
The words scrape, sharp against the tender moments before all this. Oscar just doesn’t know how else to say I want you without being vulgar. Still, a prickle of discomfort curls in him as Oscar shifts his thumb across his skin, adjusting him like a prop until the photos look just right. Lando swallows it down. Because even if it feels careless, it’s him Oscar wants like this. Only him. No one else is here, no one else can give Oscar this.
“Perfect,” Oscar grins at the screen, satisfied.
He tosses the phone aside, already leaning down, mouth rough against Lando’s. Oscar kisses him like it’s the only thing that matters, urgent and heavy, stealing the breath from his lungs. Lando melts instantly, body open, dizzy with how easy it feels to be wanted like this.
But Oscar’s rough in unnecessary ways. He flips Lando face down into the couch cushions, the fabric muffling his breath, pressing him down firmly even though Lando hadn’t tried to move away. Fingers clamp hard around his forearm, twisting it behind his back until it stings, holding him there like he might fight.
“Be good,” Oscar growls, the words hot against his ear.
It’s confusing because Lando thought he was being good, hadn’t said no, hadn’t done anything but let him. He wants to ask why he’s being so cruel, wants to remind Oscar he’s giving him everything, but the words feel like they’d be resistance so they don’t come.
Oscar doesn’t ease up. His weight bears down, grip unrelenting, fucking him like he needs submission even when Lando’s already given iin. His body jolts under each shove and thrust and still he doesn’t resist. He couldn’t, even if he tried.
It’s rough and raw and too much, but it’s only because Oscar wants him too much. Because he can’t help himself around Lando. It means something deeper. Need and love, hidden in the only language Oscar knows how to speak.
So Lando takes it all: the sting, the suffocating press, the ache in his arms. And through the confusion, through the raw edge of it, he clings to the thought that this is Oscar choosing him. That the roughness isn’t cruelty, but proof that he’s wanted past reason.
When they finally collapse into stillness, Lando curls into Oscar’s side. His chest aches with something too big for words, something he doesn’t dare say aloud. Oscar’s hand holds his hip, resting as though it belongs there.
“God, you’re perfect,” Oscar murmurs, voice heavy with sleep. His thumb drags idly across Lando’s skin, slow, almost tender.
Lando hasn’t done anything but yield, but the words settle into him like gospel. His face burns, his chest swells, because Oscar thinks he’s perfect.
Oscar shifts, tucking him closer, pressing a soft kiss into Lando’s forehead. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters, but it’s affectionate, almost indulgent. His hand roams once more, lighter now, soothing instead of demanding, tracing lazy patterns along his back until he falls asleep.
Lando lies awake long after, listening to the steady rhythm of Oscar’s breathing, pressing his face into the curve of his collarbone. He tells himself this is what love feels like.
When he shifts slightly, Oscar stirs just enough to tug him back, firm but unthinking. “Stay,” he breathes, hand pressing flat between Lando’s shoulder blades. Then, softer still, “Keep me warm.”
It’s nothing more than a statement, but Lando hears the meaning. I need you. He holds onto it long after Oscar has slipped into sleep again. He stays very still, barely breathing, afraid to ruin it.
Lando wakes to the sharp jolt of Oscar lurching off the couch. The sudden movement nearly knocks him onto the floor, and he yelps, bleary and startled.
“Shh,” Oscar snaps, phone already in hand as it buzzes insistently. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t look back, just strides toward the other room.
Lando blinks after him, the ringing in his ears drowned out by the soft click of the door shutting. Just before it closes, he hears Oscar’s voice, lighter, warmer than it’s ever been with him. “Hey, baby.”
The silence after is deafening. Lando stares at the empty space where Oscar had been, at the dent in the cushions still warm from his body. His chest aches, his throat tight. But he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He’s still the one here. He’s still the one Oscar will come back to.
When Oscar steps back in, phone gone, he acts casual as if nothing happened. Lando is still frowning, unable to smooth it out fast enough.
“You’re cute when you pout,” Oscar teases.
Lando doesn’t respond, jaw tight. Oscar sighs and tosses a pillow at him. It bounces off his chest, but Lando just turns away and curls inward. He pulls his knees to his chest like it might be enough to keep away the tears.
“Don’t be angry,” Oscar sighs, settling behind him on the couch. His hand finds Lando’s shoulder. “I don’t get to see him much. I have to talk to him when I can.”
It’s reasonable. Of course it’s reasonable. Lando knows it is. But reason doesn’t stop the heat from rising in his throat, the bitter taste pressing against the back of his teeth.
Oscar exhales, voice gentler now. “You and me – we get to be here. With each other. I don’t get that with him.”
Something in Lando loosens at that. The sting dulls, the ache softens. He gets to be with Oscar in all the ways that matter. Oscar always comes back to him. And Lando’s the one here now. It almost feels like winning.
Oscar’s hand moves slow across his back, kneading at knots until Lando’s breath evens. He doesn’t ask for anything in return, doesn’t press for more. Just touches him like he means to soothe, and Lando melts under it.
The day passes like the last, lazy and contained: takeout boxes, TV humming in the background, the outside world forgotten. But Oscar keeps weaving softness through it, drawing Lando closer. His arm slung lazily over the back of the couch so Lando can lean into him. His thumb brushing absent circles at his wrist. The way he laughs when Lando makes a stupid joke. Oscar teases him, little things. None of it sharp, none of it cruel. Just easy, normal, theirs.
It doesn’t take long before the morning feels far away. He lets himself believe it was nothing. Oscar’s here with him, and softer now. Because he wants to be. His gentleness smooths over the sting, filling it with something sweeter. Lando finds himself leaning more, seeking out the touches, basking in them. He feels small and safe, not because Oscar demands it, but because Oscar allows it.
“Hey,” Oscar says quietly. His fingers trace a line along Lando’s arm. “Can you suck me off?”
It’s not sharp, not a command. It’s a question. Gentle. And that’s what undoes Lando.
“Yeah,” he breathes quickly.
“Good,” Oscar says simply and it’s all the praise Lando needs.
He sits up instantly, obediently. He’d give anything Oscar asked, anything at all, and the fact that Oscar asked, chose to ask instead of take, makes him feel wanted in a way that’s different, softer.
Oscar’s hand lingers at the back of his neck, steady, guiding him to his knees on the floor between Oscar’s. His heart races as he takes Oscar into his mouth, anticipation and devotion knotted so tightly he can’t tell them apart.
Then – there’s a flicker of light, a shift in Oscar’s grip. Lando pauses, breath catching when he sees the phone angled down toward him.
He pulls back, lips parted. “What are you doing?”
Oscar’s tone is smooth, unbothered. “Taking a video. Don’t want to forget this.”
For a moment, Lando freezes, nerves prickling along his skin. But the words sink in, wrap around him. Oscar doesn’t want to forget this. Oscar wants to remember him. To keep him. To hold onto this moment forever. It means he’s worth keeping.
So he pushes forward again despite himself, more eager than before, desperate to make it count. Every movement a little sharper, a little showier. He tilts his head just so, swirls his tongue around the head, sucks down fiercely, hollowing his cheeks. All the little things that might make Oscar proud.
He exhales a laugh above, low and pleased, the kind that says he knows exactly what Lando’s doing. His free hand cards through Lando’s hair. “So good, Lan,” he murmurs. “Feels amazing.”
Lando redoubles his efforts, desperate for another word, another sound, another shred of proof that he’s enough.
Oscar gives it freely, leaning back, phone steady in his hand. “Such a good boy…” he drawls. “Eyes up. Your eyes are so pretty down there.”
Lando obeys instantly, tilting his chin, locking his gaze upward even as his eyes prickle from the effort. He doesn’t dare blink. Not when Oscar’s watching him so closely.
“You’re perfect like this. You know that, don’t you?”
And Lando wants to be. Perfect. Unforgettable. Everything Oscar could ever want. As Oscar hums another pleased noise, phone still angled down, Lando convinces himself he is.
His jaw aches and he shifts slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but Oscar’s hand tightens in his hair, holding him in place.
“Don’t stop,” Oscar mutters, bobbing Lando’s head for him. “Yeah... just like that.”
Lando’s mouth works, his tongue twisting with each drag of control he doesn’t have. He tries to take Oscar deeper, wanting to make it as good as he can. He gags with the effort, eyes stinging, he blinks then squeezes them shut.
Oscar’s tone sharpens. “Look into the camera, Lando.”
And that makes his chest collapse inward. Because he doesn’t want to look at the phone. The phone is what Oscar uses to talk to Logan, to text him mid-movie. To ignore Lando when he misbehaves. He doesn’t want to look at it. He wants Oscar. His eyes, his focus, his love. But Lando obeys in hopes of earning all those things. He stares into the lens, eyes wide, even as tears spill down his cheeks. His vision blurs, but he doesn’t dare close them.
“Pretty crier,” Oscar says, careless. Then, amused: “Such a cry baby. Why don’t I give you something to cry about?”
Then Oscar thrusts into his mouth, hard, like he’s only something to be used. For a heartbeat, Lando can’t twist it into love. Can’t convince himself it’s intimacy. His resolve falters, just slightly, a crack splitting through the safety.
But Oscar’s pace is unrelenting, quickening until Lando can barely breathe. “That’s it… take it. Take it,” he pants, fucking into Lando’s throat over and over. “Now swallow. All of it.”
And there isn’t really a choice with Oscar holding him in place. His throat works automatic, swallowing down the bitter taste. When the grip on his hair is released, Lando jerks back, coughing shallowly for air. For a second he thinks it’s over. That the moment is finally done. But Oscar catches his jaw, fingers digging in, forcing his mouth open again, tilting it toward the lens. Inspecting him. Making sure he’s done what he was told.
“Good boy,” Oscar says absently, like he’s commenting on the shot instead of the person in it. “Perfect little slut.”
Lando sits frozen, throat raw, jaw aching. The words land heavy, confusing, bruising. Oscar has called him perfect again, but he’s also thrown out an insult as if it’s the same thing, as if it doesn’t matter.
Oscar smirks down at the screen, satisfied, before tossing it aside. He tucks himself away, then reaches for Lando, expecting him to come easily. But Lando moves away from his hand in a spark of defiance, even as he aches for closeness.
For a moment, Oscar just stares, expression unreadable. Then his shoulders ease, his hand softening as it brushes along Lando’s arm. His tone softer, “What’s wrong?”
Everything is wrong. His chest is hollow, his body still trembles, but all that spills out is a broken stutter, “You… you called me a slut.”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Oscar huffs.
Then something cracks open, Lando covers his face with both hands and before he can stop it, a sob shudders out of him. It takes too long for Oscar to move, but eventually he drops down beside him, arms wrapping loosely around his shoulders. Lando collapses into the safety of it anyway, sobs muffled in the crook of his neck.
“M’sorry, I just got carried away,” he murmurs against Lando’s hair. “You get me too worked up.”
Lando doesn’t stop crying as Oscar rocks him gently, a hand running down his back and up to his head. He shushes Lando softly, massaging where the hair pulling left him aching. The tenderness cuts deeper than the roughness ever could, and Lando clings tighter.
“That was just so fucking hot, Lan,” Oscar breathes, brushing his lips against his temple. “Logan would never let me do something like that.”
Lando stills, his attention sharpening through the haze. He pulls back slightly, eyes searching Oscar’s face, trying to see if he means it. “Just me?” he whispers.
Oscar nods, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “Yeah. Just you. And me. Just for us.”
Lando clings to the idea that this, whatever it is, is something he alone is trusted with. Something that belongs to him – them. He leans in, tentative, pressing a shaky kiss to Oscar’s lips. He braces himself for rejection or for Oscar to wrinkle his nose in disgust, but he doesn’t.
His mouth opens under Lando’s, kissing him deeper, hungrier, like the taste doesn’t matter at all. Like there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Relief floods through Lando and he pours himself into the kiss.
Oscar shifts, pulling back only to climb onto the couch again and Lando follows instinctively, desperate to stay close.
“Take your clothes off,” Oscar tells him.
Lando blinks. “What?”
“Just wanna make you feel better,” Oscar says evenly.
Lando hesitates, uncertainty prickling. Oscar just looks at him expectantly. Waiting. So Lando peels his clothes away slowly, piece by piece. When he’s bare and shivering under the weight of Oscar’s gaze, he realizes Oscar hasn’t moved. Not a button undone, not a layer removed, still fully dressed. It makes his chest twist, but when Oscar reaches out, Lando goes easily. Guided into straddling his lap.
He isn’t really turned on. Completely soft. After the video and the crying and everything, his body already feels drained. But it’s nothing Oscar can’t fix.
“Don’t you want this? Don’t you want me?” he murmurs.
And Lando does. He always does, always has. So he relaxes, lets Oscar coax his cock to full length. Oscar strokes him slow, his kisses slower, and it’s easier this way. Easier when his hands are softer, touch lighter. Easier still when Lando’s the one above, looking down, and Oscar’s eyes meet his, dark with intent.
Oscar studies his face as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, eyes tracking every twitch, every shiver, every tiny shift in Lando’s expression. Each stroke or twist of wrist brings a new flicker across his features, and Oscar watches closely. Because he cares enough to notice, to know him, to understand what he needs.
In that gaze, Lando convinces himself it’s not just need or hunger or control, but something deeper, something shared. He gasps, just a soft sound slipping out. The helpless noise of being overwhelmed by being seen. Wanted. Chosen.
“Osc,” he whines.
The other seems to understand the weight of it. The way Lando breathes his name like a prayer, the tremor in his voice. He doesn’t smirk or tease.
“Oh, Lan,” he sighs softly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with him.
Lando’s eyes go wet, but he refuses to break open again. Instead, he shuts them tight, clinging to every happy memory he and Oscar share. He can’t stop himself from moaning when Oscar attaches to his neck in open-mouthed kisses.
He works his way to Lando’s ear and whispers, “Need you to cum for me.”
And Lando does. Because Oscar wants him to. Because Oscar needs him to. Because Oscar loves him enough, in his own way, to make Lando feel better when he’s been upset.
After they’re showered and fed, they lay down in bed. Takeout boxes are still stacked on the nightstand from the place Lando picked out; a movie, also Lando’s choice, plays on the TV. Lando’s wrapped head to toe in Oscar, wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of his sweatpants. Oscar’s head is pressed against his chest and the rest of him is covered by Oscar’s limbs. Lando twirls a strand of his hair between his fingers.
Out of nowhere, Oscar tilts his face up, eyes catching Lando’s in the glow of the screen. “Don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says.
Lando huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes, trying to brush off the way his chest tightens.
“I’m serious,” Oscar says. “No one gets me like you do.”
Lando stills, breath caught in his throat. His fingers pause in Oscar’s hair, afraid to move, afraid to break the moment. Then Oscar turns back to the movie like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just set Lando’s whole world spinning. Eventually, his breathing evens out and they fall asleep like that.
Morning light spills across the room and Lando stirs. He shifts closer and notices Oscar’s phone already in his hand. Curiosity tugs him forward before he can stop himself, leaning in just enough to catch the name at the top and his stomach twists.
Logan. Of course.
Oscar notices immediately, sighs, already bracing.
But Lando doesn’t pout. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t argue. Because he gets Oscar like no one else. He tilts his head and says lightly, almost teasing, “Have you watched our video?”
Oscar blinks at him, caught off guard, and then his mouth curves into a slow smile. “Yeah.”
“How was it?” he asks, trying to keep his tone casual.
Oscar bites his lip. “How do you think it was?” he asks, taking Lando’s hand and shoving it down his pants. He wraps it around his already hardened cock and Lando can feel it throbbing in his palm.
He swallows, heart racing. “Can I watch it?”
Oscar chuckles, “Yes.” He pulls it up without hesitation, puts it in Lando’s hand. “Here.”
Lando hesitates before pressing play. The screen lights up with him, and immediately a pit opens in his stomach. His curls are a mess and he can see the way his eyes flicker nervously at the start, distracted, not yet bent into (and out of) shape.
He doesn’t turn the sound on. He doesn’t need to, he remembers every sound, every word, every shiver that rattled through him. They’re etched into him too deep to forget.
Oscar leans in, lips brushing Lando’s neck, soft at first, then hungrier. His hands slip beneath Lando’s clothes, warm against his skin. The contrast in Oscar's grounding touch and the hollowing video makes him dizzy. Lando gasps, caught between the two: the press of Oscar’s mouth and the quiet horror of watching his own mouth swallow Oscar on the screen.
Then it buzzes, a banner slides down across the top of the screen. Logan’s name. Oscar doesn’t move to answer, too distracted, so Lando keeps watching, eyes wide. It buzzes again and Oscar pulls back, the instinct to reach for it written all over him.
Panic flares. Lando clutches the phone in his hand tighter, desperate. “Watch it with me, Osc.” His voice trembles but comes out steady enough.
Oscar groans, rocking up against Lando’s hip. Then he sighs, grabs the phone from Lando, and with two taps flicks it to Do Not Disturb. Lando bites his lip, grinnig with the thought that he’s won. That in this moment, Oscar chose him over Logan. In this moment, he matters more.
Oscar props the phone up against a pillow and flips Lando over to face it, crawling behind him, settling heavy on top as the video starts again.
Lando tries to keep the moments separate, the one he watches and the one he’s living now. The video is only memory, something already endured, while this – Oscar’s mouth on his neck, his wet fingers opening him up – is real. Better.
But the longer the video plays, the harder it is to tell the moments apart. The tug of his hair in the past becomes the tug on his skin now; the pressure on his head then becomes the pressure of Oscar working him open too eagerly now.
On the pillow, his reflection shudders, eyes wet and wide. Behind him, Oscar pulls off his pants, quick and careless. Every shift of Oscar’s body behind him matches what’s on the screen: the sudden roughness, that tightening grip, Oscar’s voice low and ragged and full of want. Every sound he remembers echoes against every noise in the present, blending together until there’s no line between them.
“So fucking tight…” Oscar groans, pushing his cock in suddenly even as Lando cries out at the harshness. “Be good, Lan,” he growls impatiently. “Let me in.”
He forces himself deeper and deeper, over and over again. The person on the screen below them looks close to breaking. Lando feels the same heat gathering in his own eyes, throat thick, breath catching. He can’t tell which is hurting him more, the memory of his stretched jaw or this present stretch, both around Oscar’s cock spearing into him like he isn’t a person at all.
Then and now, the confusion and pain, the hunger and want, it all tangles tight around him until the moments collapse into each other. Until he doesn’t know if he’s watching the hurt or just living it.
He wants to look away from the screen but can’t, not with Oscar holding him in place just like he did before. He hadn’t wanted this, not really. He only needed to pull Oscar back to him, to distract him, but Oscar doesn’t see it that way.
“God. You love this, don’t you? Fucking slut,” Oscar says, even though he knows how it left Lando crying before. His hand fists in Lando’s hair, pulling his head just so. “Look at you. Anything for me. Mine.”
Lando whines half in protest, half pleading. He wants to agree; he wants the word to stitch the hole in his chest closed. But his body hasn’t caught up yet. There’s a lag, a dissonance between what his heart wants and what he feels. Oscar revels in his sounds, not pausing to worry whether they’re in pleasure or pain. Obedience is the point.
“Say it, Lando. Say you’re mine.”
He wants it so badly he lets himself surrender. “Yours,” he answers, soft and immediate, because Oscar wants it to be true, too. Wants the claim, wants the proof.
“Louder,” he orders.
And Lando dissolves into the demand, the need, the idea that he could actually be Oscar’s. “Yours!” he shouts.
“Fuck yeah. Made for me. My slut, aren’t you?”
Lando chokes, but agrees anyway, “Yes, Osc. Yours. ” Because even if it hurts, even if the lines between love and wanting are jagged and unclear, he can’t bring himself to deny the one thing he’s wanted more than anything: to be Oscar’s.