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Chapter Text

Lando shook his arms out and lined up with the tee, took another glance at where he was aiming and was about to swing when Zak spoke up.

“How would you feel about having an alpha for a teammate?”

He froze like that, with his spine aligned, hips squared, and eyes on the ball, club held with just the right amount of grip to send his shot sailing as soon as he struck it. Lando stood up to his full height and backed out of it. He’d really felt like that was going to be good too.

“I’m pretty sure Max is like married to Red Bull,” Lando replied, lifting a brow.

Zak chortled good-naturedly and nodded. “Max has made it clear that he’s comfortable where he’s at. No, I’m talking about a different driver we’ve been watching for a while. Oscar Piastri.”

Piastri… didn’t sound familiar, but that meant very little; Lando was absolute shit with names. In all honestly, he probably did know who he was. Not like there were many alphas it could be. He thought back over the lineups in F2 or F3, any notable news he could recall. Didn’t Sargent drive with an alpha teammate in the lower level? Yeah, that must be it. He’d even seen the guy a couple times in the paddock, just in passing, they’d never officially met. Lando couldn’t put a face to him, just had a fuzzy human shape to go from.

“He’s a reserve for Alpine, yeah?”

“Exactly, yes. Lando, we like what we’ve seen. Honestly, he’s my first choice to fill Daniel’s slot. The only thing we don’t know is how you two would get along.”

Lando fiddled with his club and lined back up for the shot he’d already carefully scoped out. He took a moment to breathe, sync his exhale with the inevitable swing. “An alpha, hm?” he asked. “Is he a Verstappen type or more like Vettel?” It’s not a very nice thing to ask, Lando knows alphas can be as different as anyone, but there are stereotypes for a reason. And alphas are so few and far between that he doesn’t have much to pull from as examples. Does the answer even really matter, he wonders. Him and Max have been friends for years, it’s not like his alphaness has ever made Lando uncomfortable. He’d take being teammates with Max if the stars aligned, so he figures he could pretty much pair up with anyone.

“Disposition is closer to Vettel. He’s mature for his age, quiet,” Zak reported.

Lando swung then and the ball soared through the air cleanly before neatly landing onto the green. It was one of his better shots of the year, actually, and he smiled when Zak whistled.

“Well, it really only matters how he drives. Alpha or not, doesn’t make any difference to me,” Lando said. The press would have a lot to say, probably push a bunch of omega dynamics bullshit. It’d be Lando’s turn to be the more experienced driver in a pair. And they’d be the second ever pair of alpha and omega teammates after Vettel and Leclerc.

Zak clapped his hands together and then rubbed them in a way reminiscent of a greedy banker or something, Lando didn’t fucking know, but it was a little much for an afternoon round of golf. Apparently, he’d been the last hurdle to Zak’s epic planning.

“That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say, kid.”

Lando crossed his left leg in front of himself and leaned against his golf club, eyeing his team principal warily.

“Ahuh, maybe uh, don’t do this,” Lando gestured to Zak’s entire body, “when you offer him a contract.”

“What, too much?”

Chapter Text

After giving Zak his tacit approval, Lando searches up Piastri eventually. Like, he forgets at least three times, but he does get there. And what he actually looks at is the guy’s racing record, just to get a feel for what he’s going into. Racing-wise, Oscar is about as accomplished as it’s possible to be at his age and level. So on paper, and apparently on track, he ticks all the boxes one could theoretically want in a driver. Makes sense, it’s not like McLaren would go after a second driver that wasn’t promising.

When he mentions it to Max while they’re gaming, offhandedly and days later, the expression he gets in response makes him frown and throw his hands up. “What’s that look for, then?”

“Mate, tell me you’re joking. I literally raced with him.”

Lando scrunches up his face and thinks back.

Max shakes his head in disbelief. “You have a problem, mate. One category, one year behind you.” His oldest friend holds up an index finger for emphasis.

“You know I don’t look back,” he replies and he’s being cheeky and sarcastic all in one. Bonus points.

“Oh, never,” Max quips with a snort. It’s nice to have friends that get him.

There’s a break in conversation as the game steals both their attentions, but during the next loading screen, Lando circles back around. “So, Piastri…what’s he like?”

“On track?”

“Any of it, I guess, what’s his—I dunno, does he have a vibe?” he asks.

“He’s a nice bloke, smart too. He’s fucking brilliant in the car,” Max offers.

Lando rolls his eyes, “yes, I know he can drive, is there anything else?” What had Zak said when he described him? Oh, right; mature for his age and quiet. Sounded like a right bore, truthfully.

“…I’m pretty sure he had a thing with Logan Sargent?”

Well, now that is interesting. He sits up straighter and leans toward his computer screen. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I mean, I can’t be one hundred percent positive or anything, but there were a couple rumors and I—look you can’t tell him I said any of this, okay?”

“Obviously, mate. C’mon, stop teasing and say it.”

“It’s probably fucking, y’know, nothing, just one time I saw them and they were—”

“Shagging?”

Max makes a face that has him laughing. “Yeah, because that makes sense. No, mate, they were, I don’t know it was like a hug, but it just seemed more intimate than that. I don’t know, they kind of just had this dynamic, maybe a designation type thing.”

“A hug,” Lando deadpans. “Wow, I think I’ll alert the media now. See if I ever hug you again since according to you that’s basically hardcore porn.”

“Right. I’m kicking you out of the lobby,” Max says, navigating on his own setup.

Lando squawks and almost falls out of his chair trying to reach the keyboard. “Sonofabi—”

They get derailed at that point and the subject is abandoned. It’s not until several days pass that the thought crops up: what did he mean by ‘designation type thing?’ But even that he dismisses after less than a minute, like Max said, probably just stupid rumors that amount to nothing. He doesn’t think about it again for a very long time.

***

No one expects the seat swap drama that evolves throughout the summer and follows into the fall and Lando watches all of it from his comfortable position within the team. August brings…a lot of back and forth. The way the Australian handles all that messy Alpine business is cold as hell, he has to admit.

Any time Lando has contact with Zak about the contract updates throughout the later half of the summer he picks up on a distinctly frazzled energy that says ‘I can fix it!’ rather than ‘everything is under control.’ So, while he technically has a new teammate, it doesn’t get confirmed in a legal way until the beginning of September.

After all the drama and extra time to settle things above board, actually meeting in person is, uh, fine? Yeah, it’s fine.

He’s tall, is the first thought that flashes through his brain when he lays eyes on Oscar Piastri. It shouldn’t be a surprise, most men are taller than Lando, but all the same he finds his eyes catching on the width of Oscar’s shoulders, the couple inches that separate them.

He’s also, as a first impression, very eh. Not in like a bad way, just neutral.

“So you’re my new Aussie?” are the words that come out of his mouth. Zak laughs like it’s hilarious, but his press officer shakes her head in exasperation and looks into the distance of the MTC with a level of disassociation that seems concerning for the off-season. And here he thought they were supposed to be positive this go around; manifesting and all that, but maybe that’s just the restlessness talking for him. He doesn’t do well sitting still. Lando figures the faster this guy gets adjusted to how he is, the better. Monitoring everything that comes out of his mouth is not his strong suit.

“Uh, yes, that would be me. I guess.”

It’s a weirdly polite and confused response all in one. Lando tilts his head. Curious. Is this guy always so proper?

“I’m Lando,” he says, because two can play at being polite.

“Yeah,” Oscar flashes a too quick smile and nods, “I know. We’ve met, uh, a little.”

Boy, he’s zipped up real tight. Nervous. That, Lando can relate to and it warms him a bit more to the other driver. He remembers feeling all of that. Lando can work with nervous. “In passing, yeah. This is a bit more official—congratulations by the way.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest and rocks side to side while he talks.

“Thank you,” is the sincere response he gets and there’s a genuine smile that comes as a package deal, replacing the stilted one for a moment.

Lando grins at the sight. Yeah, he remembers all of that too. Ah, beginnings.

It ends up being pretty nice, but it’s still about as blah as you can get as far as first meetings go. He lets Zak carry most of the conversation, but there really isn’t much to discuss. Everything is brand new to Oscar, so the most Lando can offer are anecdotes, but he doesn’t have a gauge for which ones he’d find interesting. He supposes they’ll have all of winter break to feel each other out, a kind of quiet period where most of their time will be spent at the MTC, going back and forth in the sim.

They’ll find their way. After all, Lando’s been in Oscar’s shoes before, he gets it.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Oscar is nothing like any of the teammates Lando has ever had; he’s soft spoken, younger than Lando, and his personality isn’t particularly playful as far as he can tell. He shows up to early 6:30 a.m. start times with his hair a mess and what’s worse is he doesn’t even care. It’s not a character trait that Lando can relate to at all. Lando catches him leaning back in chairs and running fingers through the warm brown strands to try and get them out of the way, just for pieces to inevitably fall back forward as soon as he lets go. There’s this one bit that does a kind of swooping thing over his forehead, but it’s not, like, an actual curl? What’s even more infuriating is that it could have the decency to look worse for such little effort.

Daniel was always a giggly, bubbly personality to have around, his broad smile made it difficult to not smile too. All of that positivity had been a nice transition after Carlos left. Carlos…yeah. There isn’t really anyone like Carlos. Lando mostly tries to not think back on that time too much. He’d been so young back then that it’s not really worth bringing up for comparison anyway.

The point is, while Oscar may be Australian and a Formula One driver, that is about all the commonality Lando can pinpoint between him and the teammates that came previously. Which means everything is new for Lando too.

They film a couple videos for the team YouTube channel, just quizzes and little games, but Max wasn’t kidding when he said Oscar was smart. Lando didn’t realize he meant book smart. He’s pretty sure the social media team created the games with Oscar in mind, something to ease him in and make him feel more comfortable because they know well enough by now how crap he is with these kinds of things. Lando struggles just to read sentences in the right order and not have the letters or words fucking jumping around. A lot of people correct him when he gets things wrong, and Oscar does too, but he does it different. The Aussie has this tendency to quietly offer a correction, or sometimes say just enough to help him piece together what he’s missing. And he watches Lando. Not like how Carlos used to watch him, which was almost always with a smirking mouth and dark, coaxing eyes. Oscar’s gaze is a steady thing that follows him, but there’s no expectation or judgement. It’s like he’s looking just to look, looking with a quiet curiosity. Lando often finds himself playing more to the camera or checking in with the team members behind the viewfinder rather than meeting Oscar’s eyes and he’s not sure why. Maybe because he has no idea what the other driver sees.

Lando plays at a lot of his confidence, he’s gotten pretty good at pretending, but it’s still effort. All of that staring that Oscar’s doing…has he figured that out yet? Did he know it before he even rolled up to the MTC? It occurs to him that having a younger teammate is kind of rife with anxieties. Oscar’s had plenty of opportunities to watch him and know him and arrive with preconceived opinions while Lando knows next to nothing at all about him in return. Worrying about what people think of him; that’s another Lando specialty. Is he living up to expectations? Or maybe Oscar finds him lacking. Yeah, his brain isn’t a great place to be sometimes.

He doesn’t think about the whole alpha thing at first. Maybe that should be something that sets Oscar apart, but if that is the case it hasn’t come up yet. The time he spends around Oscar is working time, they’re in a professional setting which means everyone has blockers on; there’s no scent to trip him up or draw attention to designations. That protocol is something he’d felt relieved about when he joined McLaren, how seriously they take blocker usage and keeping environments comfortable for everyone—the lower categories were messier in that sense and overwhelming. A lot of people are totally fine with a multitude of scents overlapping and filling a room, but it tends to make Lando feel a bit unmoored. Like he just doesn’t know what’s what when they’re competing for his attention and flooding his system with input. McLaren taking that element off the table so to speak is a relief he sinks into on the daily.

When he gets the question and he gets it all the time, Lando tells the truth; it’s a nonissue. Neither of their designations have a bearing on how they drive and he’s focused on the coming season. He doesn’t mention that the car is virtually unchanged from the previous year, that he’s not expecting much as far as results. All they care about is asking if having an alpha for a teammate is intimidating. If he were a beta, he wouldn’t get these stupid questions. He’d get other stupid questions, for sure, just not those ones.

After one such interview, Oscar even awkwardly tries to apologize to him.

“Sorry, uh, about the label questions all the time,” the other driver offers as they make their way back into the halls, leaving the camera crew behind. They have a meeting to make in the next ten minutes if they want to stick to the ramped up schedule. It only gets more hectic the closer the season gets.

“Why? You’re not the one doing it,” Lando says with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Checo gets the same questions about Max.”

“Right, I mean, he gets some of the same questions sure, but he’s a beta. It’s different,” Oscar replies.

The casual way the other driver throws out the comment rankles. Lando’s step stutters and his face does something that definitely isn’t nice. “Different.”

“I didn’t mean—I just meant that I’m pretty sure they don’t ask Checo not so subtly about his heat schedule since y’ know, he doesn’t have one.”

Lando jerks to a halt and his eyes widen, “Mate, what the fuck.” Heat spreads high up his cheeks; god, he hates how red he can go.

Oscar comes to a slower stop and looks perfectly composed. Like he didn’t just bring up fucking heat schedules. “Am I supposed to pretend that’s not what they’re doing? Every time they ask if you’re prepared and adjusting to your new teammate…if there’s parts of the race calendar you’re worried will be harder.”

His lips part and all he can think is, how have I never put that together? It seems obvious when Oscar says it like that, putting emphasis on the right words. He gets endless questions and yeah, there’s usually some sort of motivation or sound bite they’re looking for, but he always thought those specific questions were just about—here’s a wild concept—racing. The omega one’s are typically pretty heavy handed. Or so he thought.

Oscar’s expression shifts with a realization, his eyes moving over Lando and doing that staring thing he’s seemingly so fond of. He tilts his head to the side and says, “that’s not a new thing since I got here, is it? They always talk to you like that.”

Too fucking smart, he thinks in a panic. Lando sticks his tongue into his cheek and gives a short nod. Who is this guy? Lando doesn't know what to do with him, that’s for sure. “Let’s, uh, we should get going; we’re gonna be late.” He backs up and then whirls on his heel to walk away.

“Lando, whoa,” he hears Oscar follow behind, but no way in hell is he going to look over his shoulder. The Aussie tries once to get him to talk, but Lando ignores him. The conference room their meeting is in already has team members waiting which means he can successfully avoid him there too. He tries to pretend he can’t feel him watching.

Chapter Text

It’s very obvious when his teammate eases off and gives him space for the rest of the day and that annoys him even while he’s grateful for it because it’s not about Oscar, is it? What he’s really pissed about is the interview. He feels ridiculous that he didn’t clock those questions on his own. More than that, he really really doesn’t like the presumption that he’s going to be triggered into an early heat just by being around Oscar. He’s mandated by the FIA to be on suppressants in alignment with the racing schedule and his heats are carefully planned to hit during the breaks. That’s in the fucking rule book. And they’re not shitty suppressants like so many omegas have to get; McLaren shells out a lot of money to give him the real, top-line brand stuff that has a practically nonexistent margin of failure. Not to mention whatever suppressants Oscar is also on to cover off his ruts.

They’re basically double protected from even the chance of setting each other off and Lando’s not convinced that’s possible in the first place. What could be so different about an alpha that it would change how his heats are merely by proximity? Bunch of traditional designation politics at work if you ask him.

He puts the moment behind him and Oscar follows his lead; they don’t talk about it.

***

Things only get weirder the next time they’re filming content for socials. It’s meant to be a bit of a health type video, nutrition and all that and the team unwisely provides them with a blender plus a plethora of fruits, seeds, yogurts, etc. There’s also a recipe card for them to follow because they do want some guardrails on this. Well, probably just on Lando really.

Oscar picks up the card, skims down the list of ingredients and then frowns. “Is this the only one?” he asks, looking up at one of their team members. Lando watches the Aussie survey the table like there could be other cards hiding somewhere.

“Uh, yes? Why, what’s wrong?” is the confused reply.

“This has citrus in it,” Oscar says in a tone that makes it clear everyone should know why that’s not acceptable.

“Wait, really?” Lando asks, leaning over to look for himself and it's true, the recipe calls for half an orange to start. There’s no chance of him drinking that while he’s taking his meds; it throws them off and can impact their effectiveness. Which sucks because he actually really enjoys those little baby oranges. One highlight of his heats is the allowance to have all the citrus and juice he could want, the pocket-sized oranges are great snacks for when he’s essentially bedridden.

There’s an awkward pause where it becomes apparent the guy doesn’t get it. “Lando can’t have citrus.” He’s never heard Oscar annoyed, but this might be close to it.

“He…can’t?” This dude, Lando thinks with exasperation. Clearly this beta snoozed his way through his PSHE lessons. He doesn’t know his name, but can recall he’s fairly new to his role, started not long before Oscar joined the team.

Luckily, Hannah’s overheard enough by then and steps in. “No, he can’t. He’s on suppressants,” she says matter-of-factly. “Thanks for the catch, Oscar. Sorry, Lando. We’ll get a new recipe printed. The oranges and lemons were just meant to be decorative. We’ll fix this and film in ten minutes, okay?”

Lando nods in acknowledgment and shoots one last look to the dude who rightfully appears quite red and embarrassed. When he turns to Oscar he sees him folding up the recipe card and ditching it in the bin under the table.

“Thought you couldn’t have citrus either?” he wonders.

The Aussie shakes his head, “I’m not on suppressants.”

“What? Seriously?”

Oscar tucks his hands in his pockets and he’s right back to looking like he’s never had a worry in his life. “I’m allergic to all the MHRA approved ones,” he explains with a shrug. “And the insurance company didn’t like the look of any of the experimental ones enough to sign off on them.”

That’s super fucking shitty. “Well, damn,” Lando replies, corners of his mouth turning down. “What does that mean for the season?” Why didn’t anyone mention this before? It seems like relevant information for Lando to have that his teammate might go into an unscheduled rut and potentially miss a race weekend.

“Uhh, not much. Instead of suppressants, I take inducers periodically.”

“You’re joking,” is the automatic and rude response that bursts out of him.

Both of Oscar’s eyebrows arch up his forehead. “No, not joking.”

In a rare moment of awareness for the amount of mics around them, Lando lowers his voice. “Isn’t that like super painful?”

The collective of what he knows about alphas can pretty much be traced back to Max because the Dutch driver happens to be one and they’ve been friends for a long time. He remembers Max being put on inducers for a time when they were quite young and how much the other driver fucking hated it. Back then, people made a shit ton of noise about alphas and how unstable they were, how likely a rut would turn them violent and Max was making his way through the lower categories with an almost—to other people—alarming intensity, all his focus on win after win.

Inducers force a rut, no matter where an alpha is in their hormone cycle. The whole point of the medication is to induce ruts more frequently and over time it’s supposed to weaken the symptoms—weaken all of those characteristics people are so terrified of. At the time, some pushes from the right higher ups who fucking despised alpha’s put in new regulations and suddenly Max had to take them if he wanted to keep competing. The results were pretty horrific. Lando remembers seeing the other driver become more and more worn down with time and at a certain point his scent was always saturated with pain. Max still dominated through the races, despite all of it, but Lando would see him shaking at the end.

He asked one time what it felt like and Max had huffed and shaken his head before saying, “it feels like it’s trying to rip the designation right out of me. Think about having your heat start right in the middle and stopping before it’s supposed to end naturally. You’re never fulfilled, never finishing the cycle properly.”

For Max, the inducers did a shit job of curbing his aggression—if anything they only fueled his fury. When Red Bull took a serious interest in Max, they pulled enough strings to get him off the medication as soon as possible. At least they recognized how much the meds were holding Max back.

To think of Oscar being required to do anything like that is baffling, allergic reaction to suppressants notwithstanding. Shouldn’t there be a better option? Haven’t they developed anything new, any other alternative, in the last decade?

For whatever reason, he’s not prepared for Oscar to look back at him with those impassive brown eyes and say, “pretty small price for a drive,” like it’s nothing more than simple maths.

What’s he meant to say in the face of that? Is that not exactly what Max did? Hell, they’ve all made sacrifices to race at this level; it’s the worst kept secret of the grid, the things they do to keep a seat and chase a podium or a future championship. So why does this one feel different? Why is his stomach wriggling around thinking about Oscar—quiet, polite Oscar—medically repressing his own designation just to assure everyone that he’s not a threat, that he’s not going to hurt anyone?

It was disturbing enough seeing Max go through it, but this feels worse somehow. Worse and so much more personal. How is Oscar even meant to push him as a teammate if they’re tying one hand behind his back? It’s so insulting. To both of them. So what…he’s going to watch Oscar steadily wane throughout the season and see him shake like a leaf when he gets out of the car because he’s pushing past the point of exhaustion?? Abruptly, Lando’s fucking livid. They can’t do this.

He’s vibrating with anger when Oscar touches him, gently putting a hand on his back and guiding him from the filming area. Lando doesn’t hear what Oscar’s saying to him at first, all he’s getting is the tone which is calm and instructive. He doesn’t usually like it when people touch him, but this is okay.

When he comes down enough to take in sound and visuals again, they’re standing in a quiet, tucked away corner out of sight. Oscar’s still talking in that reassuringly steady tone and he’s…going on about an F2 race? Oh, one of Lando’s F2 races. The opener for the season in Bahrain. His only win that year, actually. Jesus, Oscar’s dissecting his entire season.

“…and you had less experience than the rest of the grid. I know you even talked about wanting to stay in F3 another year, but of course you won that, so you had to move up. I mean, considering all the bad luck there was with the car, I thought it was—Lando?”

“Everyone thought I was overhyped that year,” he says absently, glancing around for the first time rather than staring into space.

“A lot of people probably shouldn’t talk about a sport they have no experience in,” Oscar says smoothly. “You weren’t overhyped, you were young.”

“Why are we talking about my time in F2?” Lando honestly can’t bridge the gap and why does Oscar have all of that information at the tip of his tongue?

“You needed something to calm you down,” the Australian says, shrugging one shoulder. “Races are familiar and it can be regulating to think back over them because you know how they play out already.” Oscar scans over his face carefully, “you feel better now?”

He does. It’s weird to go from being that overwhelmingly angry to…whatever this is. Lando’s more calm, definitely, but it feels looser than that. It’s almost floaty?

Oscar’s quite close to him, he realizes. Still touching his back too. Had he been petting his back while he talked? This whole time? The warm palm at the small of his back rubs in a circle and Lando wants to lean into it. His first impulse is to let himself get heavy on his left side until he falls into Oscar’s body and lets the other driver catch him. What is going on?

“I-yeah, I think so,” he mumbles. Should he be panicking? Lando feels like he can’t even reach the anger, it’s too far off and muddled. “What’s going on?” he finally gives voice to the thought that keeps repeating.

“You became pretty upset about something, so I walked us to a more private spot, we’re just around the corner from where we’re going to be filming, so not far at all. You’re okay,” Oscar tells him without having to pause and consider it. The way he says it has Lando believing him and those rising questions settle back down. Everything gets quieter. It’s nice.

“It was the inducers, right? That’s what upset you?” Oscar asks, genuinely checking in.

“Mm-hm.” A soft agreeing sound is the best he can muster.

“Can I ask why?”

Lando gives his teammate a judging glance. “Why wouldn’t it?”

A flicker of confusion is there in Oscar’s brow for a second before getting wiped away. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Max was on inducers; I just, I can’t believe they’d make you take them. They’re so painful and horrific. You shouldn’t have to—you’re supposed to be my teammate,” Lando says in a spike of frustration, talking over himself. “You’re supposed to push me, how can you do that when inducers will make you sick? Sure, you’ll be okay at first, but it will wear you down and then—”

“Lando, Lando wait,” Oscar cuts in, shaking his head, “they’re not making me take them. I’m the one that suggested it.”

That’s a surprise to say the least. His mouth falls open, “what? Why?”

“Suppressants don’t work for me and the med I’d typically use when I need to is not on the table for me anymore, so the next best thing seemed like the inducers because at least I can control when my rut starts,” he explains. “It’s not like when Max was on them; from what I’ve heard he was on a strict time table for taking them and it was, ah, well very aggressive is one way to put it. They’re not forcing me to take them all the time, it’s just to help set down guardrails and keep the timing in line with the season. It’s not going to be super comfortable, you’re right about that, but it’s nothing close to what Max went through. I promise, I’ll try my best to give you a proper fight.” Oscar’s lips curve upwards at that last bit and his eyes look brighter when he smiles.

Once again, Lando feels ridiculous. “They’re really not making you do it?” he checks.

“No, they’re not,” he reassures. “They didn’t love the idea either, but no one wants me to miss a race and since ruts can be kind of…random sometimes, I knew it needed to be something like this. I was prepared for it.”

“Was anyone ever going to tell me? I mean, what happens if the meds don’t work? Is there a backup?”

“There were a couple emails about it,” Oscar supplies. “You were cc’d.”

Well, shit. He hates emails more than most things; they’re probably sitting in his inbox unopened. If it doesn’t have a red label alerting him that it’s really really important then it likely never gets his attention. Lando winces and gives an acknowledging nod.

“There are contingencies in place.”

That sounds fucking serious. “Contingencies?”

For once, collected, composed Oscar Piastri takes on a shade that’s not pale but rather pink. “Pretty much, if it happens on short notice, there are people willing to help me through it.”

“You have a DTF list? Like on hand?” Color Lando shocked. He wouldn’t have taken Oscar for the type. Isn’t it always the quiet ones though?

“It’s a medical emergency contact list,” Oscar says, shifting on his feet.

“Ahuh. Right. One with a list of people you can fuck.” He’s never been good with filters.

“That’s a crass way of putting it, but yes, people I trust,” Oscar shoots back, voice lowered.

He’s not even sure why, but the response bites into him with too many teeth. “Does McLaren fly them out or something?” Wow, he’s really upset. Why?

Oscar’s eyes go dark and disapproving and that hurts way worse for some reason. “They’re not objects, Lando. You’re talking about real people.”

That burning sensation in his chest, coating his tongue and sliding sludge-like down his throat…that’s shame. When he tries to swallow, he can’t, his tongue gets caught at the roof of his mouth.

“Uhhh, Lando? Oscar? You guys—oh, you are back here! We’re ready for you now,” a man in a papaya shirt peeks around the corner and spots them.

“Yeah, we’re coming,” Oscar replies, his voice tense and Lando can’t seem to peel his eyes off the floor. He watches the other driver’s shoes instead. He’s still watching when they turn and walk away, leaving his disappointment behind for Lando to soak in.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

He tries really hard to act like he doesn’t care because the reality of how much he does care—about any of it; Oscar taking inducers voluntarily, the list he can’t stop thinking about, or the guilt over how he acted, take your pick—is kind of making him panic.

When he thinks about the tone his voice took on at the end, the childishness of it, ugh it’s not good. Lando lacks filters on a good day, but he knows when he’s upset there is a much more petty and mean version of himself that can make itself known. Oscar got a good demonstration of that. It’s humiliating. He’s supposed to be the older, more mature one between them, but instead it keeps feeling like it’s the other way round.

There’s no pretending any of that didn’t happen. He owes Oscar an apology, probably a few of them actually. It was never his intention to be hurtful, but his voice did get very, uh, judgey. The reality of a list like that existing is taking over his thoughts in the worst way. Who’s on it? Are they exes of Oscar’s? How many could he have? Are they all omegas? They don’t have to be, he’s pretty sure. Maybe he should ask Max—what the fuck is he saying? He should stop thinking about it entirely! What does it matter to him who Oscar sleeps with or who helps him through his cycles, whose body he delves into, rutting until his cock is spent and—fucking hell. Lando’s face burns with heat, interest curling over itself low in his belly. Oh, no, no, nonononono! What the fuck is that reaction??

The thoughts don’t stop there. They circle around and bring him new, horrifyingly horny details. If he thinks about Oscar utilizing his list, he starts picturing some omega making their way to the driver's hotel room, stripping down and presenting themselves on the bed while they wait for him to arrive. Just the anticipation would have slick dripping and you’d want to finger yourself open at that point, wouldn’t you? So Oscar could have a well stretched hole ready to welcome him. Lando chews the inside of his cheek and thinks about an obedient omega bending for Oscar, arching their hips high and offering up room inside themselves, maybe even begging for it. A whole list of options? Maybe there’s no shortage of people willing to be of use in that way. Are they ex girlfriends or boyfriends that keep coming back just for a really good shag? People worry about how aggressive alphas are, but this is Oscar, he has a hard time picturing the alpha that way, but maybe it’s a matter of letting loose. If Lando thinks about the desperation of his heats, the arousal and desire…ruts aren’t so different, right? Just, rather than wanting and needing to be fucked, Oscar would want to fuck. He’d want to get inside and then get even deeper, fuck some omega quite forcefully, yea? And that someone, that omega, would just have to take it wouldn’t they? They say that once an alpha starts it’s nigh impossible for them to stop—well, until they’re done, really. Until they knot. Lando swallows and it’s the worst kind of realization to find his mouth watering. He’s only ever read about knots, his late night searches through porn don’t count because all of that is exaggerated and rarely features an actual alpha, but he’s jerked off more times than he can count to those shitty videos of a fake knot getting shoved into some heat drenched omega whose legs shake when they come just from the intense stretch and they always moan like it’s the best feeling, like it’s a relief to be knotted. They hardly ever even seem to need to touch themselves to come like that. He remembers one particular video of a pretend alpha (probably actually a beta) getting his fake knot into the male omega he was taking from behind, finally pressing firmly enough for the toy to pop inside and the immediate way the omega’s untouched cock spurted come across the bed below, the sound of fresh slick wetting the way for the ‘alpha’ to fuck him harder. And then, while this omega was still coming the other guy had pushed him down to the bed, climbed more on top and bitten the back of his neck while rutting even deeper into that already used hole.

What must that be like for real though, he wonders. Is a rut the one time Oscar drops the calm, collected mindset and takes selfishly? How many omegas has he fucked that way? Not that it matters…but still Lando can’t seem to let it go. Is it a lot? How many times has he knotted someone? Oh god, does he have the list ranked by preference? Is the one at the top, like, the one that can take him the best? Does he have time or forethought to use a condom or is Oscar fucking these omegas bare, knotting and coming in them freely as many times as it takes for the rut the pass? He was just being a dick when he asked before, but does McLaren fly them out? Who are these omegas with preferential treatment, using his team's resources to get to Oscar?

It’s a furiously jealous curiosity eating at him. The questions seem to go on forever. Lando desperately needs the answers and simultaneously dreads what they might be. And then there’s Oscar getting so disappointed with him—maybe because the list does consist of past lovers or relationships, ‘people I trust’ is what he’d said, so perhaps even current ones and he reacted in an understandably protective way. That thought is so uncomfortable Lando slams his eyes shut and presses his palms against the delicate skin until blotches of light and dark appear and disappear.

He barely knows Oscar, so why is the prospect of him with other people so horrible?

By the end of the day, he’s a mess. He knows he fucked up, but the tumult of emotions wrecking him makes it feel like he’s already been punished and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. Every time he thinks about Oscar and some unknown omega, he reacts like it’s this great betrayal. Lando looked back through his emails and there is a digital paper trail about the inducers, the emergency contact list too, but that’s only mentioned; Lando doesn’t have access to it, just instructions on who to alert if Oscar is in need of help and can’t get it himself. That gives him nothing to go on.

He waffles and paces and can’t imagine carrying this sensation home. There’s no putting it off. Lando knows Oscar’s schedule enough, it usually mirrors his own, so he waits for him outside his last meeting scheduled that day. He’s going to apologize and then this horrendous feeling will ease once the Australian forgives him. As for the rest of those uncomfortable feelings…he’ll deal with shoving them into a mental box and forgetting they exist later.

Nevermind that Lando’s so jumpy, he flinches when the door suddenly clicks open and team members filter out, the other driver near the last to leave. When those discerning brown eyes catch sight of him there isn’t much reaction; Oscar’s mouth doesn’t move or turn down, he doesn’t look angry or upset, but he gives no indication that he’s pleased or relieved to see him either.

The only bit of slack Oscar offers is waving a couple people off ahead of him and lingering, so Lando doesn’t have to ask him to stay behind.

With his throat so dry he almost doesn’t manage to swallow at all. In a subconscious attempt to self-soothe, he folds his arms across his chest, the hand tucked closest to his body clenching into his shirt. “Hey,” he starts, forcing himself a step closer, but he can’t look Oscar in the eyes. “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said before. I know it was rude and shouldn’t have happened. Clearly,” Lando takes a deeper breath and tries to ease around this sick feeling in his middle, “they’re people you care about, but even if they weren’t, I still shouldn’t have been disrespectful.” He pauses there, centers his gaze more on a spot of wall to the side, and tries to think if there’s other things he means to say. In his anxiety, his hand curls further, tightening and stretching the shirt fibers.

“Are you okay?”

Lando frowns and glances up, caught out. “What?”

The Aussie is examining him, a face full of concern. “You’re shaking.”

Maybe his hands are a little jittery and maybe his leg is bouncing, but it’s not a big deal. What is a big deal is that Oscar hasn’t forgiven him. Lando apologized, but maybe he didn’t do it well enough? “I’m fine.”

“Did something happen?”

Does he ever let anything go? Why does he care? “No, what?” he says and his voice doesn’t sound right even to himself. Oscar steps forward and Lando panics harder. “Are you going to forgive me?”

Slow and deliberate Oscar takes a second step. They’re less than an arms length apart. After a pause, he answers, “yeah, Lando, I forgive you. I wasn’t…did you think I was mad at you?”

What the fuck is he on? His mouth drops open. “You were absolutely mad at me.”

“Not mad,” Oscar corrects, “maybe a bit upset or disappointed.”

“Everyone knows that’s worse!”

At least the other driver grimaces like he concedes that point to be true. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I was never mad. I can see how all of that information would’ve been a surprise if you hadn’t read any of the emails,” he continues. Oscar adjusts his stance, resettling his feet. “I can be, ah, a bit protective about people I care about, so that’s why I got so moody all of sudden, but I’ve also been told I can overreact in those areas as well, so. I wasn’t mad at you, Lando.”

Protective. That one word has his stomach diving to the floor. Oscar’s protective of those people on the list. Like Oscar thought he needed to protect them from Lando. He feels like the biggest piece of shit. And other things too. Things that don’t make any sense.

“I w-wouldn’t,” Lando stutters and looks at the floor, “l wouldn’t hurt them or anything.” It’s alarming to discover that he wants to be trustworthy to Oscar. He wants it badly.

“No, I know, Lando,” Oscar says gently. The warmth of the other driver’s body when the Aussie steps closer still is like a precursor to a touch. “I only meant to explain my overreaction.”

Lando finds himself inhaling more deeply, searching for something that isn't perceptible with the blockers Oscar has on. He doesn’t even know what the other driver smells like, but he wants to. Later maybe, he could look it up, Google for the description of notes that should be there, but it’s never quite the same as first hand experience. Scents are complex and have a million faceted variations just from emotional changes alone, it takes time to truly learn the nuances.

“You’re sure nothing happened?” Oscar checks. “No one said anything to you or did something?”

You happened, Lando thinks morosely. Maybe everyone was right to be worried about pairing an omega with an alpha, except…Oscar doesn’t seem phased. So, it’s just Lando that’s the issue here. Lando’s the only one freaking out.

Oscar ducks his head to try and catch his eyeline. “Lando?”

There’s nothing for it, he needs to be alone to try and get his head on right. “No, nothing happened.” The words hang hollowly between them.

“Why do I not believe you,” the Australian murmurs.

Lando chooses to just ignore that and starts backing away. “I gotta go. I got a, uh, call—a meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’s not lingering around for Oscar to even call after him; Lando pivots on his heel and makes a break for it.

***

Hours later, he gets a text from Oscar that says:

-Pretty sure you’re not supposed to keep running away from your teammate.-

And when Lando doesn’t respond at first the follow up:

-You have read receipts turned on Lando.-

Well, fuck.

-Sry for ditching. Just in a weird mood.-

Oscar asks if there’s anything he can do to help and Lando types back a swift ‘no, but thanks’ and promises to be more put together the next day. When he gets a flat ‘ok’ in the chat, it makes him feel like he messed up again.

He doesn’t get it. Any of it. He doesn’t understand why he’s crumpled up inside from an intense jealous pressure or why he got so calm earlier with just a few light touches from Oscar and the low, steady measure of his voice. For that matter, it’s baffling why he got as angry as he did when he found out about the inducers. Max is his gauge for all things alpha-related, but he’s never reacted to the Dutch driver like this.

Lando grits his teeth and pulls up his calendar, looks for his heat cycle and shakes his head when it’s still weeks and weeks off. This isn’t a heat thing or his hormones going wacky.

His feelings don’t lie though; he thought about Oscar’s rut earlier and he wanted it. Maybe that’s what this is, an intense and perplexing attraction. It’s not the first time he’s felt desire toward a teammate, but last time wasn’t…it wasn’t this intense. Oscar doesn’t fall into any of the usual categories that draw his eye, so maybe this is new and novel and that’s why the feelings are so strong. Yeah. The other driver must just be a special combination of details that he’s never encountered before. It’ll fade with time and exposure, then, surely. He’ll learn a bunch of new and probably unappealing things about Oscar and that’ll be the end of the allure. Definitely.

Crawling under the covers that night is so much easier having reassured himself that while what he feels is real, it is most certainly also fleeting. No use worrying about something that won’t last. So he doesn’t fret about it when he gets himself off thinking about a taller, broader body than his climbing on top of him, filling him until the stretch burns, and telling him in a steady, promising tone how good of an omega he’s being.

His orgasm practically lulls him straight into sleep, every muscle turned slack and warm. The scent of his own contentment hangs heavy in the air and he knows he shouldn’t, but he uses an edge of the top sheet that never stays on the bed right to wipe himself up before curling into the plush bedding and falling into a deep, restful slumber.

Chapter Text

He never usually sleeps through til morning, but that night he does. Waking so rested is weird when he’s used to subsisting on periodic naps—his superpower is being able to sleep just about anywhere. Every muscle is warm and lax as he yawns and stretches his toes. The extra energy he’s recovered immediately funnels itself into giving him a play-by-play of what got him so relaxed in the first place. Flashes of keen brown eyes and the flex of strong arms, a thick, throbbing—god, this is going to suck.

The faster he can find elements of Oscar’s existence that turn him off, the faster he can lose this attraction and never look back.

And he’ll get right on that…just as soon as he’s finished stripping the dirty bedding and getting the mess he left shoved in the wash and, yeah, alright, after a morning wank in the shower too.

**

The problem, Lando is beginning to realize, is that Oscar is too steady. Too consistent. He’s not predictable, necessarily, but it feels like he should be and it’s slowly driving him mad. When he can, Lando spends the last chunk of time before the season starts observing Oscar, searching for those unappealing details that are no doubt present.

He keeps a mental list going. For example, Oscar doesn’t like getting up early and he never spares extra time on his appearance. If McLaren didn’t have a stylist or a hair and makeup team for shoots, then Lando guarantees Oscar would always look a little sleepy and never wear anything besides the team kit. This also means that he really doesn’t know how the Aussie dresses outside work. It’s probably horrendous though, right?

Sometimes, when it’s a very early start to the day, Oscar comes to work in just jeans and the plainest of plain t-shirts, with a hoodie over top and if there’s no filming on the docket, then it can take hours before the other driver tugs the sweatshirt up and off, draping the thing on the back of a chair before continuing on. The problem with that, is Lando loves hoodies and he likes when they’re oversized too.

Oscar’s bigger than him, which means his stupid hoodies are probably the perfect mix of comfortably worn in and overlarge. Anytime he sees one laying around, the urge to steal it is so strong that more than once he finds himself running his hand over a sleeve, just to check if it’s really as soft as it looks. It always is.

So he’s got good taste in hoodies at least, even if the glimpse he got of the rest of his wardrobe is lacking. That’s not as big of a turn off as he was hoping for.

The Australian eats fish, but like, a normal amount? It’s not as if the man is obsessed with that type of protein or shoves it in Lando’s face or goes out of his way to order it to see him squirm and his nose scrunch up. Carlos would do that sometimes and those were the few instances when Lando could recall getting more fed up with the Spaniard’s teasing. Oscar doesn’t make it into a big deal and tends to apologize if he catches Lando eyeing his plate with disgust, so there’s nothing for him to really complain about there either.

What else?

His musical tastes are bizarre, but weirdly Lando thinks they make sense for what he’s learned of Oscar so far. House music? Who has that as their preferred playlist? Oscar apparently doesn’t need much in the way of lyrics or y’know instruments, just a very repetitive electronic beat. There’s a time and a place for that kind of thing, but Lando struggles to picture the alpha in a club, or god forbid, dancing.

Twitter seems to be the only area of social media that the man utilizes on a regular basis and Lando spends an evening scrolling and scrolling, pausing in surprise when he sees himself. Posts from his time in F2. This guy wasn’t kidding when he was recapping Lando’s whole season. You a fan, Oscar? he wonders.

It makes him warm around the collar to think of Oscar’s eyes being on him for years without knowing anything about him in return. Is this how Carlos felt with him? He thumbs the screen as he reads a succinct review of his own performance. No…every time Lando did this kind of thing to Carlos when he was young, he had stars in his eyes and the admiration was plain as day. Oscar’s tweets read like professional feedback, racer to racer. Alone in his room with no one to see, he pouts.

Lando learns other things in his time spying that he never needed to be aware of in the first place.

Things like…Oscar has sisters. Three of them and they’re all younger. The man hardly ever mentions them, but the word ‘protective’ flashes through Lando’s mind in the rare instances it does happen. It feels like an intentional withholding, the way he carefully keeps their names private and never overshares. Not even accidentally.

The alpha did have a partner a couple years ago, which Lando discovers during another bout of late-night internet stalking. She’s pretty too. Pretty and Australian, with the most even, outdoors tan that seems a bit too perfect honestly. He hates her on sight which is ridiculous and horrible of him, but no amount of trying not to does the trick. Is she on his list?

No doubt, this is the first person he’s aware of that’s had Oscar that way. It’s not fair.

It’s not fair of him to despise her or her straight smile and it’s definitely not fair of him to feel jilted by a past he never knew existed until a couple hours ago, but he does. He does and he hasn’t the first fucking clue how to stop.

**

The season starts and he almost wishes it hadn’t because the car is so shit one of his engineers says ‘holy hell’ when they glimpse the severity of the pneumatic pressure leak. He pits six times during the race while his team tries to manage the leak. Six. He finishes in dead last and it’s still a better result than Oscar’s. The alpha only gets 13 laps in before the electronics in the car give out.

It’s not like they had similar issues or it’s something that came up in pre-season testing and they knew it could crop up again here. No, just two independent failures occurring at the same time and ruining both their days.

Andrea tries to be optimistic and turn the mood around, but it’s…not how you want to start a season. Lando knew it likely wasn’t going to be good, he knew not to expect much, if anything, but it’s still brutal. Media after is the sucky, battered cherry on top to an already miserable time.

To make matters worse, he’s starting to suspect that Max was right when he said Oscar and Logan had some ‘designation type thing’ going on.

Oscar usually sticks by his side or at least nearby during larger events and it’s the first race of the year. The Aussie is still a rookie, even if he has all the makeup of an especially talented one, and there’s no real preparation for the amount of attention, the interviews, the pressure that comes along with your first race. Lando’s adjusted to being the one to talk first, the one to step up and take that initial pressure off because he remembers being in that spot. It’s kind of his job at that point, to guide a little. Honestly, other than being a smidge quiet and needing Lando to fill in some of the gaps with nonsense PR phrases, Oscar doesn’t demand much from him in those instances.

So, it comes as a bit of a shock when, early on in the weekend, he can’t even find Oscar for media. For a while, no one can, actually. It’s fucking weird and he’s left standing around waiting on him for five minutes. When the alpha does arrive, jogging around the corner and flattening out his shirt like he just put it back on, apologizing to the crew and the team and the Sky Sports interviewer, it sets off all kinds of alarm bells in his head. Lando paints on a smile he doesn’t feel, and throws out a teasing remark that makes people laugh.

The scent of violets, sweet and woody, mixed with mint clings to Oscar’s everything. To everyone else, maybe it’s not so noticeable. Definitely not to the beta asking them questions, but Lando almost can’t think around it. He knows it’s not Oscar’s scent; he caved and looked that up days and days ago—he’s supposed to have a rich chocolate scent, honeyed and deep; quite unique. No, someone else was all over Oscar minutes ago. Scenting him and who knows what else. He glances at the alpha’s lips, the skin near the collar of his papaya shirt; there’s no marks or redness or swelling. For a quick and gone second, his gaze drops down to the front of Oscar’s pants. A blowjob wouldn’t leave any marks…is that what he was off doing?

It’s like a part of his brain goes offline, servers are down and he can feel himself spiraling. Jealousy blocks out all rational thinking. Anger too. On muscle memory alone, he makes it through the questions.

The entire interview, Lando’s so distracted that he misses how his teammate keeps trying to catch his eye, or the tense and worried set to the alpha’s shoulders, the way he repeatedly rubs the back of his own neck almost like he’s trying to scrub away the trace of something…

Afterwards, he ditches as soon as he can. It’s becoming a thing; running from Oscar and these overwhelming reactions he keeps having.

It’s the driver’s parade that tips him off. After a few nights of determinedly blocking Oscar out of his thoughts with moderate to little success, he’s ready to focus on racing and put everything he has into the first weekend back.

They all endure the photographers taking pictures of the current grid of drivers for the first race of the season and Oscar talks at him a bit and stays close; he smells like nothing because of the blockers, the scent from before washed away and there hasn’t been a hint of it since.

And then they get on the back of the truck to take a lap around the track for the fans and he beelines for Carlos because Carlos is predictable and doesn’t cause confusing emotions (not anymore, at least). In his efforts to duck around and navigate the tangled path of other drivers, Lando bumps against the shoulder of someone and that’s when he smells it again. Violets and mint.

When he turns his head, for a startling second his gaze connects with a pair of blue-gray eyes; there’s a striking ring of darker blue around the outer edge that complements the blue and white of his race suit. It’s Sargeant. For whatever reason, he’s not wearing blockers or maybe they’re being rendered ineffective by something, but either way, he’s found the person who rubbed themselves all over Oscar.

He always has a hard time controlling his reactions, so it’s no surprise that Logan gives him a confused, maybe even concerned look, and says, “you good, mate?”

His accent is ridiculous, he thinks meanly. God, he’s a petty bastard. Lando nods and quickly changes up his expression to an approximation of a smile. “Yeah, all good.” He scurries to the opposite side of the truck.

Carlos offers a reprieve and he falls into their familiar back and forth eagerly, instinctively searching for something comforting. He flirts because it’s habit, not because he wants anything out of it.

Unfortunately, no amount of flirting can stop him from noticing how often a certain American looks in Oscar’s direction every couple minutes.

It actually makes him feel ill. They clearly have something going on between them. Or maybe it started when they raced as teammates and now that they’re both in F1 they can reunite…how romantic is that? Like a fairytale.

So, that should be the end of it. Oscar has an omega already. Lando would be nothing more than redundant.

At least his teammate waits until the race is over before he tracks him down and fills the doorway of his driver’s room. It’s not as if his weekend can really get any worse than it already has, can it?

“Can we talk?”

The other driver has had all the time in the world to get showered and changed, but Lando just finished in the media pen, hasn’t even gotten his race suit farther than pushed down to his waist.

“Uh, yeah,” he agrees, glancing around the tiny space and sort of gesturing that he can go whenever he wants.

Oscar shuts the door behind him when he enters and it’s strange being cut off from the world. They’ve never been alone together. On paper, this is exactly the sort of scenario that many are so terrified of; being in a closed area with an alpha and no clear escape route. He can’t scrounge up any fear at all. No, all Lando feels is morose and pathetic and tired.

He folds his arms across his stomach and leans back against the countertop next to the sink while Oscar opts to take one step into the room and stops that way.

“Sorry about your race,” Lando offers, wiggling the tip of a race boot against the floor.

“Thank you. Sorry about yours,” Oscar replies, his lips tilting in a commiserating smile.

“Yeah, sucks. Media was…shitty.”

“I saw,” Oscar agrees. “I also saw you looking at Logan a lot this weekend,” he starts.

As openings go, it’s terrifying. A zing of alarm cuts through the haze of weekend soreness. “Yeah,” he tries for causal, “I, ah, didn’t know that you and him were—”

“We’re not.”

Lando’s brow arches up and after a pause he nods sarcastically. “No, sure, makes sense. So, just uh, fuckbuddies then or whatever; it’s not my business.”

“Will you stop doing that?” Oscar says, frustration surfacing as he rakes fingers through his annoyingly intriguing locks.

“I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. You’d know that if you slowed down for half a second and talked to me when you get too many thoughts in your head.”

“His scent was all over you! But sure, I suppose I made that up too,” he slings back.

“Of course you didn’t make that up, but I swear it's not for the reasons you’re thinking of.”

“Is he on your list?” Lando asks abruptly. “I’ve been thinking over it and he has to be, yeah? Someone you trust, someone you’ve known for a really long time and now, come to find out, someone you let scent mark you.”

When the other driver doesn’t say anything at first, all he can do is nod to himself and take that as an answer.

“Lando,” Oscar tries, taking a step closer.

He cuts in before the other driver can get any further or distract him with soothing words. “I was looking at him because he couldn’t really take his eyes off you for very long. That’s a dedicated omega you’ve got there,” he mutters, bitterness caught between his teeth.

“Lando.”

The pleading tone freaks him out, he’s never heard Oscar that way and he has no idea what it means. All too fast, his emotions bubble over and he finds himself not so quietly exclaiming, “why did you have to mention that stupid list in the first place! I was fine until you told me about it.” Mostly, he’s talking to the room or the world or just himself, but he’s started and he can’t seem to stop. “I have no idea what the fuck is happening to me, I can’t sleep except some nights I sleep better than I ever have and I-I stalked your socials like an absolute loon. I stole one of your sweatshirts, by the way,” he throws out wildly, voice gone a bit on the shrill side because he’s freaked the fuck out. “So I think you need to get a restraining order against me or something because I can’t stop thinking about who you’ve had and how many times and why you never brush your fucking hair or what you do in your spare time and then I come here a-and—and fucking Sargeant of all people, that’s who you let—” he has to take a shaking, partial breath, but at the moment he’d much rather pass out instead if it gets him out of this situation. Maybe he’s going to pass out anyway, he is quite light headed. How do you breathe again?

Oscar grabs his shoulders over the fireproofs and urges Lando to sit down at the closest spot available, which is the little cot that he uses for naps, and put his head between his knees. He sits at his side and talks him through breathing with a calm patience that soothes and instructs in equal doses. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he starts to feel the carpet under his shoes again, the air coming in and flowing back out of his lungs.

“You’re alright, Lando,” the other driver promises and that’s about when he figures out he has his fingers curled into the Australian’s shirt, that’s he’s bent his whole body into the curve of Oscar’s. It’s worse than that other time at the MTC because this time he knows he wants more.

When he’s not in so much danger of fainting any longer, he tentatively lifts his head. Lando’s nose brushes the collar of Oscar’s shirt and he’s so close to the other man’s neck, to where his scent would be particularly strong if it weren’t for the blockers. He moves a tiny bit more and is met with Oscar’s warm eyes and his soft looking lips. Who could blame him for wavering closer, for wanting to taste…

His lips don’t press against Oscar’s because the other man catches his jaw, cups it in his palm and sets his thumb to his mouth, blocking him while still keeping him close.

“You always this quick?” Oscar asks and his voice is deeper, teasing. Their noses touch lightly and he thinks Oscar even nudges him that way.

All he can manage is a questioning sort of noise because he doesn’t understand. Is he being rejected? Does Oscar not want him? Even this little bit? That would be a new low for him.

“I’m not saying no, omega,” Oscar murmurs.

People don’t call him that. His mom has once or twice, and that’s usually for a scolding about something, but he’s never heard his designation sound quite so…tender, like a compliment or something treasured. Lando’s stomach flips and clenches around a surge of arousal. It’s embarrassing and hot how quickly his body slicks itself. Another first.

Of course, he took his patches off as soon as he got to the room, so all of that lust, all of his pent up wanting is readily perceptible for this alpha. He gets to watch Oscar’s expression change, see his tongue dart out to wet his lips while he glances over all of Lando as if he’s seeing him bare already.

“I’m saying,” he continues, “not yet.” It’s in direct contrast to the way Oscar nuzzles against his hairline and inhales. “God, you’re perfect,” he hears the alpha mumble and it warms him as much as the arousal did, making his cheeks run hot. Perfect is most certainly not a word that gets directed his way often or y’know, ever.

Is this some kind of trick? What does he mean, ‘not yet?’ Lando’s more than willing. Can Oscar not tell? “But I want,” he starts to say against the digit at his lip only to be hushed.

“Trust me, Lando,” Oscar chuckles dryly, “I know what you want.”

There’s experience in that tone, in the cadence of his speech and it allows Lando to concentrate a bit because that’s right, Oscar’s done this before. Maybe it should make him feel self-conscious to not have an upper hand, but he largely just feels curious. And jealous. Yeah, still definitely jealous.

He must be that transparent, or his scent is, because Oscar swipes his thumb to the corner of his mouth and then over his cheekbone. “I can promise my history is not as grand as you’re picturing in that head of yours.” His teammate sighs and leans back, puts a few inches between their faces. “One of several reasons we should talk before anything happens.”

“So no restraining order?” Lando mumbles, feeling foggy and settled at the same time. It’s this sense he has—keeps having—that this alpha is going to take care of him, that letting go of everything wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

A bright, adoring smile takes over the Aussie’s face and Lando still wants to kiss him. “No restraining order,” Oscar confirms with a laugh and another swipe to his already blushing cheeks.

Chapter Text

He invites Oscar back to his hotel room without thinking. They need a private space to talk and that’s as far as his brain carried the idea. There isn’t much left in the way of loose ends to tie at the track so after a short half hour, Oscar shadows him all the way back to the hotel the team put them up at for the week, following into Lando’s room too.

The door clicks shut behind them and Oscar makes it only a handful of steps inside before coming to an abrupt halt. “You’re—fuck, what were you…” he trails off as his eyes fixate on the bed, the very messy, not clean bed that Lando left behind this morning. He must’ve forgotten to flip the sign on his door around to let room cleaning know they could come in.

A blush creeps up the back of his neck and warms his cheeks, but he stands his ground. If they’re doing anything about this, then why hide what his reaction has been? This is basically Oscar’s fault, if you think about it.

“I wake up soaked pretty much every morning these days,” Lando mumbles with a tiny shrug. The bed, almost the whole room really, smells like slick and sex and it’s not as jarring to him as it would be to Oscar. Oops. Now that he’s thinking back on it, he’s pretty sure his toy that he packed in a last minute impulse is still somewhere in that bedding… Double oops.

Oscar groans faintly and that’s plenty to have Lando shifting on the spot, his body clenching down on nothing.

“Ah, yeah?” his teammate asks roughly. “And you—?”

“What?”

“How’s it feel?”

What’s he on about? “Uh, pretty sure I just told you. It’s wet.”

“No, I mean when you…climax,” Oscar elaborates and runs a hand through his hair restlessly.

Climax? Who uses that word in actual conversation?? This is the weirdest dirty talk Lando has ever participated in. He thought Oscar wanted to have a conversation first, but this seems to be skipping that step. “Uhh, good?”

“So it’s satisfying?”

His hand twitches at his side because what the hell. Lando glances around the floor and walls and anywhere else before he meets his teammate’s gaze. “No, not exactly,” he murmurs with narrowed eyes. Lately, the orgasms feel good enough to put him to sleep when he’s already tired, but they don’t leave him feeling like he got what he wanted. He comes and it should be a relief, but more and more it’s started to feel like something’s missing. “…Guessing you know why it’s not.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, “pretty sure it’s because of me.”

Lando can’t help it, he scoffs. It’s the cockiest thing he’s ever heard Oscar say.

“No, Lando, I—I’m talking about my designation, not necessarily me me,” he gestures at his own chest. “Or at least not just me.”

“All of that alpha influence stuff is supposed to be complete bullshit,” Lando argues, folding his arms in front of himself.

“Mostly it is,” Oscar agrees. “They don’t like talking or teaching about what’s actually going on because it disrupts all of those ‘alphas are dangerous’ stances they’re very set on protecting. I promise, I’m not trying to trick you or make things up. I didn’t believe it either, honestly, until it happened.”

“Until what happened?”

“I met a compatible omega,” the other driver says, shrugging helplessly, “the first time I was about six years old, not that I knew that’s what it was until way later. The second time I was eleven.”

Lando’s face twists in confusion, “what are you even talking about?”

His teammate purses his lips before glancing around the space and then coaxing Lando over to the couch so they can sit. “You know how when we do interviews they keep trying to insinuate and ask if we'll trigger each other into an early heat or rut?”

“Yeah…” He’s got fuck all idea what that has to do with compatible omegas but whatever.

“It’s not a legitimate concern because you’re on suppressants and I’m handling my ruts too,” Oscar says, talking at his own hands and then wetting his lips to continue, “but I think—I’m starting to suspect—that our designations might be compatible and if that is the case, then it’s possible we could actually trigger each other.”

That’s fucking terrifying news. And Lando still doesn’t know what it means. “You keep saying compatible, what the hell is that?”

“Not every omega or even every beta is the same to an alpha, some are,” Oscar shrugs, “some are more responsive, more affected by us. It’s not an influence, per se, which is why the urban legend about alphas being able to control other people is completely made up. If anything, it’s the other way around. It’s more like…a pull in a direction. Or a nudge pointing you to someone specific.”

“You sound like some kind of mating app or those crappy romcoms,” Lando says, not sure if he should be frowning or laughing.

Oscar tips his head in acknowledgment. “That’s fair.” The alpha swallows like he’s nervous and folds his hands together with whitening knuckles. “It’s real. I understand if you don’t believe me, but I swear I wouldn’t lie to you, Lando.”

Vulnerability is not Lando’s strongest point, it’s not where he’s especially comfortable, and he tries to wiggle a way around it. “You said it’s happened to you before…so, what, you mean I’m not the first stalker you’ve had?”

It gets him an exhale of a laugh so that’s something. “No, I think those things are still unique to you, actually. As far as I know.”

Oh, mint. Well, that fucking backfired. “Right,” he mutters.

“No, look, I don’t have the most experience with all of this. I just mean, when it’s happened in the past, I was younger and that automatically makes it different. This is still pretty new to me too. Like, that first time, when I was six, my mom’s the one that figured it out. There was this girl my age who moved into our neighborhood…we became friends pretty quick and I don’t know, my mom always talks about it like I was attuned to her or something. If she got upset, I could calm her down with just a couple words. I could always tell when she was lying or when she wanted something. It was all small stuff, mostly, but I think noticeably outside the norm compared to other kids.” Oscar shrugs.

“The second time?”

His teammate inhales more carefully and nods, “the second time I was older and an omega in my class started following me around. Didn’t matter what I did, she was always a few steps behind. It didn’t bother me like it probably should’ve; I could tell something wasn’t right with her. When I went to the library to study, she’d be at the table next to mine and I just knew she felt better being around me. I hated watching her go home,” Oscar mumbles, shaking his head and Lando gets a chill up his arms, gut twisting uneasily. “I didn’t know why at first.”

“What happened?” Lando asks quietly.

“One day she came to school and I just—I knew it was worse. I knew she was hurt and that she wasn’t safe and had a pretty good suspicion something horrible was going to happen if I didn’t help. I’d never even talked to her,” Oscar reveals. “Nothing more than saying ‘hi’ or offering her a pencil sharpener. She sat near me like usual and I got up and told her I’d go with her to talk to the teacher or if she didn’t want that, then my parents.”

“Shit, Oscar.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

Lando reaches out and sets his hand on the Aussie’s knee. “Sorry,” comes out in a whisper. “That’s a lot for eleven years old.”

Oscar nods, but shrugs too.

“What happened to her, was she okay?”

“Ahuh,” he reassures and touches the back of Lando’s hand, giving a gentle, thankful squeeze. “Luckily, she had other family and they’d been worried for a little while, I think, but they got her out of that house, got her the support she needed. She still sends me updates periodically.” Oscar tips his head like it’s not that big of a deal. “You know, I looked up the word compatible back then because it’s what my mom used to describe what was happening and I thought maybe there’d be more answers out there. I remember it feeling like a sick joke because if you trace it back to Latin, it means ‘to suffer with.’ Her pain felt like something that was mine too and I mean that literally, which is where people usually stop listening because it sounds crazy. I don’t know how it works, but when someone is compatible with my designation, I know things about them instinctively and it usually means they’re drawn to me too.”

“Usually,” Lando echoes, pulling his hand back to his own lap. “Has it been more than twice then?”

For whatever reason, Oscar blushes at the question and Lando isn’t sure what he’s looking at. “I don’t have all the answers here and each time this has happened to me, it’s been different,” the alpha prefaces. “There have been other instances, maybe not as strong or they were more…one-sided.” He takes a deeper breath before continuing. “Logan isn’t someone I was pulled to, exactly, but he definitely was to me. Is,” he corrects, putting it in the present-tense quietly.

An uncomfortable prick of pain lights up the nerves through Lando’s ribs and makes it suddenly harder to breathe. “Explain that,” he mutters.

“He’s on the list, you’re right about that,” Oscar replies, getting the words out more quickly to start. “But we didn’t date or anything, we just…”

“Fucked?” Lando offers inelegantly, trying to ignore the edge of jealousy and how touchy he is over something that couldn’t be further from his business.

“Not quite that far, but yeah, we messed around.”

He kind of hates that he can’t stop himself from asking. “Was that what it was on Thursday?”

“No,” Oscar answers with a quick shake of his head. “We don’t anymore, haven’t in a long time. Thursday was—okay, I can’t tell you a lot of details because that’s private information that’s his to tell, not mine, but basically he finds my scent calming so sometimes I give him a piece of clothing or I spend time near him, though it’s a lot less of that lately with how busy we are,” he explains. “He wanted a new shirt from me so I went and gave him a new one and took the old one back. That’s why I smelled like him. It was the shirt, not…me.”

“Does Logan,” god how he hates even saying the man’s name, “act like me then? When it comes to you?” Please don’t say yes.

“No,” Oscar responds. “Him and I are friends, he finds my scent comforting and stabilizing. I think it was convenient for both of us to be what we’ve been to each other in the past, but that’s all it is.”

His expression turns skeptical and who can blame him, he still remembers how the William’s driver looked at Oscar. “I wasn’t exaggerating before when I said he couldn’t stop looking at you during the parade.”

“I know,” the Aussie reassures. “He’s been having a harder time with the transition and expectations; I’m usually next to him.”

“You could’ve stood beside him,” Lando mumbles reluctantly.

“And leave you to flirt with Carlos unsupervised? No, I was where I wanted to be.”

The call out makes his mouth drop open. “I wasn’t…”

Oscar’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “You absolutely were. That’s kind of how the two of you are.”

“It’s sorta habit,” Lando relents, picking at his own nails.

“You like him,” his teammate agrees softly. Does the hint of melancholy in the other driver’s voice only exist in his head?

Lando scoffs. “Uhhh, no. I mean, yeah as friends, but not like that. Not anymore.” He catches sight of the surprise that flits across the Aussie’s face.

“Oh, wow,” Oscar realizes. “You dated him.”

Ugh. Lando makes a face, can’t help it. “No, he’d never date me.” He shakes his head with a surety that comes from an old, remembered pain.

“He turned you down?” The baffled tone is flattering, maybe, but Lando’s too caught up in how humiliating this is to retell.

“Look, he didn’t want a real relationship with me so we, ah, did other things,” he says quickly, eyes darting around. “Can we talk about something else?” Lando tries weakly.

Oscar’s clenching his jaw hard enough that Lando sees a vein jump for a moment. “You were nineteen when you moved up,” the other driver says flatly.

The absolute disapproval lining his tone; Lando can almost taste it and what’s even more wild is that he knows it’s not directed at him.

“Oscar—”

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

“We were both adults!”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. He shouldn’t have done that,” Oscar repeats.

“No one could’ve stopped me,” Lando argues. “I was—I wanted him.”

Oscar’s mouth becomes a grim line.

He lasts less than five seconds before it bursts out of him, “yeah, alright, I know he should’ve—but he fucking didn’t, did he? I’m over it,” Lando mutters. “He went to Ferrari and that was it. It doesn’t matter.”

“It definitely matters,” his teammate says quietly. “Geez, Lando. No wonder you’ve been running from me.”

Too smart, way too fucking smart, his brain reminds. “You scare me way more than Carlos ever did,” he admits. “I never had any of this with him.”

”…It’s not my intention to scare you, Lando. I don’t want that.”

Oscar’s got a cute little furrow between his eyebrows. “No, like…emotionally scary or something,” he elaborates before quickly realizing that sounds maybe worse. “What about the rest of the list? Are you compatible with everyone on there?”

The other driver takes up the subject change, thank god. “Uh, right. No, they’re definitely not all compatible—Logan’s the only one, really, and still it’s more one-sided. One of them is a friend from school in the UK, for if it hits when I’m home. She’s studying omega-alpha dynamics at university now, so I’m pretty sure she mostly sees it as a kind of science experiment. She was the most enthusiastic, I think, about the prospect,” he mumbles and self-consciously rubs at the back of his neck. “And the last one is Max.”

There’s a faint ringing in his ears. The first wild thought is that Oscar is talking about one of his oldest friends, Max, who knows Oscar and raced with him before, but there’s no possible way that could be true. Of course, the alternative doesn’t make any sense either because that would mean he’s talking about… “Verstappen?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says with a nod.

“But he’s an alpha!” Lando sputters. “He can’t like—how would that even work? You don’t even know him that well!” Next, Oscar is going to tell him all alphas have some telepathic connection or some shit.

Oscar waves his hands, “oh geez, no. No, he’s not on the list as an option to help me through the rut that way. I mean, I guess he could, but no, definitely not. Sorry, that wasn’t how I should’ve said that. He’s on the list because if anyone could help me kind of regulate to some degree in a pinch it would be him. I wouldn’t have thought to ever ask him to do that, but he reached out and offered once I was signed. When you mentioned him also being on inducers, it made a lot more sense to me why he did that.”

“Regulate?”

“Yeah, it’s not all mindless desperation and ruts can hurt quite a lot. Some of the symptoms can be soothed just from having someone around that’s a powerful influence and Max is…well, he’s a pretty strong alpha, I think he’d be effective. Plus, of anyone, he knows exactly what it feels like.”

Lando spends a quiet few moments taking that in. “Huh,” he mumbles.

“You okay?”

“Max never mentioned anything like that. I didn’t know that he could…do that for other alphas—or anyone I guess. I don’t fucking know anything, apparently,” Lando mutters.

“To be fair, most people don’t.”

“Yeah and that’s fucked.”

“Mm, yeah, it is,” Oscar murmurs, watching him with careful, soft brown eyes.

Lando shifts under the attention and gets torn between wanting to hide or open up to it, ends up shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “So, the whole reason I’m reacting like this is because we’re compatible or—?”

His teammate is still steadily staring. “I think so. It would explain why you’ve wanted to be closer to me. What I wasn’t expecting was for you to be so…”

“Much?” Lando offers, wincing.

“So reactive,” the other man corrects. “In ways I’ve never experienced before. In the past, I usually knew what I needed to do, what would help someone, but you want things and then it’s like you fight it. You actively try not to want them. It’s strange. Confusing, like you said. Sometimes it’s very clear, like with the panic or even the desire; I can calm you and I could satisfy you too,” he explains in a thoughtful tone.

“That’s arrogant,” is what slips out and he barely registers the words. He’s too caught up in Oscar’s mouth forming the word satisfy.

“No,” his teammate promises. “It’s true. You know it too. I think I wouldn’t even need to touch you much to do it,” he continues, running his eyes down over Lando’s body with a perfunctory sort of analytic gaze like it’s just simple maths. Like he already knows exactly how to do it.

His lips part and he takes in a shallow breath, not sure when Oscar became this unbearably attractive. “T-that’s…fuck, that’s really hot,” he mumbles pathetically, his core clenching around the lack of anything inside him.

That gets a flicker of reaction out of the Australian, his eyes darkening with interest that Lando recognizes. “Come here,” he instructs in the quiet.

His limbs all feel too big for his body as he crawls to Oscar clumsily, they’re not far apart to start with, but he still has to shuffle those empty inches to collapse at his teammates' side. “Here?”

“Hm, I actually think I’ll put you on your knees, but this is good for right now,” the other driver says.

What? he thinks in a daze. Who just tells somebody that? His mouth is watering at the thought of kneeling for Oscar. There’s really only one specific reason he’d want Lando on his knees, right? He’s not the best with his mouth, his gag reflex is atrocious and that’s never been something he’s hated about himself before now. Because all of a sudden, he actually thinks he’d really really like having Oscar in his mouth, nudging into his throat even. He wants it so bad he whimpers.

“You are so distractible.” It’s not a mean comment, if anything the other driver sounds fond. “I need you to tell me something first,” Oscar informs and he waits with endless patience until Lando nods before continuing. “Are you going to run away from me after this?”

He probably—-no, he definitely deserves that question. Lando scraps his teeth over the inside of his cheek and he can’t fucking look away from this man. Something has him tethered to the spot. “I-I don’t know,” he whispers. “I…” Lando glances at Oscar’s mouth and then back to his eyes. “I don’t want to run away.”

“I’d very much prefer it if you didn’t.” Oscar reaches up to touch his cheek, to thumb over the warmth there. “Would you do that for me?” he wonders.

Lando’s really fucking scared of how much he thinks he would do for Oscar. Being scared doesn’t change the truth of it though. “Yeah.” He nods and then gives Oscar’s hand a tiny nuzzle.

“Thank you.” The gratitude is serious and comes with gentle kisses that start at his jaw and work their way around to his lips. They’re good kisses. Oscar’s lips are soft and plush and doting in a way that has his stomach flipping.

“Knees now, I think, huh? You’ve been waiting,” Oscar says, breaking away from his mouth to kiss down over the stretch of his neck.

The second he’s not melting under the heat of the other driver’s mouth, he slides off the couch edge and kneels between Oscar’s legs. His hands go to his thighs and slide up; he wants to touch, see if the alpha is as interested as Lando is.

Oscar catches his hands and raises an eyebrow, “don’t think I told you that’s what you could do.”

He’s a hands-free kind of blowjob guy, then, Lando thinks, cataloguing the information. He slips his hands down to rest at his own thighs and scoots even closer. Lando’s expecting Oscar to get his jeans undone on his own, to lean back and get himself hard before using his mouth the way he obviously has indicated he wants. It’s startling when Oscar touches his face again instead, tips his face up and hums consideringly.

Has anyone ever looked at him like this? It’s all so…intentional. At the moment, he feels like the whole of Oscar’s focus is dedicated to him.

With steady hands, Oscar trails his touch over Lando’s covered chest and then lower until he’s suddenly working open the button and zip on his pants. The breath in his chest hitches in surprise and Lando looks down to watch, and has no clue why his wet mouth isn’t already busy.

It’s earnest and hot in how no-nonsense Oscar is as he gets his hand inside and touches him over the boxers, forms his palm along the length and rubs. He makes a questioning noise that slides into a groan. “O-Oscar.”

“I’ve got you,” is the hushed reassurance he receives, which helps a lot, though it isn’t what he was going to ask. “Told you, you’ve waited more than enough.”

Oscar briefly takes his hand back, but only to wet it with his own spit before getting beneath the fabric. The jolt of his hips into the contact isn’t anything he can help. None of this is what he thought would happen.

That hand maps the shape of him, like, all of him. For a moment, he’s sure Oscar is going to reach far enough to feel where he’s steadily leaking slick down the backs of his thighs, but then he moves up once again and gives him the perfect circle of tight pressure to thrust into.

“Yeah, go on, fuck my hand,” Oscar encourages, his voice low and raking over every sensitive nerve.

He’s fairly sure he says the Aussie’s name again, but it’s distorted between whines that he barely recognizes as his own. Lando’s hands curl into the bunched denim pushed down his thighs and he’s not sure if he’s ever felt more exposed while still having so much clothing on. His hips roll forward into the firm, slick heat, his whole chest flushing with warmth that climbs up his neck and into his face. At a distance, but steadily getting larger and clearer is the awareness that he’s humping into Oscar’s hand desperately. He’s acting like every caricature of a heat drunk omega and loves it so fucking much. He adores being at Oscar’s feet. He likes being forced to look up if he wants to see how Oscar is still watching him. Always fucking watching. He’s flooded with addicting thoughts and curiosity. He wants to know if Oscar would call him names if he asked very nicely or if he’d want to practice trying to train Lando’s gag reflex into nonexistence or if he could just sleep down here because it’s warm and comfortable and Oscar could pet his hair really easily in this position.

Oscar keeps him steady even when his hips buck wildly and he curses from how good it feels.

“I’d give you my leg to use, but I just can’t take my hand off you,” Oscar tells him before leaning down to get a deep, owning kiss. “You know how good you smell to me?” he groans. “How perfect you look like this?”

The thought of only being given Oscar’s leg to rub against, of the alpha tilting his chin up and watching every shameless, frenzied thrust while Lando loses himself in desire is what tips the scales completely. In the overwhelm of the moment, he clings to Oscar’s thighs, curls over and shudders. It’s as if he hasn’t been more than regularly getting off in his down time; this is what he’s been missing. Oscar works him through it and when the sound of the ocean in his ears recedes, Lando hears the praise.

“You always come like this or is this just for me, omega? Hm? So pretty,” his teammate is murmuring. “Such a good job letting me help you. Yeah, it’s okay, ride it out. That’s good, take what you need, sweetheart,” Oscar coaches while Lando weakly pumps his hips into his hand, through all the stickiness and aftershocks. He sounds so proud of Lando and that makes him weak in an entirely different way. Every compliment feels like another physical touch and he sways into them, mumbles the other driver’s name.

Oscar takes care of him. The alpha keeps up the running commentary of all things good and nice and wonderful while he holds him through every final sensitive pulse. He’s used to…well, not this. Has he ever had someone put him first like this?

No, is the quiet answer in his thoughts. Oscar didn’t even…he didn’t even use Lando at all. He’s too tired to worry over that or what that might mean, but he does weakly cling to the other driver.

Almost as soon as he does, Oscar helps get him into his lap and burrow into his shoulder. “W-want your blocker off,” Lando mumbles. He wants to know his scent for himself rather than relying on secondhand accounts.

The other driver murmurs his agreement and mostly carries Lando to the bathroom for cleanup. He gets set on the counter for safe keeping before Oscar peels the blocker off the side of his neck, folds the transparent piece and throws it away.

The scent of warm, decadent chocolate is faint to start before strengthening when Oscar washes over the spot.

His mouth waters again. Oscar smells like his favorite treats; creamy, rich cocoa. There’s subtleties too, nutty earthy notes that make him think of autumn and a deep sort of spice that, when he inhales more fully, he realizes is what Oscar must smell like when he’s aroused.

He does want me. That’s a piece he’s been searching for and it settles the worry.

All of Oscar’s touches are as sweet as his words and Lando soaks in them. It’s his turn to watch. This man cleaning and putting him back together is methodical and careful and it makes him feel even more vulnerable. These are trustful hands. He can see how others would be drawn here.

“You did it like this with Logan too?” Lando wonders and he didn’t mean for that to come out, but he’s loose-tongued and his first instinct is to shy away from this being so serious.

Oscar raises his gaze and stares a moment before leaning in to direct him to a slow, melting press of their lips. “No,” he answers when he’s done reminding Lando how much he likes being kissed by him. “But I think you already knew that.”

His heart thuds and he arches forward, catches the back of the other man’s neck to pull him back in. He’s wanted people before, but Oscar turns him into something hungry and feral and possessive. Too bad he’s pretty sure he’s about as intimidating as a kitten.

“I w-want,” he mumbles between sloppy, hurrying kisses while trying to climb Oscar all over again. The answering groan he gets for it is gratifying.

He gets his bottom lip bitten for his enthusiasm and it has him panting. What are the chances he’s not about to make a mess of the counter?

Oscar cools him down after stretching, delicious minutes and it makes him pout.

“You want me too, I know you do,” he says, using a burst of confidence that probably isn’t as strong as he’d prefer.

“Of course I do,” the other driver promises. “But I think you’re tired right now and this has already been a lot. I’d like to take my time with you,” Oscar responds, vulnerability showing through in the way his voice dips. “And I want to make sure you’re not going anywhere.” Oscar presses a kiss to his forehead before pulling away to look in his eyes. “It’s more than physical to me, so it’d be really hard if you…y’know, didn’t want that,” he admits.

Every step of the way the Aussie has been the one that’s seemed composed and self-assured and unaffected to a certain degree. But apparently not.

“O-okay.” Lando can do this. He can be careful with Oscar’s feelings and respect them and not break this thing between them. He’s pretty sure.

Oscar chuckles at him and it makes him blink free of his thoughts. “I’m not trying to scare you away, but I’m not going to lie about what I want, Lando.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. I’m just not normally, uh, good at these things?”

“Relationships?”

“Having people stay,” he whispers.

Oscar absorbs that with a knowing nod. “We have time, Lando. I’m staying.”

Oh, how badly he wants to believe that. “You can’t promise that.” In their line of work? Carlos left after two years. Oscar will find something better and go too.

“I can’t promise to always be on the same team,” he agrees. “Our profession is predictably unpredictable. I have goals with this team though and they include you. I’m saying…I promise I’ll stay in all the ways that matter.”

He still thinks it’s a really bad idea, but he’s losing ground and fast.

“This can be a continuing discussion,” Oscar says and swipes his fingers through Lando’s curls. “Right now, I think it’s bed time.”

That sounds good to him too, honestly. He’s still holding the whole weekend in his body and he hit his emotional limit like seven realizations ago.

“C’mon,” Oscar murmurs and he gets Lando down from the counter, finds clean clothes for him too. “Sorry about the bed,” Lando mutters, realizing that Oscar will have to sleep in bedding that he already…

“Not something you need to apologize for, trust me,” his teammate replies and smiles in such a way that Lando actually believes it.

Fucking Oscar Piastri might have him believing all kinds of things. Dangerous, lovely, wonderful, terrifying things.

Chapter Text

Lando fiddles with his pen in a burst of impatience. Clickclickclickclick. He’s been staring at the same data for weeks. The data that shows they’re nowhere and have little hope of getting out of nowhere anytime soon. It’s been over a fortnight since Bahrain and he’s back at the MTC post-Jeddah which was a marginal improvement in the sense that both cars finished the race…and also not an improvement at all because crossing the line in fifteen and seventeenth position between Oscar and him respectively doesn’t get them anything useful.

“Maybe you should take a break? Quick jaunt around the halls?” Avery suggests, eyes stuck on the pen in his grip.

He’s being a nuisance to everyone and he knows it, but what’s he supposed to do when he’s frustrated and bored.

There’s a knocking on the doorframe. “Hi, sorry to interrupt, but could I steal him or is this not a good time?”

His whole body lights up in a burst of elation and his brain switches from the monotonous work in front of him to the thrilling exuberance that becomes one long stream of alphaOscaryesplease and on the heels of it he recognizes how hungry he is. Oscar has a new habit of collecting him at lunchtime so they can eat together and he’s quickly becoming conditioned for it.

Avery is nodding hurriedly. “No, absolutely, he’s completely free.”

Rude. But it does mean he can leave and the break will probably help. Oscar always seems to help too. Lando abandons the pen on the table, grabs his depressing notes and pushes his chair back before rising and rounding to meet the other driver.

Oscar’s smiling face is a refreshing sight. It’s only been a handful of hours since he saw him last, but more and more, Lando’s found he can’t get enough. “Hi,” he says, stepping over the threshold when Oscar prompts him to go through first and then pivoting to face him.

“Hello,” the Australian replies, eyes cascading over Lando as if something might’ve changed since they saw each other this morning. “Hungry?”

He nods and scans down the halls. “Could we eat in your room?”

“We did that yesterday.”

Gah. This alpha and his rules. “Yeah and I want to do it again.”

“No, you want to do other things in my room,” Oscar corrects in a low, knowing tone.

Does Oscar’s mouth have to look so tempting? “And why can’t we?” His voice is bordering on a whine. “I’ve just been in the most boring meeting,” he complains and darts another glance down the hall on either side before reaching out to tug Oscar with him as he backs up into the wall. With only one free hand to use, he slides that touch up the other driver’s forearm before trying to get Oscar to hold his waist. “You can make me…not bored,” he mumbles, looking at his teammate’s shoulders and arms, further down too. Lando likes to think he only recently lost the ability to pretend he isn’t constantly checking Oscar out. It’s not his fault he can’t focus because the Aussie hasn’t let him touch—like really touch him yet. Oh, they’ve had plenty of amazing make-out sessions, but every time he’s gotten hands on Oscar since Bahrain with intention and plans in his mind, the other man has taken control and set sights on making him fall apart instead. It’s starting to become this wiggling, worrying thought in the back of his mind; why doesn’t he want me to touch him?

“I think I’ve made you ‘not bored’ plenty of times lately,” the other driver teases, but he squeezes Lando’s waist and then reaches to cup his jaw, tilting his head to get a better look at him. After a quiet moment of observation and a delicate brush of a thumbprint against his cheek, Oscar nods. “Okay, we’ll get you to my room.”

Lando’s toes curl in his shoes and his next blink comes heavier, relief making him suddenly tired. Or maybe it’s the wanting. The last handful of days he’s fallen asleep rubbing a palm to himself with the vague intention of getting to some kind of satisfying ending, but instead he winds up tucking his face into the sweatshirt of Oscar’s he stole and before he knows it, he’s out. He doesn’t even wake up frustrated. His body seems to be operating at a constant, simmering interest, but the only times it really bubbles over are when he’s with Oscar. “Could I…” he starts before trailing off.

“What?” Oscar’s tilting his head, watching and reading him.

While pushing his tongue to his cheek, Lando weighs the options. The thing is, he does usually, as he’s quickly learning, get what he wants when he communicates. “Could I be on my knees? Just for a bit.”

Oscar doesn’t react to that in any other way than releasing a soft, thoughtful hum. “Yeah,” he agrees after careful consideration, “we can do that. You still need to eat though.”

“I will,” he promises, stunned all over again that the asking worked.

As it turns out, Oscar takes no risks of him bending the food agreement.

After they’ve picked up lunch and are behind the Aussie’s closed—and locked—door, the other driver sits at his office chair. “Come and kneel here,” he instructs, patting one of his spread thighs, pointing to the ground between them.

A thick swallow gets caught in his throat and Lando does what he’s told, even if he doesn’t understand. Oscar said he wanted him to eat…

The ground isn’t hard, thankfully, when he folds himself in front of Oscar.

“Hand me your food.”

Oh. He’s still holding the container. Wordlessly he offers up the boxed lunch. He can’t even recall what he grabbed.

“Comfortable? Do you need something under you?” Oscar asks.

Lando blinks and then shakes his head. “No, it’s okay.”

“Use this anyway.” His teammate offers a spare McLaren jacket that he has over the back of the chair.

Dutifully, he folds the fabric over and places it underneath his knees. He’s focused on the task and not Oscar, so it’s a surprise when he lifts his head and the alpha has his lunch container open. Oscar touches his face then, thumbs across his lips. “Will you open for me?”

Lando’s mouth gets wet with the sudden excitement, the thought of getting something to suck on. All he thought he’d get was a quiet stretch where he could be at the Aussie’s feet, but apparently it’s his lucky day. He opens up eagerly, keeps his eyes on Oscar.

And then this absurd man reaches for the food container and grabs a piece of fruit, sliced cantaloupe to start, and touches it to Lando’s mouth.

On autopilot, he opens wider and accepts it. Chewing and swallowing follow too and he doesn’t know what is happening. The sweet syrupy fruit on his tongue isn’t what he thought he’d get.

“Good,” Oscar praises quietly and Lando’s body gets heavier. He opens his mouth again without prompting and that earns an honest to god smile from the other driver and suddenly warmth is running through his veins.

More fruit follows; strawberries and blueberries and cut up pieces of peach. Oscar feeds all of it to him with great care. Is he going to feed me a whole meal like this? He’s never had someone hand feed him before…never even considered it. Shouldn’t this be awkward? He should feel silly, maybe, but he doesn’t. He’s warm which is so not his default state of being and he could swear the food tastes better coming from Oscar’s hand. Sometimes his lips brush across his teammate’s fingers when he accepts a new piece.

Lando must be doing something right because around the sixth morsel he notices the shape filling out in Oscar’s dark jeans. His stomach swoops and a thrum of arousal makes him shift where he’s kneeling. The next two bites he makes sure to lean farther forward and suck at Oscar’s fingers before he can pull them away. They’re sticky and coated in fruit juice and he wants more. He is hungry. There’s an empty, sore ache inside him that proves it.

A bit of color fills in along Oscar’s cheeks that shows how affected he really is.

After another bite where Lando moans quietly around the burst of flavor and Oscar doesn’t pull his hand back so quickly and he actually gets to move his mouth around his fingers, he can’t take it anymore. He moves a hand to his own crotch, rubs the heel of his palm there, never taking his eyes off the other driver.

“Fuck,” comes the whispered, heated curse off Oscar’s tempting mouth and Lando’s lips part for him.

In a simple series of movements, the other man gets his jeans unbuttoned, the zip lowered and pulls himself out from his boxers.

Lando’s breath leaves him in a shaking, weak exhale. Oscar’s thick already and there’s probably still more to come. The tip of his dick looks reddened and a little wet already and fuck he’s got a nice cock, Lando thinks weakly.

Oscar runs his hand up and down himself, reaches out to coax Lando closer with the other, brushing his thumb across his lips again. “Open this mouth for me, yeah?”

He makes some kind of affirmative noise and does so with a desperate eagerness. Finally, he’s going to be allowed to touch.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Oscar praises and this time he feeds Lando something other than fruit.

The stretch of his lips is noticeable immediately and he’s not sure there’s much he can take of Oscar, but he wants to so bad. Lando fists his hands in his lap and keeps his eyes open as Oscar guides himself in.

“Perfect,” Oscar is murmuring. The rise and fall of his chest is annoyingly steady even when he’s filling him up. “You look—fucking unbelievable. Can you give me a suck?”

Lando does his best, his cheeks hollowing out, there’s just not very much room. He wiggles his tongue along the bottom.

“Yes, ahuh, so good, sweetheart,” Oscar breathes. “You can move for me, can’t you? Just a little? I know it’s a lot, you’re doing so well.”

This is the part Lando’s really not good at. Something in his mouth, like front of his mouth, and okay, that’s fine. Moving that around usually triggers the gag reflex, but he wants it so fucking much. He doesn’t even have half of what’s available.

Spreading his palms wide over his own thighs, he shuffles closer and Oscar helps him as he starts to bob his head, moving his mouth up and down over what is probably just two inches even if it feels like more than twice that.

He wants to be embarrassed, but the other driver’s endless encouragement and sweet words override everything it turns out. He relaxes into the repetitive motion and the thick weight rubbing over his tongue is just the right stimulation to have the volume of his thoughts turning down. Lando spends he’s not even sure how long moving at a steady pace between the protected, cradled space of Oscar’s thighs.

“You like sucking alpha cock?” Oscar murmurs at one point and it takes Lando out of his head and throws him right back into his body, into the knowledge that his underwear is steadily becoming damp with slick and he’s so fucking empty he’s been lazily clamping his muscles down on nothing.

He moans around his mouthful and speeds up, giving a harder suck that earns a low, amused laugh. “Yeah that’s what I thought.” There’s a touch at the corner of his mouth and then he hears, “you’re good at it too. Let’s give you more, hm?”

Oscar touches the back of his head and guides him to take another inch and he expects it to not even work, to bump against the back of his throat and have him pulling off. But no. Instead, Oscar nudges deeper like it’s nothing and all Lando feels is the pleasurable sensation of taking what this alpha is offering. “Look at that. God you’re so good like this, spread around me,” Oscar groans, rubbing his warm palm over Lando’s cheek.

Never before has someone been so vocal when he’s blowing them. It’s typically more of a silent event aside from the sounds of his clumsy lips working. Or when someone would try to get him to take more…the resulting choking and coughing. He always just took the quiet as a fairly good gauge that he wasn’t great at it, but Oscar can’t seem to stop complimenting his mouth.

“Jesus, Lando,” the other man grunts when he sits up taller on his knees and starts trying to go for more. “Fuck, that mouth,” he says, voice deep and raking.

He’s smug and powerful in this place. All these noises he can drag from Oscar’s chest? Those belong to him and him alone. He fucking earned every single one of them.

“So eager, uh?” Oscar mumbles, resetting his grip through Lando’s curls, getting firmer with it. “Should I pull your hair? Is that something you like?”

Lando’s mouth is so wet there’s saliva running down the length of Oscar where he can’t reach. His eyes close as he makes a sucking, begging noise around the thick of him.

The hand in his hair tugs and it’s an abrupt reminder that Oscar’s got the kind of grip strength that could do some serious damage if he wanted or if he simply forgot himself for a moment. It’s not as if Lando isn’t strong, but in an arm wrestling contest against the Aussie…yeah, he wouldn’t bet on himself to come out winning that. The realization makes him hotter, a flush of heat rushing straight to where he’s hard and trapped in his jeans. He almost wants to know what that would be like, Oscar losing control.

Under that strong hand, Lando whimpers and melts, his jaw softens and suddenly that width stretching him edges deeper. It feels so good to open up to it. The head of Oscar’s cock meets the resistance at the back of his throat and…he doesn’t gag. His throat tenses, but there’s no dramatic coughing or watering eyes, no immediate demand to pull away.

A shocked, muffled, turned on moan escapes him and he doesn’t understand. Maybe Oscar’s cock is like magic, his horny brain offers, thoughts turning to mush.

“Oh you do like that,” Oscar murmurs. His grip flexes and he pries Lando off a moment later.

He whines and tries to fight it, scooting closer and sticking out his tongue, but his head tilts when Oscar’s grip doesn’t let him get far. Lando’s panting and there’s spit running down the corners of his mouth, dripping off his tongue.

All Oscar lets him do at first is watch while he works his hand over himself. The other man collects all the mess he’s been letting slip down the length of him and uses that to slick his strokes. It’s so wet and the sound makes him crave it back. His cock looks so fucking hot, wet from Lando’s efforts and hard because of it.

“O-Oscar,” he begs.

“Yeah, go on,” the alpha allows, finally giving Lando back his newest obsession. “You’re gonna let me fuck this pretty mouth, aren’t you?” he adds, waiting for one of Lando’s broken groans before he rocks up into his mouth.

“That’s a good boy,” Oscar says, petting through Lando’s hair and starting to gently thrust against his tongue. “Fucking perfect omega for me.”

Lando’s brain goes so quiet. He’s used sex for this effect before, but this is that multiplied by a thousand. He never wants to get off his knees, never wants to not be between Oscar’s legs. By the time his teammate is urging his head down while simultaneously fucking up to get deeper into his mouth, he gains the awareness that he’s probably going to come like this. He took his hand off himself ages ago, but he doesn’t think he can move it back. Judging by how wet he is and the cresting waves of pleasure rocking through him every time Oscar compliments his mouth, he genuinely doesn’t think the contact is needed.

It’s the best he’s ever felt, so he doesn’t understand when, minutes later, the other driver tries to pull him away again. This time, he fights it more, puts his strength behind it, goes so far as to reach up and try to push Oscar’s grip off which is the part that finally works—the alpha lets go in an instant.

“L-lando.”

He doesn’t want to be told to stop, so he tries to work harder because maybe if he does more then it’ll be good enough for Oscar. Careless of his own comfort, or if what he’s doing is appealing, he tries to take too much too fast.

“Ah, s-shit! Lando,” Oscar growls.

Between one second and the next he goes from actively trying to choke himself on Oscar’s cock to actually choking when the alpha comes down his throat and fills his mouth.

He’s an absolute dumbass. The alpha above him was trying to be considerate.

Lando jerks back until he’s just got his lips around the head, but he has to open his mouth, has to swallow. He coughs first and that makes an even bigger mess, but at least he can take a full breath of air after. There’s strings of white connecting his mouth to Oscar’s leaking cockhead.

This is yet another thing he’s never found appealing in the past, has typically avoided if possible, but there’s something delicious to the mess of it this time, to how dark Oscar’s warm brown eyes have become. Lando swallows what’s in his mouth, uses two fingers to push what’s gone over his chin back up between his lips before leaning forward to lick up the drops still coming. He gets back to work, bobs his head some more too.

Oscar releases a weak swear and cups Lando’s jawline before stroking himself, working anything that’s left out for him. “One more suck for me,” the alpha murmurs.

With a happy hum, Lando hollows his cheeks and does as he’s told.

The other driver chuckles breathlessly again and it’s a low and rough sound. “F-fuck, that’s right, you wanted all of that didn’t you?”

Lando’s eyelids get heavier and he makes an agreeing noise, gives another gentle suck.

“Alright, alright,” Oscar groans before making him ease off with a soft pop. “Show me what you’ve got there,” he says.

Uhn, Lando thinks through a fog of pleasure. He opens again, tilts his head so he can show Oscar the final portion of come he’s collected.

“Yeah,” Oscar says in a low, turned on voice. “Good boy, you earned that. You can swallow, omega, just show me again after.”

It’s not like he’s about to start disobeying now. Lando swallows it all, reveling in how avidly Oscar’s staring at his throat when he does. He sticks out his tongue after, feels like a proper slut for doing it too, but in the best way possible. Every moment of this has been more and better than he’s ever been able to think up on his own.

Oscar swipes his hand through his hair again and he shuts his eyes for a moment, leans into the touch.

He’s ready for a nap, but Oscar folds forward to get at his pants and he doesn’t understand it until there’s a hand pushing into his boxers and cupping over where he’s wet and steadily softening.

His teammate lets out a choked sound of surprise. “Did you come untouched?”

Lando makes a pitiful affirmative mewl and humps into where Oscar’s feeling him up and running his fingers through the mess. If this alpha wants more, he thinks his body would give it.

The other man groans like someone punched him in the gut and he presses a kiss to Lando’s hairline. Oscar even reaches past his balls, moans again when he touches slick. “You’re drenched,” he mumbles, awed. “This how wet you always get?”

“N-no,” he answers. “J-just since you—a-ah!”

Oscar rubs one finger over his hole and a fresh pulse of slick answers him. At least that time they moan together.

He’s sensitive and weak, but if Oscar wanted him, he’d do that. He’d do it right here, maybe bent over the desk, he thinks with a shiver.

“This is all for me, then, hm? Perfect, slick hole ready for me to take and you’re not even in heat,” Oscar groans.

“Y-yes,” Lando whines low and quiet. “It’syours,” comes out strung together and almost slurred.

The finger pressing against him rubs with more intention before Oscar takes his hand back and Lando’s left watching while the alpha sticks that slick drenched digit between his own lips and sucks it clean.

His brain makes some kind of whimpering, staticky sound and he inadvertently spreads his knees wider against the McLaren jacket below him. He’s never done it before which is why it takes a few broken seconds to figure out that the urge almost making him move is the instinct to turn around and present himself for this alpha. The thought of getting face down on the floor of Oscar’s office with his hips raised high, of the other driver watching his every move and making him wait for agonizing seconds while he drips slick onto the carpet…it makes his eyes glaze over and his dick gives a weak twitch of interest.

Oscar leans down to kiss him then and it’s a balm over all these new and intense desires. Even between thorough kisses, Oscar murmurs soothingly about how wonderful and amazing and good he is. “Never seen anything so perfect before,” the Aussie remarks, stroking at his cheeks.

He’s a wreck, his clothes are ruined and Lando has the delirious thought that his initial impression of Oscar was thinking he was meh. He would laugh if he wasn’t so wrung out. “Oscar,” he mumbles, it seems to be one of only a handful of words in his vocabulary anymore.

“Yeah, that was a lot, wasn’t it?” the other driver affirms. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m going to message Avery that you’re feeling sick; that’ll buy you time to nap a little and eat your food before you have to get in the sim,” he says.

Lando’s helpless to do anything but make a faint, agreeing sound. Yet again, he finds himself under Oscar’s care and it’s…wholly encompassing. “Stay here,” the alpha instructs at one juncture, giving him a lingering kiss before disappearing for three minutes (Lando doesn’t have anything else to do but count, sue him) and returning with spare clothes from Lando’s work closet. There’s an attached, private bathroom between their work offices so clean-up is too easy.

He can’t believe he got Oscar to have sex at work. And the other man doesn’t look like he regrets it either. That might be a hang-up from his past, he realizes when there’s a stab of anxiety that tries to convince him he’s about to get scolded or guilted for being too needy, too…demanding. That they shouldn’t do these things, that this was a mistake, a lapse in judgement.

The anxiety has nowhere to grow when Oscar pauses to kiss him at least once every step of the process. He winds up sat in the alpha’s chair, sipping from a water bottle with #81 on it and watching quietly while his teammate re-dresses in fresh pants.

“So you’ve been stealing my sweatshirts, huh?” Oscar asks out of the blue, doing up the button on his jeans before adjusting his shirt.

Lando blinks and gulps the water in his mouth before pulling the bottle away. “Only the one,” he answers, trying for innocence while he cringes internally. He knows; how the fuck does he know?

“The black one? Hm, you see, I remember that one going missing, but I seem to have lost a McLaren one about a week ago too. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

Lando sinks an inch lower in the seat and shakes his head. “Nope. Sounds like you need to keep better tabs on your stuff.”

Oscar raises a judging eyebrow and he shrinks even deeper, lifts the water bottle to partially hide behind as well.

“Ahuh, so the one I just saw in your room when I went to grab your clothes was some other alpha’s hoodie?”

Damn.

“…yes?”

A smile curls one side of Oscar’s mouth and he steps closer before leaning down to put his hands to each of the arms on the chair. “You’re allowed to take them, Lando. I like it. I wouldn’t mind getting to see you in them at some point because I think that’d be pretty cute, but I can settle for just knowing you have them,” he says with a steady openness that Lando can’t look away from. Who talks like this? Who just says exactly what they’re thinking. What kind of mind game is that?

“You…like it?” Better to be doubly sure.

He gets a kiss for that, though he’s not sure why. “Yes. Think you’d look good that way, mine are a bit bigger than yours. And you like being warm and cozy. Do you sleep in it too?”

“Sometimes,” he says and then nods anyway. He gives up every secret as if hypnotized. “It’s in my bed, so…yeah.”

“Your bed, huh? Wouldn’t mind seeing that either,” Oscar murmurs.

It’s the stupid eye contact that Oscar is always obsessed with having. Lando has to suck in a breath, his fingers slipping on the water bottle and then clenching to hold it tighter. How many times has he fantasized about this man in his bed by this point? So, so many, he thinks. If Oscar can make him come like this in his work office, what could he do with a whole bed? “O-okay.”

Oscar’s eyes slip to the side and he reaches out to tug Lando’s lunch closer. “Remember to eat. I have a meeting I have to make, but I’ll find you when you're done with the sim work, alright?”

“You’re leaving?” Ugh. He sounds like a child. They’re at work, of course Oscar has to go; they both have jobs they have to do.

With a smooth bend of his knees, Oscar crouches down to be more at even eye level with him and touches the top of his leg, rubs the spot comfortingly. “That’s sort of the compromise of being able to take the extra time with you now,” he explains. “Believe me, I’d rather stay here, but I’m meeting with Zak for a check-in.”

Yeah…not much wiggle room with that. He pouts about it anyway.

“Are you busy tonight?” Oscar wants to know.

Lando shakes his head.

“How about you ask me over…we could have dinner. You can show me the hoodie you stole and explain all the reasons it suits you more than me.”

The Australian’s being really sweet and trying to make him feel better and the most worrying part of it is how effective it is. He likes the picture Oscar’s painting and how there’s a place just for him in it. He blushes for embarrassing, foolish reasons. “Oscar?” he asks obediently.

“Mm?” The other driver strokes across his thigh.

“Would you wanna come over to my place tonight?”

“Yeah, course I do,” Oscar replies in a fond tone.

Lando fights a smile and loses that battle completely. It’s whatever. Not a big deal.

The other driver gets into his personal bubble and he doesn’t have to think before tilting toward him, accepting the kiss like this isn’t something new, like they’ve been doing this a lot longer than a couple weeks.

“Just a few hours,” his teammate promises against his lips. “Eat,” is the last reminder he gives along with a final kiss before Oscar gets up and has to go.

The office has evidence of the Australian all around…the water bottle in his hands for one, the McLaren jacket with ‘Piastri’ on the back, the stack at the desk corner of fan letters and art. He pulls those papers closer and shuffles through them, smiling at the doodles and then pausing at a letter clearly written in a child’s hand.

In the lower edge of the page it says: Cameron Roldan, Age: 7, Alpha. It’s the designation that draws his eye and makes him start to read. It’s not unlike the letters Lando gets from young omegas that want to become a professional driver just like him, but this hits differently. Cameron’s written a whole page front and back about how much it means to see Oscar, an alpha, get a seat with McLaren. There’s a ‘P.S.’ at the bottom asking if Oscar would team up with Max Verstappen one day because they think an all-alpha team would be ‘so, so sick!’

It’s an adorable thing to come across, but it also makes Lando worry about what they’re doing. They’re keeping things quiet; no one from work knows yet. Not even Jon. And given how closely his trainer sticks to him, it’s impressive Lando’s managed this long without something about them being discovered. He doesn’t want to be a reason that gets Oscar in trouble and he really can’t stand the idea of becoming a regret. Isn’t that what usually happens though? People find him of interest until they don’t and then later they wonder what the hell they were doing with him in the first place anyway.

Oscar’s place in the team is important for a lot of people. For kids like Cameron, he represents an entire dream and there’s a lot more than one young alpha looking to him for inspiration.

What happens to that inspiration if people find out that they’re…closer than normal teammates. Lando’s teeth find his lower lip because he can already imagine the bullshit that would kick up. Assuming McLaren would somehow be cool with it, which Lando highly doubts, public opinion would be awful. With their dynamic…people will be much more likely to see it as Oscar influencing or manipulating him. It becomes a mess. It becomes something a rookie driver should never have to deal with.

He’s started to forget that part the last week or so. Oscar doesn’t feel younger to him and there’s only flashes of moments when he recalls that the alpha is new to F1.

Considering all those elements…Lando still wants. He wants Oscar on a level that feels ridiculous. He wants him in his home and he wants him at work and he wants him during race weekends. That’s gotta be asking for too much, right?

Against the desk, his phone lights up with a message from Oscar and he tugs the device close before unlocking it.

-Stop overthinking. And eat the rest of your lunch.-

In an empty room with no one else to see, the back of Lando’s neck gets warm. He likes this absurd man and how much he sees. He likes being taken care of. With a flutter in his stomach, Lando taps at the keyboard and sends back:

-bossy-

-more like worried-

It’s blunt and straightforward and it makes him grin. He reaches out to pull his lunch container closer, but he texts again too.

-what if im full?-

-my jaw hurts 🥺-

The length of the pause before he gets a reply is amusing all on its own.

-Sounds like you need to be stretched more often then.-

His throat dries out as he stares at the message and rereads it. Every time he thinks he’s got the upper hand, Oscar pulls out a line like that. He rubs a finger over his swollen lips and folds immediately.

-ok u win 😇-

A text promising that he’ll eat gets sent along right after because as much as he likes acting the brat, praise is better.

-Good. I usually do.-

Lando’s fine letting Oscar believe that because he’s pretty sure it’s actually him coming out on top of this deal.

Chapter Text

Having Oscar over to his place doesn’t go how he thought it would. There’s no sex, for one thing. Not even any messy makeouts. Instead, he gets doting, purposeful kisses, comforting nuzzles and little touches on his waist that make his stomach flip and it turns out the Aussie can cook. Or at least follow the instructions on the packaged ready-to-cook meal prepped in Lando’s fridge. Basically the same thing though and definitely impressive because it’s way more than he can manage by himself. Everything under Lando’s supervision has a tendency to end up forgotten and burnt.

He seats himself on his kitchen counters while Oscar rummages through the cupboards and pulls out the singular pan he owns and a spatula. Lando would normally feel the itch to pick up his phone, but he’s doing alright just watching this new discovery play out in front of him.

“What else can you cook?” he wonders, skating his eyes over the Aussie’s shoulders, admiring the way they fill out his shirt.

Oscar shrugs. “Basic stuff, nothing super exciting. Training meals; lots of chicken. Fish,” he adds as an afterthought and glances at Lando with a fond smile.

Lando makes a face and sticks out a leg to kick at the other driver’s thigh.

The alpha catches his ankle and shakes his head with affection. “Settle down, I wouldn’t ever make that for you, obviously.”

“Better not.”

There’s a squeeze to his heel before the other driver lets him go.

“Your time in the sim was alright?” Oscar asks.

“Yeah, fine. More of the same.”

“You could concentrate, though?”

He shoves his hands into the pouch of his sweatshirt, tries to ignore the warmth in his face. “Yeah, it was better…after.” After drooling and moaning all over your cock, is what he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“That’s good,” Oscar replies and he does look pleased. Not in a self-satisfied way, just genuinely happy for him.

Weirdo, he thinks with no small amount of softness. He rubs his socked toes together, swings his feet a bit. “It always gonna be like that? We’re compatible so, what, I need orgasms from you to feel better?” He has no idea how all of this is supposed to work.

“It’s more than orgasms.” Oscar pours a bit of oil in the pan and tilts it around to distribute it evenly. “Spending time together, sharing space,” he explains, gesturing between how they are currently, “that can be calming and balancing on its own. My scent helps. You know that part already though, it’s why you’ve been snagging my stuff. And why you’re sleeping with it nearby.”

All he can manage in response is a faint hum because it’s embarrassing. And new. But seeing as how Oscar did bring it up first… “Will you take off your blocker now?” It’s the one thing that’d been missing earlier, but he understands why they couldn’t at the time.

“Oh, sure.” Oscar steps back from the stove and reaches up to peel off the patch, gets it thrown away. He wets a paper towel and rubs over the spot to clear off the residual neutralizer. “Better?”

When the rich smell of chocolate reaches him, he almost sighs, and has to put effort into not sniffing the air with intent. Plenty of people have pleasant scents, but Oscar’s feels like it was designed for him particularly. He nods and folds forward to reach and grab at Oscar’s shirt sleeve, tugging.

Oscar relents, but says, “I will have to use the stove, you know, if we’re wanting to eat tonight.”

Lando ignores that and reels the other driver between his legs, gets his arms around his shoulders so he can duck down and shove his nose as close as he can to that warm, delicious scent. The alpha smells like the Kinder chocolate that he guiltily sneaks whenever he can (or occasionally overindulges in post-heats) but better. It’s creamy and scrummy and he wants every bit of it for himself. Thinking of fucking, Logan Sargeant having Oscar’s shirts makes him want to bare his teeth. No one should have any bit of this but him.

His teammate’s hands land high up his thighs as he curls into the contact. “Alright?” Oscar checks after Lando hasn’t moved for over a minute.

“Yeah, m’okay.” Doesn’t make him wanna pull away though.

“You going to get upset if I go back to cooking now?”

It’s largely a tease, but there’s a thread of seriousness sewn in the lower layers, between the words.

Lando sighs and releases the other driver. “No,” he pouts.

With a chuckle, Oscar brushes his lips to his cheek before going back to the stove, adding in the contents of the package.

“So…” he begins over the sound of sizzling meat and vegetables, trying to sound cavalier, “are you and Logan still doing the scent sharing thing?” It’s been in the back of his mind. Not like him and Oscar have agreed to being anything exclusive. Even if they have done things that Lando’s never let anyone else so much as try. He wants to convince himself that he’d just prefer a warning before the next race weekend if the other two are going to be closer. It’s a home race for Oscar, so maybe they have some kind of ritual or something.

“He still has some of my shirts, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ll tell him to give them back.”

He makes it sound so easy. Lando fiddles with his sweatshirt sleeves. “Will that…fuck him up or something?”

Oscar pauses with the food, adjusts the heat down slightly to better turn and devote attention his way. “He’ll have to find something else to be soothing, but I wouldn’t worry about it. He’ll understand when I—well, I don’t have to give specifics if you’d rather I not tell him, but he’ll still get it if I let him know I’m interested in someone.”

Interested. The word rolls around his brain, seeking a good place to land. “Just interested?” Is he not sure yet? God, has Lando jumped ahead already?

Discerning brown eyes read him very quickly. “Lando…are you trying to have the ‘what are we’ conversation?”

Oh, fuck no. So much of his body rejects that concept outright. It never ends well. “N-no, I was just—I wasn’t doing that.”

Oscar’s smiling at him, crossing his arms as he leans back into the countertop. “Lando, I honestly don’t think we’d be compatible like this, to this extreme, if I didn’t like you as much as I do. Why do you think I suggested this date?”

“What date? This?” he asks, shocked. Is this a date?

“I’m making you dinner, what did you think was going on?” Oscar wants to know.

“I—” In his defense, when he does go on the rare date, it’s usually more…outside? There’s usually some fancy restaurant involved too and definitely nicer clothes. He’s in one of his oldest sweatshirts; there are stains on it from long gaming weekends spent stuffing his face with junk food and takeout. Oh god, I’m on a date and I look horrendous. His face flushes anew because yeah, he definitely thought Oscar would’ve had him naked by this point, he’d been half-thinking that ‘dinner’ was just a euphemism for sex. Y’ know, like most people his age would in his situation! “I’m gonna go lay down in the road or something,” he mumbles, eyes the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

“Lando,” Oscar chuckles, stepping in to stop any potential escape, “you’re alright.”

“No, this is so embarrassing! I thought—ugh,” he lets out a disgusted noise with himself and pulls the edge of the sweatshirt up over his mouth.

“I can see how you would get that impression after earlier. I really wouldn’t have left you alone like that if I didn’t have to. Plus, a date seemed overdue anyway,” the alpha says, reaching up to catch his cheek. “Don’t you think?” Gently, Oscar tugs the fabric down, thumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“’m not dressed for a date,” is what he says.

“I think you look nice,” Oscar promises with earnest eyes. “Comfortable. It’s good cuddling attire, yeah?”

That’s definitely true. Almost against his will, Lando feels the tension leaking away. “I guess…”

“That was kind of my plan for after dinner,” the other driver shares. “Thought we could put on a movie or something. How’s that sound?”

It’s not what he expected for the evening, but it does sound nice. The savory smell of the food is starting to make his stomach take notice and he is quite hungry. A quiet night home, a low-pressure date with nothing but cuddles and occasional kisses… “Yeah, alright,” he mumbles. For all the embarrassment and general fretting, Oscar makes a point of touching him and offering sweet presses of his lips until he’s back to being more open and relaxed.

The food is good. So good that it must just be because someone else made it and definitely not because it’s warm and filling and every bite serves as a reminder that this alpha prepared it specifically for him, made sure to dish him out first and everything. He’s not sure why that would even matter, but he gets warm around the ears about it anyway.

They put a movie on and cuddle and he winds up falling asleep with his nose buried against Oscar’s collar. He’s pretty sure that makes him like, the most boring date ever, but when Oscar wakes him up during the credits because he has to go to his own apartment, he’s looking at him so softly that it’s hard to believe the alpha didn't enjoy himself. An absolute loon, this man, he thinks before sleepily demanding that his teammate give him his shirt if he’s going to leave. Yup, Oscar’s definitely the weird one here.

Melbourne looks different to him than it has in the past and it’s no surprise why.

Oscar flew early to spend extra time home with his family before the race weekend, so Lando hasn’t technically seen him for…well, about four days. Long enough that he feels every one of those days as an increasingly impatient neediness. It’s not like they haven’t talked. Oscar texts regularly and late at night they facetime—well, Oscar’s night—for Lando it’s afternoon and he’s been shoring up in his office during lunch to take those calls. He’s listened to the Aussie talk about his sisters and all the family that have cleared their calendar to see him; he sounds happy. Lando’s not about to make any of this week—this very important week—about himself. So he mostly listens and he doesn’t mention that he’s generally felt crummy and hasn’t been sleeping great. Even having the stolen pieces of the alpha’s wardrobe in his bed can’t stave off all of whatever has him feeling so down. He’s used to not sleeping anyway. A few shitty nights won’t kill him.

When he flies in, the sights draw his eye to totally mundane things that make him think of Oscar. Doesn’t help that the city has plastered his name and photo over everything. The airport is particularly decorated. It feels a bit like he’s seeing the country anew. He keeps pondering where the other driver likes to go when he’s here, what his favorites are.

It being a home race for the alpha, he knew Oscar would be a hot ticket item, but he really thought he’d at least see him for a private handful of minutes around the team schedule and before they have to delve into the fast paced rhythm of the weekend. Instead, when they first see each other in person it’s for a team debrief on Thursday and they have a whole conference table separating them. Lando sits up straighter in his seat the second Oscar enters the room, but he can’t do much more than give a greeting and try not to look so eager. He wants to jump him. In a sex way, sure, but what he wants even more is a freaking hug. Four days has no right to feel as long as it has.

Oscar’s brown eyes seek him out and his mouth tilts into an uneven smile when he spots him. “Hey there.”

“Hello,” he says, swallowing around his sudden dry throat. And because his brain is actually so dumb, he mouths a silent, echoing ‘hi.’

That gets a full grin from the alpha and he copies him, mouths ‘hi’ back as he makes himself comfortable in his own chair.

Lando stuffs his hoodie sleeve over his mouth to hide a smile and tugs his notebook closer for something to do. For the first time, he wishes the team didn’t have such strict blocker rules. He wants that rich, chocolatey scent all over him.

The meeting is difficult to focus on, but they’re mostly going over PR stuff and it’s nothing he hasn’t heard a few hundred times before. He watches Oscar talk, realizes belatedly that the Aussie got his hair cut since being home. It must’ve happened yesterday because he didn’t look like this last time they chatted over video. He kind of misses the longer swoops of hair…

Suffice to say, he catches on a bit late when the meeting comes to an end. Oscar doesn’t though, he moves at the same pace as everyone else, leaving Lando to scramble around for his things and hope the other driver doesn’t just leave again. He’s seriously worried when another employee strikes up conversation with his teammate, but Oscar merely replies with a few simple words before waving them off with a casual laugh. Did he miss me at all? God, what is wrong with him?

“…no, I thought I’d walk the track with Lando.”

He’s like a dog hearing the word ‘treat’ when Oscar says his name. Perks right up.

“That good with you?” the alpha asks, opening up in his direction.

“Yeah, ’s good,” he agrees, too fast and inching closer.

Little fact about Lando? Yeah, he doesn’t usually do track walks anymore. Not on foot at least. His back just can’t fucking handle it—it’s an ongoing thing that’s only gotten worse in the last year or so. The ground effect of the car is killer and he’s tried several different setups to adjust, even a handful of seat redesigns too. It all sorta helps, but nothing has been a fix-all. It’s a partial reason why he’s so shit at sleeping these days. When he was a little younger, it was because his brain wouldn’t shut up and now it’s because his brain won’t shut up and his back aches. For the first time in his career, he’s had to start stretching before he jumps in the car. Not like simple stretches that he’s used to either—no, it’s a full twenty to thirty minute routine and that’s not even counting the mirrored time he has to spend doing similar moves after he’s out of the car as well. And when he doesn’t follow through with the stretches? Yeah, that shit’s fucking noticeable. Sometimes takes days to recover. He’s too young to feel like this old of a man.

The point is, he didn’t think of any of that before he agreed to start pacing off into the distance with Oscar beside him and a few papaya team shirts trailing behind. Oscar’s the one with longer legs and he slows his steps to keep pace with him which is thoughtful; tall people don’t usually think to do that. They’re lucky it’s not raining at the moment, the forecast showed mixed conditions for the next few days.

“Hello,” Oscar murmurs, his whole voice changing. With Lando, his tone becomes softer, fondness shining through. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder.

“We said hello earlier,” Lando replies, eyeing the cloudy sky with skepticism.

“Yeah, I know, but that was in front of the team. It’s different. How are you?”

“I’m alright.” It’s not about me. He’s quick to switch the question around. “What about you? How was, uh, all the special press stuff they’ve got you doing?”

Oscar shrugs, “not so bad. It’s cool being on the other side of things here. Just a little surreal.” He sends Lando a private smile. “Someone told me they’re expecting to break the attendance record during the weekend.”

“Makes sense. Between you and even Daniel being a reserve, they’ll go mad for it. Two Aussies?” He shakes his head teasingly.

“And you’ve been teammates with both of them,” Oscar replies, pondering. “Here’s a question: who do you like better for a teammate, me or Daniel?”

“Well, we haven’t been teammates all that long.”

“Sorry, did I ask too soon?”

Lando can’t stop smiling. “Yeah, maybe just a bit. I don’t know that I’ve seen enough to make that call.”

“Ah, alright. My bad,” Oscar says, nodding sensibly and sticking his hands in his pockets. He looks down as he walks and there’s a grin at the corner of his mouth that Lando wants to kiss. “I’ll ask again mid-season.”

They’re not the only ones out for a track walk. Before long the sound of bicycle wheels and pedals can be heard approaching quite quickly. When they both glance over their shoulders, the signature red gives it away instantly.

Carlos zooms by on Lando’s right, cutting quite close in a playful manner, the beta grinning and pulling a wide loop to circle back around behind them and match their much more sedate pace. The interruption isn’t his favorite development, but the Ferrari drivers shouldn’t linger long. Charles falls into place on his own bicycle at Oscar’s end of their little group.

“You could’ve hit me with that move, nearly ran over my foot,” Lando complains without heat.

The Spaniard reaches out to mess up his hair, a move that Lando dodges. “Nonsense, I barely grazed you. Ay, your hair is so long, you need to cut it, Lando.”

He self-consciously fiddles with the curly strands that are getting a little long he supposes.

“It’s a good length, looks good,” Oscar says from his left side, keeping the words lower for only his ears.

It’s a warming comment and he peeks at the alpha only to find his teammate watching Carlos with hard eyes.

Huh.

On autopilot, he banters with Carlos and gets more ribbing in return. Just as he thought, Charles and Carlos don't stick around long and he watches as they pedal off down the road a few minutes later. And to think he used to be so fucking upset about Charles just existing, hated losing the Spaniard to another omega. He doesn’t actually know if those two have something going, sometimes it certainly looks that way. Thank fucking god he doesn’t care anymore.

“He touches you a lot.”

Lando blinks in surprise, looks from where Carlos’ form is in the distance and back to Oscar. “He’s pretty touchy in general,” he agrees. “Always has been.” It was overwhelming and flattering when they first started out as teammates; Carlos could dish out attention and affection and make you feel special. It was an easy thing to become addicted to. He learned his lesson with that. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Oscar comments, looking at him with that factual steadiness he always has.

“With people he gets on with. He does the same with Charles. You get used to it.”

The other driver makes a noncommittal sound before asking a question about their setup for practice tomorrow. It’s an odd transition. Is he jealous?

His low back only starts to protest towards the end of their trek, so he got lucky this time. Jon’s not gonna be happy with him if he finds out, though. If he stretches extra tonight, it should be fine. It was worth it to have a little bit of semi-private time together.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Oscar says when they have to go their separate ways once again.

“You will? I thought you were going out with your family again?”

“No, they’re coming tomorrow and throughout the weekend. I’m getting plenty of family time. I haven’t seen you in days, though,” Oscar murmurs, reaching out to give a light tug at the bottom hem of Lando’s McLaren hoodie. “I should be just down the hall from you at the hotel.”

“O-okay, you’re sure? It’s really fine if you want to hang out with other people. You’ve probably got friends here that would like to see you. You see me all the time.”

Oscar grins then, “yeah, I’m sure. I’ll text you.” Then his teammate fits his hand to the area between his shoulder and neck, squeezes affectionately before letting the contact slide away down the length of his arm.

Lando’s left with a swirling, thumping interest behind his navel when the other driver departs. He’s not totally sure Oscar meant that to be innocent. After that, he keeps a mental countdown going of the hours left before he’ll see his teammate again.

It’s late when the knock on his door comes and he hops up from where he’s been stretching on the floor to answer. His back isn’t awful, but it could be a hell of a lot better.

“He—!” Lando doesn’t even get to finish his greeting before Oscar’s tugging him close by the band of his sweatpants and kissing him deeply. The door shuts behind them, the lock engaging automatically with a soft click. ”Mmh,” he moans, opening up for the deluge of contact. Oh, he thinks with excitement, I was right about earlier.

Oscar’s not fucking around. He palms back to his ass, squeezing in a way that tells him the other driver’s been wanting to do that for awhile. His teammate breaks away briefly just to pick him up under the thighs so he can walk them to the nearest flat surface. It’s a table, desk thing in the entryway of his room. He’s never had the other man act this rushed and desperate. Oscar pulls his sweatpants and boxers down, letting them bunch around his calves while he gets his own jeans undone enough to pull his cock out. He gasps between devouring kisses and Oscar gets a fucking travel size bottle of lube from his back pocket, slicks himself, runs a cursory touch over Lando, enough to encourage him to harden up even faster before grabbing him by the hips and grinding them together.

jesusholychristfuuuck

His mouth falls open and he loses the ability to kiss back in any kind of skillful way when Oscar places him close to the table edge and starts thrusting forward. Whatever’s on the table rattles and when the alpha gets particularly enthusiastic, the whole desk knocks into the wall, filling the room with the sounds of Lando’s moans and a distinct thudding that’s hard to write off as anything other than what it is.

“Been thinking about this all day,” Oscar groans, looking between Lando’s spread thighs to watch the slide of them against one another. “All week,” he adds, putting his mouth to Lando’s jaw, kissing down to his neck.

Oscar smells like he wants him too, the depth in the richness and the warm notes all pointing toward desire. It’s delicious and better than dessert. This alpha could fill him right up, easily.

Lando likes everything about this a lot, but his back…not so much. He grunts under his breath at one point in a decidedly not sexy way and quickly changes it to something better, covering his slip up with panting gasps of Oscar’s name. Instinctively, he fits a hand over the other man’s bicep, holds on for dear life while getting absolutely railed. Every new thing they do is the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. He drops his head back, offering up the entire stretch of his neck for the other driver.

“Y-you okay? What’s wrong?” Oscar doesn’t exactly stop moving, but he slows and lightens the intensity.

God, his fucking beaten up body. “N-nothing, I’m good, keep going,” he urges, trying to shove his hips up.

No dice. The alpha all over him is too perceptive. “You’re in pain.”

A weak, upset whine escapes from his throat when Oscar pulls farther back.

“What is it? Where do you hurt?”

“’s just my low back. Happens sometimes, it’s okay. Please don’t stop. I-I want it.”

“We don’t have to stop, but you should’ve told me this hurt,” Oscar chastises in a gentle voice. “Would the bed feel better?”

“Probably,” he agrees.

When Oscar lifts him up with care and takes him to the bed, he mournfully peeks over his shoulder as he’s walked away from the lovely little desk he was really enjoying.

“When’d you get hurt, hm? You’re alright to get in the car tomorrow?”

This is an embarrassing conversation to be having when they’re very much still pressed together and slick all over. “It’s an ongoing thing, for like the last year,” he mumbles. “We’re trying different things for it. Can we not talk about this right now?”

Oscar pets over his hair as he eases them both onto the bed, lays him out with concerned eyes that roam his body. “Alright, just let me know if this feels better,” the Aussie instructs.

“Yeah, it’s good,” he confirms, nodding. There's more support under him and it’s softer, allowing the tight muscles in his back to at least rest against something more comfortable.

Thankfully, the other man brushes his cheek before kissing him again and he can’t have ruined it all completely because Lando feels him still hard where their hips meet. Rather than getting ravished, Oscar gets his hand wrapped around both of them, starting with slow, thorough strokes. His palm is hot and okay, yes, this is good too. Lando rolls his shoulders against the bed, nods a little and wets his lips.

“Better, sweetheart?”

“M-mhm,” he agrees, glancing down to catch a glimpse of Oscar’s hand around them before taking deeper breaths and then covering his eyes with one palm when that serves to be too much. Oscar’s dick is maybe a little bit bigger than his, but he’s got soft hands and it’s just—the contrast is a lot. And they look really good together.

Oscar chuckles at his reaction because he somehow finds him endlessly amusing even when he’s got his cock in hand. Then the alpha goes so far as to thumb right into his slit, collecting every trace dripping out of him and working it down. “You trying not to come?”

“M-maybe,” he mutters, hips twitching from the intensity.

“I missed you, you know,” Oscar shares, keeping up a steady movement of his fist around where they’re rubbing together.

Lando blushes and shifts his hand away to look up, “what?” he asks. Is he really talking normally right now? How is he so controlled?

“I missed you every day I was gone. I know we talked, but it’s not the same as checking in on you in person,” he murmurs, twisting his wrist. “You get very excited when I come find you at work, it’s cute.”

It’s so hard to even think when his core is tensing as he teeters far too close to the edge. “O-Oscar.”

“And I like your hair this length, by the way. Liked grabbing it when I was using your mouth,” the alpha continues.

“O-okay, fuck,” he curses, whimpering. “Will you c-come on me?” Lando’s so close that he has no filters left.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Oscar praises, ducking down to kiss him again. “Yes, omega, I’m going to give you what you want.” And he does. With slick, toe-curling touches, Oscar jerks them off at a merciless pace and fits his mouth along his neck to suck a mark that’ll still be there in the morning.

“I m-missed you too,” Lando finds himself whispering between helpless moans and he can’t be completely sure, but he thinks that’s what makes Oscar come. Of course the mess of it triggers his orgasm in return. Getting marked with Oscar’ come and watching him use it for the wet, sticky strokes he uses on him…he likes how ruthlessly filthy the other driver can become. They’re a feedback loop of desire and pleasure that he never wants to step out of.

Oscar’s, like, a really amazing alpha. He really only has Max as a comparison, but he feels super good about his assessment.

Above him, his teammate chuckles and says, “Oh yeah? Thank you. You’re a really amazing omega.”

Shit. Said another inside thought out loud. “I am?”

“Yeah, Lando. You are.”

“That’s nice.”

It’s sort of a blur, the resulting time where Oscar cleans them both up and gets him put back to rights. He’s just relieved that the Aussie doesn’t try to leave. They snuggle in bed together and he feels so much better. Settled. Relaxed. His back doesn’t hurt at all.

The weekend is a smashing success for the team. Lando pulls off a P6 finish in the race with Oscar just a couple seconds behind in P8. A home race and double points. It’s like a dream. All of those hours in the sim, every meeting and workout and protein smoothie. It’s all worth it to see genuine potential in the path that’s ahead of them.

Oscar brings in cookies that his grandma made for the team, but he’s set one aside special for Lando and leaves it for him in his drivers room. He feels…a lot of things about a simple baked treat.

There’s a special satisfaction in having the Aussie on the return flight home with him. Australia had him for a while, but Lando gets to take him home. They play games and relax and for the first time in quite a while, everyone is optimistic about the future. It feels like they took a major step forward. Lando’s so close to the podium he can almost taste it. And if Lando can get there, then he has no doubts Oscar will follow soon after. He’s starting to believe that Oscar would follow after him anywhere.

Chapter Text

“Mate, you couldn’t have warned me that Oscar is like…kind of intense?” Lando complains.

“What are you talking about?” Max asks, brow furrowing as they walk toward their golf cart. With a solid break in Lando’s schedule before they go to race at Baku, he’s taking time for his hobbies.

“Oscar,” Lando says, gesturing for emphasis to the open air in front of him. “All quiet and polite, but underneath that he’s really intense and he fucking sees everything. You should’ve warned me!”

His best friend stops on the spot and stares him down, making him pause as well. He fidgets because quiet is a big, uncomfortable no-no with his brain.

“Oh, tell me you didn’t,” Max begs, shoulders dropping. “Lando, no. Fucking again?”

His face flushes guiltily and he twists to look around, checking that no one can hear them at this part of the course. “What?”

“You’re sleeping with him?” The hissed words make him jumpy. “After everything that happened with Carlos?”

“Carlos,” Lando replies, clutching onto the easier topic, “was a mistake.”

Max points at him and then folds over in half, lets out a choked sound of disbelief. “You actually are sleeping with him,” he says to the ground.

Their cart is right there so Lando reaches out to store his club. The day is bright and sunny, way too cheery for Max to look this distraught. “Just…a little bit.” Not technically a lie. Oscar has been keeping a relatively slow pace with their physical relationship, he just has a way of making simple things very overwhelming. It’s the only reason Lando isn’t crawling out of his skin with horniness. He’s had plenty of orgasms by now, just none of them while having Oscar as close as possible.

“What does that—” Max rights himself and then waves his hands through the air. “Nevermind, nah, I don’t want to know, mate.”

“I haven’t even said anything!”

“You’ve said plenty.”

There’s a huffy, uncomfortable beat of quiet between them and Lando scrubs at his nose and taps the toe of his shoe into the manicured grass, turns his gaze down to the ground.

“Gah, just stop it with the sad eyes, alright!” Max exclaims, throwing a hand up. “You’ve got two minutes to say what you want to say and that’s all I’m giving,” he warns.

Lando perks right back up, standing to his full height before leaning in and speaking quickly. “He watches me all the time, not in like a sexy way, just—he stares, y’know? And it doesn’t feel gross like when some guys do it. And he’s fucking bossy when we’re alone and that is in a sexy way, but it’s like a fucking switch getting flipped or something. In Australia, he basically jumped me in my hotel room and then he had the balls to say that he missed me while we were apart. I mean, who even says stuff like that?” Lando takes a breath and then continues, “has he always been intense? Was he like that in the Prema days?”

“First off, did you have to use ‘balls’ in that sentence?” Max asks rhetorically before sighing and concentrating on the real questions. “He was focused, if that’s what you mean, but bossy? No. He was always pretty quiet.” Max shrugs one shoulder and seems to fight with himself before he finally says, “I do know that he doesn’t say shit he doesn’t mean. So if he told you he missed you…he meant that. Mate, it sounds like he’s into you.”

“I maybe told him I missed him too,” Lando reveals, bouncing in place a smidge.

“And did you?”

“…yeah.” His cheeks fill with fresh warmth, honesty turning him shy.

His friend looks at him and squints his eyes, looks at him some more. “You’re blushing.”

“So?”

Max tilts his head to the side. “So, I don’t remember you doing that when Carlos came up.”

He rolls the words around his mouth before letting them free. “Technically, we had a date.”

“Are you serious?”

“Mm-hm. At my apartment. He cooked me dinner.”

“I’m sorry, is this just your backwards way of telling me that you’re dating Oscar Piastri?”

“I don’t know! This is what I mean, he’s intense! I don’t know what’s going on most of the time. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Does the team know?” Max wonders.

“What do you think?” he replies, rolling his eyes. “Of course not. No, I—I don’t want him getting in trouble for anything. I’m the one that,” Lando shrugs and looks away, “came onto him first.” The one who lost his shit over the thought of anyone else having him. Practically the same thing.

Max’s eyebrows arch in surprise when he hears that. “Jesus. You’re fully gone on him.”

“I didn’t mean to be!” Lando responds, shoulders climbing towards his ears. “The only other alpha I’ve ever really spent time around is Max and I never had any issue with him. Or like, wanted him.” He pulls a face at the thought. No, thank you.

“You think it’s because he’s an alpha?”

I know it is, he thinks, but doesn’t say. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe it’s just an Oscar thing.” Can it be both? It’s probably both.

His best friend turns to look out over the grass and view the hills in the distance, everything green and manufactured. Pretty though. “So you’re just…freaking out over liking him.”

“You said that Logan Sargent and him had a thing going on—you were right about that.” Lando’s gaze wanders over their bags and he reaches out to fiddle with a few of the clubs just for something to do.

“What, is he seeing both of you or something?” Max asks and the judgment there, the upset on his behalf is nice to hear.

“No, no, he said they haven’t in a long time. They still kind of hang out, but it’s not like that anymore.”

“Well, good. So that’s not an issue, then. You're single and he’s single and you’ve had a date. You’re dating,” Max sums up with a shrug.

Lando makes a noncommittal sound and shrugs.

“Mate, what the hell. C’mon, either you are or you aren’t. What’s the hang up?”

“It’s—” he groans in annoyance because he doesn’t want to say it, but he has to. “It’s too real! I’ve never felt like this. And he is my teammate, so doesn’t that automatically mean that this is a terrible idea?” He rubs his thumb over his custom engraved logo on the nearest club.

“Probably not automatically. He might not even be your teammate for too long, you never know,” Max offers.

Oh, he doesn’t like that thought either and frowns over it. “Yeah, maybe,” he mutters.

“The alternative is that you don’t date him. You think you could do that?”

That puts things in stark contrast because the answer is so easy. “Nope.”

“Right,” Max says and claps him on the shoulder. “Dating it is then. Just…keep it separate from work, y’know? Boundaries and all that.”

Well, he’s fucked it on that already. “No, yeah, definitely,” he agrees while cringing internally. He’s not going to mention the factory hook-ups or what he often convinces Oscar to do to him during their lunch hours. Ugh, he was hoping Max would make him feel better about all of this, but it’s only helped a little. Their round of golf doesn't clear his head the way it usually would and he’s still thinking about Oscar when he goes home hours later. He thinks about him when he’s heating up dinner, as he’s poking around on his computer, and especially when he goes to bed hours later.

The break in the race schedule means that they have plenty of time after Australia to be closer and Lando’s gotten horrendously desperate for their slow pace to escalate. He’s been whining to Oscar about it every chance he gets and more often than not attempting to push the boundaries, but his teammate is rather strict. He’s never met someone in his same age range that has so much control—it’s as hot as it is frustrating.

It’s not a shock that he succumbs to the late night temptation to use Oscar’s number. He hasn’t heard from him all day which is a little odd, but Lando’s been trying not to be clingy. Trying being the operative word. He can’t lay still and that turns to him reaching a hand down just so he can have a little pressure, something to maybe ease this squirming, building interest. It’s the first time he’s felt like he needs to touch himself in days and days. He tugs Oscar’s sweatshirt closer and the chocolate scent that comes with it, but it doesn’t soothe like normal, instead it stirs a warmth through his stomach, down into his hips. With grinding, hopeful movements, he rocks up into his palm, but it’s not quite right, not nearly enough. Lando goes so far as touching up his stomach, over his pecs, then higher. He fits his hand at the base of his neck, tries mimicking how Oscar might do it if he were here, because he has this way of touching him that he’s desperate for, but can’t manage on his own. None of it is working. He’s wanting, but not wet yet. Tugging at his own hair doesn’t feel nearly as nice and there’s no warm voice praising him or encouraging him. He’s lost in his sheets, slipping around his arousal like he can’t get a grip on it. After too many minutes fumbling and rubbing at himself getting nowhere, in the end, his phone is too accessible and he takes it up, bites his lip as he taps away with one hand and sends:

-I’ve never been knotted before-

Quickly followed by the second thought.

-but I want to be-

His over-the-clothes friction slows down when the anxiety creeps up as he waits and waits. Fuck. Maybe this is a bad idea. What if Oscar hates this kind of thing? His cheeks flush with embarrassment and he stretches his hand wide, thinks about taking it all back and rolling over so he can just go to sleep or maybe lay in the dark until morning.

A text comes through and lights up the screen.

-Are you offering yourself up for my rut?-

The response populates fairly quickly and his fingers spasm over where he’s hot and suddenly getting much harder.

-yea-

-Is that what you think about when you get off? My knot?-

Lando groans in the quiet of his room, pushes his hand inside his boxers and strokes. His body is slicking itself in record time at just the suggestion of Oscar having him that way.

-maybe-

His phone buzzes with an incoming call and Lando’s heart is off to the races. He’s fucking mad, this alpha. He answers after two rings and wets his lips.

“Maybe, huh?” Oscar asks, a string of amusement there. “You don’t know?”

Lando becomes useless. Even just hearing his voice does it and his hand speeds up. He pauses only to push his boxers down more completely. He’s not thinking about what noises Oscar can hear.

“You sound pretty wet for a maybe,” the alpha comments, deadpan and dry.

His hips jump up into his palm and Lando moans. Why does his voice have to do that? Be all…straight forward. There’s a burning edge to that kind of bluntness that gets him all kinds of hot. “O-Oscar, please,” he whimpers.

“How long have you been touching yourself? How long did you go before you texted me?”

Lando glances at the clock. “Like twenty minutes,” he mumbles.

“Then I think you owe me twenty minutes.”

All the thoughts in his head screech to a halt and the fist he has wrapped around himself stutters to a stop too. “W-what?”

“You heard me just fine. You owe me twenty minutes, Lando. Start a stopwatch on your phone.”

Through a daze of baffled desire, he does as instructed, but he doesn’t really get what he’s meant to do… “It’s going,” he murmurs.

“Good, I’ve got one too. Clock is ticking, omega. I expect to hear you the entire time.”

“Hear me?”

“Yes, when you touch yourself. Better get going or I’m going to add on time.”

Lando restarts the movement of his hand automatically with the edge of demand in the other driver’s tone, sucking in a careful, shaking breath. Twenty extra minutes is not going to be easy. “Oscar,” he mumbles, looking down to watch the drag of his palm, the reddened tip of his cock appearing through the circle of his fist.

“Mm?”

Oh god. His teammate sounds so unaffected and that imbalance turns him on more. Oscar barely has to do anything and he’s going to come. Just knowing that he’s listening will be more than plenty to have him making a mess. “A-ah,” he grunts, hips twitching. “A-are you—?”

“Am I what?”

His cheeks flare with fire. He’s like, ninety percent sure Oscar knows what he’s attempting to ask. “Are you touching too?”

“No.”

Lando’s mouth drops open and he groans loudly when he twists his wrist. “W-why not?” Is he not as into this as me? Oh god, has someone done this with him a lot? Did Logan ever call him like this and beg for scraps, anything that would make him come? Maybe Oscar is so used to this that it doesn’t even affect him anymore.

“Because I want to focus on you,” the alpha replies. “I don’t usually get messages like what you sent me,” he says in a lowered tone across the connection as if he can hear all of Lando’s anxious thoughts. “You must have been wanting me quite badly if you were touching yourself for twenty whole minutes before you texted. I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t be orgasm number two by this point. You wouldn’t sound so…tense.”

A quiet whimper escapes into the darkness and he stretches his arm farther, reaching between his legs and feeling back to where he’s dripping. I-it’s the f-first,” he pants, “but I c-couldn’t—ah!” He swipes his index finger through slick and jolts from how sensitive he is.

“Couldn’t get there on your own?” The Aussie fills in.

A pitiful confirmation leaves his lips as he teases himself.

“You’re in bed?”

“Y-yea, Oscar, please. I n-need to come.” It’s full on pleading. Let Oscar think he’s pathetic, whatever. He can be pathetic if it means he finally gets through this ceaseless craving.

“Get on your stomach and put a pillow underneath you.”

He can’t afford to be stunned by the instruction, by what Oscar wants him to do. Not when he’s this on the edge. Lando takes to the order with zeal, rolls to his stomach and snatches a thick pillow that he shoves under his hips. He doesn’t need to be told what to do with it, he’s moving as soon as it’s in place, humping down into the plush contact and moaning in relief when the friction feels better. Or perhaps it has more to do with thinking about Oscar hearing him, being almost here…in a wild burst of intense want, he hits the button to turn on his camera. His room is dark and, honestly, what Oscar will see probably won’t look great in such shitty lighting, but he’s hot with the thought of sharing this moment.

When Oscar accepts and his video loads in, Lando’s unsurprised to spy him in much clearer lighting, probably a table lamp on or something. His hips grate forward on autopilot and he mumbles Oscar’s name, drinks up the sight of his face, the aroused look in his eyes. Shit, he’s even still got clothes on. He wasn’t kidding about not touching himself.

“Feels better like that, huh?” the alpha asks.

Lando props his phone to a pillow near the headboard and lowers himself down to his forearms so he can thrust in earnest, finally using proper leverage for the movement. The screen of his own phone washes him in more light than he thought it would. It’s definitely highlighting his heated cheeks and he’s pretty sure Oscar can see quite a lot of where his hips are moving. “O-Oscar.”

“Look at you,” his teammate murmurs, voice rough and awed. “God, you’re pretty when you fuck.”

His hips shove forward and he clings onto the bedding, chasing after pleasure. His aroused brain wants to do a hundred wild things, all to show off for Oscar. He thinks about grabbing his biggest toy and demonstrating exactly how well he can take it, sinking down until he’s full—Lando shudders in a very real on-the-cusp-of-orgasm sort of way, but he hasn’t heard the timer yet and something about the guardrails Oscar has set makes him want to stick in those bounds religiously. His arms shake as he pants and clamps his eyes shut, holds himself still, forces his hips up away from the contact he longs for. A couple drops of precome escape and he whimpers when his muscles jump, he’s sofuckingclose. But his alpha wants twenty minutes from him so he’ll give it. Lando will claw his way there if he has to.

He’s unaware that there’s been nothing but white noise in his ears until finally some of the intensity relents and he realizes several things at once: first, he’s sweating in a way that could rival what he looks like getting out of the car after quali in Singapore; second, there’s practically a puddle of slick that he’s soaked his bed with; third, Oscar’s been trying to talk to him this whole time and his voice washes in and covers the jagged shoreline of his control.

“—okay if you let go, omega. I asked a lot of you and you’ve been perfect, you’ve done exactly what I said. You won’t be any less good if you let go.” The alpha keeps up endless reassuring words and throws in reminders to breathe and Lando exhaustedly lifts his head once he’s able to.

“O-Osc,” it’s the only part of the Aussies name he can manage at the moment and even that comes out slurred. His hips and low back ache from how resolutely he kept himself from the edge, but he didn’t come. “Iwasgood,” he mumbles in one lumped together sound.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know you were. You did so well holding back. You feeling okay? Not lightheaded?”

Lando shakes his head, “no, ‘m`okay,” he gets out. Inadvertently, he sways his hips in the air, readjusts the width of his spread knees. He dips forward to put his cheek against a cool bit of sheet and sighs over it. There’s air brushing over his ass too, highlighting the sensitivity and where he’s still wet. “Whatsthetimersay?”

“It’s at 4 minutes, but Lando it’s okay, you can come now.”

“Wanna wait.”

There’s a quiet pause before Oscar groans and says, “alright, good boy. We’ll wait.”

It’s the easiest four minutes anyway, nothing in comparison to what it was to stop himself before. He does get a bit needy in the interim though and reaches out to pull Oscar’s sweatshirt close, pushing his nose into the fabric and breathing in the scent of him.

“You’re gorgeous, do you know that?” Oscar tells him at one point and Lando peeks at the camera, blushes over that of all things. And how avidly the other driver is watching, how his eyes keep moving over what’s on display with what Lando’s pretty sure is…reverence.

The longing that tugs in his chest and down through his stomach is so strong that his hips make an aborted, impulsive driven movement. He shouldn’t have texted Oscar because now he knows exactly how badly he misses him. A phone call isn’t enough and it’s not like they’re in different cities or countries right now. I should have asked to see him, he thinks and takes a deeper breath, wanting to get as much of that warm, chocolate aroma as he can. “I w-wish you were here,” he mumbles in response, caving to the thought in his head.

Oscar makes a quiet, awed sound and smiles. “I wish I was too. I’d be able to touch you…your bed would drive me crazy; how wet has it gotten, hm?”

Red flares into his face and he rubs his cheek to Oscar’s clothing. “It’s a mess,” he replies around a groan. “I’m going to have to strip all of it.” The pillow he’s been riding is especially sticky and damp. “Doesn’t smell enough like you,” slips out of him around an exhale.

His teammate chuckles at that and tilts his head, “oh yeah?”

He’s in this now and the growing sadness, the tugging, feels more serious by the second. Amongst the sensation of his desire is a sudden prickling in his eyes. He really wishes Oscar was here.

“Lando?”

When he glances up, his vision is a smidge blurry and oh god, tears? “Y-yeah?” he tries to say, but there’s a warble to his voice, a broken quality that he can’t patch over.

He sees Oscar’s expression develop into concern as he sits up more. “Oh,” he murmurs in surprise, “Lando. Sweetheart, geez. Take a deep breath for me.”

Lando tries. He really does, but it’s stuttered and the tears get worse. He kind of loses track of what Oscar’s saying, but it’s mostly instructions on how to breathe and hold it before letting it go with control. The control part doesn’t seem to be going well. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. Why there’s a gaping emptiness in his chest. It’s like his body has tried everything it can think of to attract Oscar and draw him here and since it still hasn’t gotten what it wants he’s just…falling apart.

It takes him far too long to focus on the screen and see Oscar’s background is darker and…moving?

“What’re y-you doing?” he mumbles, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of the alpha’s hoodie. “Are you—is that your car?” The camera is a bit shaky from the movement, but he can clearly see a door and then a steering wheel before Oscar’s sinking into the driver’s seat. The timer pops at the top of his phone and he swipes it away clumsily.

“I’m on my way,” his teammate says. “You keep breathing. Focus on that, Lando.”

His heart makes a running leap at the news. Oscar’s coming. His lungs open up a bit more, some of the tight band of pressure lightening. His alpha is coming for him.

“Yeah, I’m coming, omega.”

Oops. He opens his mouth to apologize, but a relieved whimper takes its place.

They don’t live far away from each other. Just a handful of minutes, really. It takes half of that for him to gather some semblance of awareness that he cannot open his front door naked. By that point, he’s mostly collapsed into the disarray of his bedding and with weak movements he tugs Oscar’s sweatshirt on, rummages through the surrounding sheets until he finds his boxers. They’re not clean, but it’s better than nothing. When he reaches for his phone, he sees Oscar turning the wheel into a space to park.

“I’m on my way up,” the Australian confirms, movements calm, but swift. “You still doing the breathing?”

Lando sucks in a fresh batch of air and nods, “y-yeah.”

“Good.”

A shiver runs down his arms at the simple approval. He hears an echo of Max’s words in his head, ‘I do know he doesn’t say shit he doesn’t mean.’ Lando clambers out of his bed and heads for his front door, opens it early just so he can catch a glimpse of Oscar walking down the hall sooner.

In the night, with the lighting dimmed, Oscar looks much more intimidating; a taller, backlit shape heading toward him with intent. The other driver didn’t even grab a jacket before leaving and his stride is long and purposeful in a way that Lando isn’t sure he’s seen before. The border of his door frame is cold, but he leans into it anyway because the alternative is crumpling to his knees. It feels like only a couple blinks before Oscar’s right in front of him, concerned brown eyes cataloging him.

It’s not a premeditated move, but he whines and lurches forward and the good thing, the relieving thing, is that Oscar moves at the same time. He’s caught and picked up in an instant. No blockers, he realizes when his alpha guides him to that sweet, nutty chocolate scent and encourages him to burrow in. In sure steps, he’s carried inside and the door is closed and locked. Lando flexes his thighs around where he’s clinging to the other man and holds onto his shoulders in firm desperation.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar promises as he presses him lightly against the door, runs a hand up the outside of his thigh, over his hip and waist.

“What’s wrong with me?” he whispers into the space of Oscar’s neck.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing is wrong with you; this is my misjudgment. I should have realized the moment you said there wasn’t enough of my scent; after everything else...you’re very close to pre-heat, Lando,” the alpha murmurs.

His brow comes together in a frown and he lets out a confused noise. Through the clutter in his mind, he starts doing the math and it’s not adding up. His heat is supposed to be weeks away still. “No…no, it’s still—”

“Something must have started it. Did you do anything different today? You were golfing earlier right; with Max?”

“I—yeah, but that was—” He has spent all day thinking of Oscar, but that cannot possibly be the reason. That would be absurd.

“Did anything happen?” Gentle thumbs circle his hips and he loses his concentration. His softened dick gets interested again just like that. One tiny little touch is all it takes.

“N-no,” he stutters, resetting his grip on Oscar’s shoulders, nudging his nose closer to his scent gland, searching for comfort.

“Lando,” Oscar rumbles, coaxing.

“We talked about you a little,” he hedges. “I…I’ve missed you all day.” It’s a mumbled confession and thank god he can hide when he says it. Missed you so much, the unhelpful thought follows. It doesn’t make sense, they’ve been seeing each other regularly, but—but Oscar has been so careful with their interactions lately. A slow, seeping knowingness inches into the picture. How many times has he tried to have sex—like Oscar-please-get-inside-me-already sex—with Oscar in the last week only to be kindly, but firmly redirected. There’s been a few instances where he’s teetered on the brink of feeling rejected, but the sensation usually falls away because the other driver is very doting. Maybe…is it possible his body is so freaking desperate for this alpha that it’s trying to go into heat to force the issue? The whining in his head feels like a confirmation. “Y-you haven’t wanted to have me. Not really,” Lando whispers and squeezes his eyes closed. He sounds so fucking sad even to his own ears.

Where their chests are pressed together, he feels it when Oscar takes in a sharp inhale. The grip on him tightens. He leans away so he can get a good look at him, at the watery eyes and avoidance, the poorly held back hurt. “Oh, sweetheart, no,” the alpha breathes. “Of course I want you.”

“B-but you h-haven’t,” he throws back, distressed. “I’ve asked and I’ve t-tried, but you still—” A full, loud sniffle happens and Lando wants to not exist anymore. “At least Carlos wanted me,” he mumbles meanly, the words spilling out of his mouth without any forethought. Fuck. Oscar turns stony against him and he wants to immediately take it back. It’s not even what he really feels, he’s just—fucking terrified that this is what he’s become.

Their breaths mix in the intimate space they share and Lando is stuck staring at the collar of Oscar’s shirt. He’s ready to be yelled at or dropped or something. Instinctively, he knows what he just said is particularly bad. He doesn’t know enough about alphas to have the reasoning behind it, but he has a pretty good sense of the hurt he created. Take it back, take it back right now! His thoughts are loud and his lips part.

Oscar beats him to it. “Carlos,” the alpha says, his tone dark and furious, “should have never touched you.”

The gravel in his voice, the almost bruising hold at his hips, it all makes his stomach twist with heat. He’ll take jealousy. Maybe he should’ve pushed on this button sooner to get what he wants… Lando lifts his chin defiantly. “But he did. He did when I wanted him to.”

His teammates eyes flare and he moves a hand up to cup Lando’s face, touching over his mouth with his thumb. “I’ve been trying to not trigger a rut,” he shares reluctantly, swallowing with visible effort.

Lando’s eyes go wide. “What?” he mumbles.

“Lando, c’mon,” Oscar helplessly expresses, “you’re on suppressants, but all I’ve got is inducers. Every time I’m with you, I can feel it wanting to come. We have that kind of sex and I’ll be out for a week at least. That is not going to work at the moment.” The Aussie groans and his eyes dip to look over him. “You think I haven’t wanted to? You think you can text me about wanting to be knotted and call me in the middle of night and beg and I wouldn’t want to give you everything,” he continues, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’d have had you already. I’d have done it after Australia, but we’ve got a schedule.” He sounds almost pained over it and Lando’s gaze darkens.

He gets his fingers into the hair at the base of Oscar’s head and pulls him to a hungry kiss, sets his teeth to a soft lower lip and makes it red and his. One of Oscar’s palms lands at the wall next to him and he’s hefted up a couple more inches, enough to make him gasp and try to shove his hips forward.

In rushed, possessive movements, the other driver keeps him pinned in place and follows the line of his spine and over the curve of his ass, rubs where he’s still soaked, digging the pads of his fingers into the sticky fabric. The alpha groans into his mouth and Lando discovers that he’s shaking, not from the exertion of holding him up, but from holding himself back.

“W-we can’t?” Lando asks between the deep, consuming kisses.

“No,” Oscar agrees, panting, a strand of his hair falling forward over his forehead. “I’ll make you come,” he promises. “You’ve been so good—god, you have no idea, Lando.”

The pre-heat will fade if they stay on the right side of it, so Lando’s only too eager to agree. He might cry for a bit over not getting what he wanted originally, but it helps knowing that he’s not alone in it. He wants it just as bad.

Oscar gets them to the bedroom and the look he gives his bed…it makes him duck down to lick and mouth at the alpha’s neck, rubbing himself all over the front of him. “W-wanna suck you,” he moans. A whole room full of his scent illustrating how much this alpha turns him on and he still wants to show him more.

He directs Oscar to sit against the headboard where he had his phone not long ago and is quick to get his sweats down and off. His mouth waters and he’s sloppy at the start, way too eager, but the stretch is a wonderful challenge. When Oscar takes his hair and moves him how he wants, he sucks harder, looking up to see how he watches. It’s one of his favorite parts.

His ears get hot with the praise Oscar showers him in, the way he holds his jaw and then his neck. “Your turn,” the alpha says minutes later, tugging his mouth away by the hand at the back of his neck. Before he can make more than a surprised noise, he’s splayed out on his back and Oscar’s leaning over him, tugging his ruined boxers down. The moan that leaves his throat when a soft set of lips fit around him feels more like something his teammate reached in and snatched for himself, it’s so sudden and unexpected.

“O-Oscar,” he gasps. He’s not going to last any substantial time at all. How long has it been now since he started? An hour? Over that?

Oscar likes doing long, drawn out sucks before pressing down to take everything. It’s maddening. Any time the man pulls off it’s to tease between his cheeks, either with hints of his tongue or two fingers. He seems to really enjoy swiping digits across his hole and then sucking the taste of his slick off them. “You want me to come here?” he asks at one point, his voice shot with arousal as he teases over the opening. “Just to get you messy and marked, yeah?”

Lando mewls and pants and pulls his knees up his chest in an instant, nodding frantically. He gets a hand on himself and strokes. “P-please, oh god, yes. C-come on me.”

The other driver eases away, but it’s just to line them up properly and thrust over his hole, to get his cockhead wet with slick. “Fuck, g-good boy,” Oscar mumbles, can’t seem to stop himself from nudging against the resistance there more than once. “You’d take it so well, so perfect for me. Just a l-little,” he moans brokenly and that’s when Lando feels a genuine press, a bit of pressure that stretches him. His eyes widen from the surprise of it and his dick jumps in his fist as he starts coming, spilling all over his stomach breathlessly.

Oscar holds him down and growls when he comes over him, a tiny bit inside, but making a complete mess nonetheless. “Y-yes, omega,” Oscar praises, stroking out line after line of come right where he wants to be. When there’s nothing left, the other driver thumbs through his own stickiness and tries to catch his breath. “Fuck, didn’t mean to do that,” he mumbles, eyes caught down between Lando’s legs.

Lando blinks up at his ceiling in sated disbelief. “I-it was fucking hot,” he mumbles. He’s wet all over for different, delicious reasons and he loved every second of it.

It gets Oscar moving. He leans over Lando, checks on him and then kisses without any rush behind the move. “You feel okay?” he asks again, working his mouth down over his jaw. “Feels better?”

He tilts his head for the contact and splays his hands over Oscar’s ribs, making a soft, pleasurable noise. “Yes, it’s better. Thank you, alpha.” It’s so much better. Every bit of him is relaxed and loopy on the hormones. He’s settled and calm. All of his worries about Oscar not wanting him, they’re much, much further away and seem quite silly in retrospect.

Oscar smiles at him and the pride that’s obvious there, the affection, makes Lando blush. “Good,” his teammate murmurs, carding a hand through his curls and giving a playful tug on the ends.

His alpha is so…motivated. Lando doesn’t get much time to lay down because Oscar is insistent that he will just fall asleep and they desperately need clean bedding and to shower, so he gets moved to a chair and watches while the other driver does all the work. He’s never had anyone treat him like this, not with this underlying devotion that is intense, but perfect.

He hasn’t got a clue what this means for the coming weeks and months. Maybe they’re screwed anyway and won’t be able to help from triggering each other. Or maybe—maybe getting closer helps? Maybe he should listen to what Max said and let himself have this. In front of him, Oscar is tugging off pillowcases and pushing the laundry into a large pile and he’s left wondering if he can get to a point of having this and not freaking out about it.

That might be too ambitious off the block. If he’s realizing anything by being with Oscar, it’s that Carlos and a few other select people really fucked him up. He’s got issues that he should probably work on. There’s never been motivation to address those things because he didn’t have someone like Oscar that he wanted to be better for, but now…it’s on his mind.

Oscar turns in the dim light and drops another dirty blanket in the growing mountain of cleaning and it puts his broad back on display, the way it tapers down to a lean waist, the longer line of his powerful legs—if he can’t let anyone else have this man, then he needs to figure out how to earn him, because who wouldn’t want to keep this? Even through his anxieties, Lando can tell that this is important to a degree that he can’t fumble it, can’t let it become another mistake or fuck-up. He wants to be an omega worthy of someone like Oscar and that means jumping in. That means having the relationship conversation. That means…going flat out even if he crashes and ruins the whole thing. He’s at least gotta commit.