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Summary: Yours and Oscar's partner broke up with you two so Lando decides to hook you two up
Song: Daddy Issues Β· The Neighbourhood
Authorβs note: Please like, reblog and share this! I really had fun writing this story! π€π«Ά
Word count: 3.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Stop staring at your phone like it's going to resurrect your ex," Lando said, plucking the device from your hands mid-swipe through yet another doomed conversation thread.
The garage hummed around youβhydraulics hissing, engineers murmuringβbut his grin was the loudest thing in the room.
"Iβve got a better distraction." He jerked his chin toward the far end of the paddock, where Oscar stood silhouetted against the floodlights, his race suit peeled down to the waist, the fabric clinging to the sweat-slicked dip of his spine as he stretched.
You didnβt mean to lick your lips. Didnβt mean to notice how his shoulders flexed when he reached back to knot his hair, how the dark ink curling over his ribs shifted with each breath.
But Lando caught you looking anyway, his elbow nudging your ribs. "Told you," he sing-songed, low enough that the mechanics wouldnβt hear. "Bet he bites, though. You into that?"
Heat prickled up your neckβnot just from embarrassment, but from the way Oscarβs gaze flicked over like heβd sensed the weight of yours.
His eyes werenβt kind, werenβt gentle; they were the sharp, assessing stare of a man who knew exactly how much trouble he could cause. And when his mouth quirked, slow and knowing, your stomach did something stupid and syrupy, like it had forgotten how to be sad.
"Youβre staring," Lando murmured, gleeful, but you barely heard him over the rush of blood in your ears. Oscar peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, the motion deliberate, almost obscene, and you hated how your pulse kicked against your ribs.
He shouldnβt be allowed to look like thatβall coiled tension and salt-stung skin, like heβd just stepped out of someoneβs very specific fantasy.
You forced your gaze away, back to the telemetry screens flashing with cold, clinical data. Numbers didnβt smirk. Numbers didnβt make your throat dry.
But the ghost of his attention still prickled across your skin, lingering like the scent of gasoline and hot asphaltβinescapable, intoxicating.
Landoβs grin widened. "Heβs not even your type," he lied, because everyone knew Oscar was exactly your type, which was the whole problem. Too sharp, too reckless, too good at making you forget why you were supposed to hate him.
You crossed your arms. "Heβs an arrogant prick who thinks heβs Godβs gift to racing," you muttered, conveniently ignoring how his arrogance was backed up by lap times that made engineers weep.
Lando snorted. "Yeah, and youβre a saint." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Admit it. Youβd let him ruin your life for five minutes in a Monaco hotel bathroom."
Your nails dug into your palms. That was the worst partβOscar wasnβt even pretending to look at you anymore, his attention already snapped back to his engineer, his posture all business.
Like you were just another variable in his race strategy, something to be optimized and discarded.
Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting. Focus. The car needed adjustments before qualifying. The data didnβt care about the way his sweat-damp hair curled against his neck, or how his handsβbroad, deftβcould dismantle an engine faster than most people could order coffee.
The car was real. The car wouldnβt look at you like you were a problem he hadnβt solved yet.
Then he ruined it by walking past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. Static prickled up your skin like tiny needles, and you caught the scent of himβsalt, motor oil, something citrus-bitter that shouldnβt have been appealing. You clenched your jaw. He didnβt even glance your way. Asshole.
βYouβre scowling at the tire pressure readings,β Lando said, leaning against the workstation. βUnless Pirelli personally betrayed you, I think we both know whatβor whoβyouβre actually pissed at.β
You stabbed at the tablet screen harder than necessary. βLando. Can you stop. I donβt want a boyfriend right now,β you hissed, but your traitorous eyes flicked to where Oscar was shrugging off his race suit, the fabric catching on his biceps before sliding down his torso.
The strip of skin exposed between his waistband and the hem of his undershirt was unfairly defined, glistening with sweat that caught the garage lights like a dare.
Lando followed your gaze and smirked. βLiar.β He flicked your earlobe, making you flinch. βYou donβt want a boyfriendβyou just want him to pin you against the nearest flat surface andββ
A wrench clattered to the ground behind you, loud enough to cut him off. Oscar didnβt turn around, but his shoulders tensed, the muscles along his spine flexing like heβd heard every word.
The air between you thickened, charged with something hotter than the asphalt outside. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in places that had no business reacting to the way his hands gripped the workbench, knuckles whitening like he was holding back.
Lando exhaled, slow and delighted. βOh,β he murmured. βSo thatβs how it is.β
You stood up and leftβtoo fast, too sharp, the metal stool screeching against concrete like a protest. The garage air tasted of burnt rubber and something acrid, your throat tight as you shoved through the side door into the humid Monaco evening.
The sea breeze slapped your cheeks, salt and exhaust fumes tangling in your lungs, but it didnβt erase the phantom pressure of Oscarβs sleeve brushing your arm, the way your skin still prickled with the memory of his heat.
Oscar watched you go, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He waited until the door swung shut behind you before turning toward Lando, his grip rough as he hauled his teammate into the shadow of a spare tire rack.
"Cut the shit," he growled, his thumb digging into Landoβs collarboneβnot enough to hurt, but enough to make him listen. "You think this is funny? Pushing her like that?"
The words came out jagged, his pulse hammering under his skin like a misfiring engine.
Lando grinned, unfazed, his fingers tapping against Oscarβs wrist. "Youβre the one who keeps looking at her like you want to eat her alive," he whispered, slow and deliberate. "And sheβs looking back, mate. So either stop pretending you donβt care, orβ"
His knee nudged Oscarβs thigh, suggestive. "βlet me lock you two in a storage closet already."
Oscarβs fingers twitched, his breath hitching at the mental imageβyour back against cold metal shelves, your nails scraping down his spine as he crowded you into the dark. The fantasy hit him like a G-force, sudden and visceral, the kind of reckless impulse he usually throttled before it could take root.
But the memory of your bitten lip, the way your throat moved when you swallowedβit lingered, sticky-sweet and dangerous, like fuel fumes in an enclosed space. He shoved Lando away with a curse, the taste of want sharp on his tongue.
Lando wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder, still grinning. "Youβre so fucked," he murmured, watching Oscarβs fingers flex like he was throttling an invisible steering wheel.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of hot metal and Landoβs cologne thick in his throat. His pulse thundered in his fingertipsβnot from anger, but from the way your hips had swayed when you stormed out, the way your hair caught the garage lights like a challenge.
He could still taste the salt of your bitten-off frustration in the air, metallic and electric.
Landoβs grin softened into something almost sympathetic. "Sheβs gonna hate herself for wanting you," he said, quieter now. "But not as much as you hate yourself for wanting her back." His knuckles brushed Oscarβs ribs, feather-light. "Go fix it before you both combust."
Oscar didnβt moveβcouldnβtβhis pulse hammering like a misfiring engine, the phantom weight of your gaze still pressed against his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting sparks to fly from his clenched fists.
"I donβt want her," he muttered, turning sharply toward the paddock exitβthe opposite direction youβd stormed off inβas if distance could erase the memory of your bitten lip, the way your pulse had fluttered under his sleeveβs accidental brush like a trapped bird.
The Monaco night swallowed him whole, the neon-lit streets pressing in too close, the scent of salt and spilled champagne clinging to his throat. He strode faster, as though speed could outrun the ache in his teethβthat primal, possessive urge to turn around, toβ
A burst of laughter from an open-air bar snapped him back. He blinked. Stared at his own reflection in a rain-slicked shop window: hair wild, mouth set in a grimace, shoulders taut as suspension cables.
His hands shook. Christ. He raked them through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. The air smelled of damp pavement and your phantom perfumeβsomething floral and sharp, like orange blossoms dipped in gasoline.
Lando was right. He was fucked.
Oscar had spent the past three days calculating fuel loads and gear ratios with mechanical precision, but his brain kept short-circuitingβevery time you leaned over a telemetry screen, the loose neckline of your team shirt gaping just enough to reveal the delicate dip of your collarbone, his fingers twitched around his stylus.
Every time you laughed at one of Landoβs stupid jokes, the sound bright and throaty, his stomach dropped like heβd missed an apex.
And every time he caught you staring at himβjust for a second, just long enough for his pulse to spikeβyouβd immediately pivot toward the nearest colleague, your voice too cheerful, your smile too tight.
It was driving him insane.
The worst part was the way youβd started touching everyone except himβa hand on Carlosβs shoulder as you explained tire degradation, your knee bumping against Landoβs under the strategy table, even that time youβd tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rebeccaβs ear like it was nothing.
But when Oscar "accidentally" brushed past you in the garage, his knuckles grazing your waist, youβd flinched like heβd burned you, your breath hitching in a way that made his jeans suddenly too tight.
Now, as he watched you from across the hospitality suiteβyour fingers drumming against your champagne flute, your hips swaying slightly to the muffled bass of the club downstairsβhe realized with dawning horror that he wanted to ruin you.
Not in the way Lando had joked about, not some quick, dirty fuck against a storage locker, but properly: the way your pupils would dilate when he finally got his hands on you, the way your breath would catch when he dragged his teeth over that spot under your ear, the way youβd whimper when heβ
"Mate." Landoβs voice cut through the fantasy, low and knowing. "If you keep looking at her like that, someoneβs gonna call the police."
Oscar drained his drink, the champagne sour on his tongue. "Fuck off."
Lando just grinned, nodding toward where you were now laughing at something Charles had said, your head thrown back, the line of your throat exposed.
"Sheβs doing it on purpose, you know. Wind you up." His knee nudged Oscarβs under the table. "And itβs working."
Oscarβs fingers clenched around his empty glass. He knew you were playing him. Knew it the way he knew the exact RPM his engine could handle before redliningβinstinctual, visceral.
But knowledge didnβt stop the heat pooling low in his gut, didnβt stop the possessive snarl building in his chest every time another driver leaned into your space.
Across the room, your gaze flicked to hisβjust for a secondβand the corner of your mouth curled, slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
His pulse roared in his ears.
Game on.
The champagne bottle popped like a gunshot, spraying golden foam across the McLaren garage in reckless arcs. Someone had slapped a paper crown on Oscarβs headβcrooked, ridiculousβand he was laughing, actually laughing, his teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Lando poured another shot down his throat.
You watched from the periphery, the plastic cup in your hand sweating as much as your palms. Celebration buzzed through the air like static, thick with sweat and triumph, but all you could focus on was the way Oscarβs throat worked when he swallowed, the way his pulse jumped under the damp collar of his team shirt.
Then he caught you looking. His grin faded, replaced by something darker, hungrierβthe same expression he wore mid-overtake, right before he devoured the competition.
Your breath hitched. The room tilted. And suddenly, he was striding toward you, his steps deliberate, his fingers closing around your wrist before you could bolt.
βYouβre avoiding me,β he murmured, his thumb skating over your racing pulse. The scent of himβchampagne and burnt rubberβclogged your throat. βWhy?β
Your brain short-circuited. His grip tightened, just shy of painful, and you realized with dizzying clarity that you wanted him to push. Wanted him to crowd you against the nearest flat surface, wanted him toβ
βIβm not,β you lied, your voice cracking. The garage noise faded to white static, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears.
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of your ear with deliberate slowness, and you shuddered.
βLiar,β he whispered, his breath hot against your temple. Then, lower: βYou taste like trouble.β
You barely had time to process the words before he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a hallucination. Your knees trembled. Your lips tingled. And when you finally lifted your cup to your mouth, the champagne tasted like gasolineβsweet, flammable, and dangerous.
Lando materialized beside you, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Told you," he murmured, pressing a fresh drink into your shaking hands.
You didnβt answer. Couldnβt. Not when Oscar was now leaning against the pit wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension, his gaze locked on you like you were the only variable he hadnβt calculated.
The way his fingers flexed around his own glassβslow, deliberateβsent a jolt of heat straight to your core.
The crowd surged around you, voices rising in a drunken chorus, but the noise faded to a distant hum. All you could hear was the hitch of your own breath, the phantom drag of Oscarβs thumb across your pulse point. Your skin burned where heβd touched you, the sensation lingering like a brand.
Lando shoved another drink into your handsβsomething neon and sticky-sweetβand you tossed it back without tasting it.
The alcohol hit your bloodstream like spilled fuel, igniting a reckless heat that had nothing to do with the humid Monaco night and everything to do with the way Oscar was still watching youβdark-eyed, predatoryβfrom across the garage.
His lips were wet with champagne, his collar rumpled where someone had tugged it loose.
You shouldβve looked away. Shouldβve walked off, found a quiet corner to sober up. Instead, your fingers tightened around the empty cup, crushing it until the plastic bit into your palm. The sting grounded youβbarelyβas you grabbed another drink from a passing tray.
The vodka burned going down, sharp and medicinal, but it couldnβt drown out the memory of his breath against your temple, the way his voice had dropped to a rough whisper: You taste like trouble.
Landoβs grin widened as he leaned in, his words slurring against your ear. βKeep drinking like that, love, and youβre gonna do something stupid.β His thumb brushed your cheek, sticky with spilled liquor. βOr someone.β
You shoved him away, stumbling toward the bathroomβsomewhere quiet, somewhere coldβbut the corridor tilted under your feet, the walls breathing like they were alive.
The phone in your pocket buzzed, insistent, and you fumbled for it, thumb smearing across the screen. Your exβs name flashed up, a relic from another life: Miss you. Letβs talk.
Your stomach lurched. A month ago, youβd have crumpled. A week ago, youβd have replied. But now? Now all you could think about was Oscarβs grip on your wrist, the way his pulse had hammered under your fingertips like a rev limiter.
You deleted the message without reading the rest, your fingers tremblingβnot from sadness, but from the phantom pressure of Oscarβs breath against your neck, the way heβd looked at you like you were a corner he couldnβt wait to cut.
The hallway air smelled of spilled gin and sweat. You leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against your flushed cheek, and tried to steady your breathing. It didnβt work.
The memory of Oscarβs thumb tracing your pulse point lingered, sticky as the humidity clinging to your skin. You pushed off the wallβtoo fast, too sharpβand the floor tilted again.
Then the celebration room door slammed open. Oscar stumbled out, his hair disheveled, his shirt half-untucked. His gaze locked onto you instantlyβwild, unfilteredβand your stomach dropped like a missed gear shift. He looked wrecked, his lips bitten red, his pupils blown wide with something darker than champagne.
"Y/N," he rasped, your name cracking like gravel under race tires. His fingers dug into the doorframe, knuckles white, as if he was physically restraining himself from crossing the distance between you. The raw hunger in his stare scorched your skin, hotter than any Monaco afternoon sun.
You shouldn't have done itβshouldn't have stepped forward, shouldn't have fisted his damp shirt and crushed your mouth to hisβbut the taste of him exploded across your tongue, champagne and salt and something darker, smokier.
His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted, hands hovering inches from your waist, trembling with restraint. "Fuck," he gasped against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest like a misfiring engine.
You expected arrogance, dominationβbut his kiss was all sharp inhales and barely-contained desperation, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting.
When you moaned, he made a broken sound in his throat and finallyβfinallyβhauled you flush against him, his grip bruising as he backed you into the wall. Every ridge of his body burned through your clothes, his racing heartbeat wild against your sternum.
Lando's distant laughter echoed down the hall, and Oscar froze, his breath ragged against your neck. "Christ," he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle coiled tight.
His thumb brushed your swollen lipβonce, twiceβbefore he shoved himself away with a curse, leaving you both panting in the neon-lit hallway, the air thick with the scent of spilled alcohol and reckless choices.
The space between you crackled like overheated asphalt, his restraint palpable in the way his fingers flexed at his sides instead of reaching for you again.
You could taste the war in his kissβthe way his mouth had yielded even as his hands hesitated, like he couldn't decide whether to devour you or let you walk away.
His jaw worked, a vein pulsing at his temple. "We shouldn'tβ" The words came out strangled, his pupils blown wide. The hallway lights caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his restraint fraying visibly with each uneven breath.
Your fingers twitched at your sides, still humming with the memory of his gripβthe way his calluses had caught on your skin like friction burns. The champagne haze made everything hyperreal: the salt-sting of his sweat when you'd licked into his mouth, the way his hips had jerked against yours like he'd forgotten how to brake.
You lifted your hand, slow, deliberate, and pressed your palm flat against his sternum. His heartbeat hammered against your touch, erratic as a blown engine.
"Christ," he hissed, his hands finallyβfinallyβclamping around your waist. His thumbs dug into the dip above your hips, possessive, as he dragged you closer. The scent of himβalcohol and adrenalineβflooded your senses, thick as the Monaco humidity.
His nose bumped yours, clumsy with intoxication, and you felt the exact moment his control snappedβhis mouth slanted over yours with a groan that vibrated through your ribs.
Somewhere distant, glass shattered. The party roared on. But all you knew was the slick heat of his tongue, the way his fingers flexed against your spine like he was memorizing the shape of you.
When you nipped at his lower lip, he made a sound so raw it curled your toes, his hips pinning you to the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.
"Fuck," he panted against your cheek, his voice wrecked. "We're both so fucking drunk."
His words slurred, but his hands didn'tβthey mapped your ribs with terrifying precision, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt. You arched into the touch, gasping when his teeth grazed your earlobe.
The hallway tilted, or maybe that was just your head spinning, but Oscar's grip tightened, anchoring you as his mouth found yours againβhotter this time, hungrier, like he was trying to drown in you.
Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, spilling laughter and cigarette smoke into the corridor. Oscar didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the narrow ledge of a fire extinguisher cabinet.
The metal groaned under your weight, but his body between your thighs was solid, realβthe hard line of his erection pressing against you through layers of fabric made your breath hitch. His palm slid up your thigh, rough with calluses from gripping steering wheels, and you shuddered, biting back a moan against his collarbone.
The air between you smelled like spilled champagne and sweat, his pulse jumping under your lips as you traced the vein in his neck with your tongue. He made a sound low in his throatβhalf growl, half pleaβand his fingers twisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.
His breath was ragged against your skin, his lips brushing your racing pulse like he was counting each beat. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick with want. "You're gonna ruin me."
His mouth found yours again, slow and deliberate this time, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. His tongue slid against yours, hot and slick, the taste of him intoxicatingβsharp with alcohol, sweet with something darker.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the damp fabric of his shirt, and he groaned, his hips pressing yours harder against the wall. The metal ledge bit into your thighs, the pain a distant echo compared to the electric current of his touch.
The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the way his Adamβs apple bobbed when you dragged your nails down his neck.
He shuddered, his grip on your thighs tighteningβcalluses catching on bare skin where your dress had ridden upβand you realized with dizzying clarity that you couldnβt remember your exβs face, only the salt-sting of Oscarβs sweat as you licked into the hollow of his throat. . . .
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Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams attend the 2026 Vanity Fair Oscar Party Hosted By Mark Guiducci at Los Angeles County Museum of Art on March 15, 2026 in Los Angeles, California.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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"Emotional", Connor Storrie & Hudson Williams on Saturday Night Live, Feb 2026
March, 2026
I'm having fun with the overlines again, letting them tell their own story. Mind you, I still haven't actually seen this episode because I've been busy, but it's on my plans for later. Also, before anyone says anything, this is a cropped part of the image that SNL released, not the AI version going around. But I understand if you feel like you need to tell me off.
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