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Announcement: f1 pussy curse fest is coming NEXT MONTH
What is it?
An f1 fest focused on one of our most beautiful tropes, the pussy curse and its close cousin, turned into a girl. It will be a chill promt based fest that also allows you to do your own thing and there will be no minimum wordcount.
Wait what's a pussy curse?
Pussy curse or 'woke up with a pussy' is a trope where a character who previously didn't have a pussy suddenly gets one. It's a flexible trope that allows for any cause of a sudden pussy and any method of getting their dick back, though orgasm or getting fucked are common ones. Sometimes the curse is known to characters and sometimes it's a surprise new pussy and they have to figure out what to do. This trope encompasses any sudden magical genital change.
When will it happen?
Promting and sign-ups open: July 15
Prompting closes: August 15
Reveals: October 15
Who is behind this?
@the-odds-are-there and @forcederror
Please spread the word!! Reblog and tell all your friends and discord servers!!
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hiii so i've been writing drabbles as a little palate cleanser after i post a chapter of my fic - so have this film noir-inspired au, with private eye!oscar and femme fatale!lando <3
oh and they're both girls :)
--
Oscar hates it when clients smoke in her office.
Poor habit in general, smoking. So many things out there that can kill you, and youâll let a nicotine stick do the job?
But sheâs gotta hand it to this oneâshe looks good doing it. As she sits across from Oscar, sucking intermittently on a slim Vogue, her dress doesnât leave much to the imagination. Itâs an expensive, emerald green number, and a smooth expanse of tanned thigh peeks out from the slit where she's crossed her legs.
But Oscarâs nothing if not a professional, so she flips open her notepad. âAnd when did you first suspect this was happening?â
It only used to take Oscar thirty seconds to read a complete stranger, back when she still had a badge. This one had taken ten, at most, when sheâd pushed the door open after Logan buzzed her in.
Landoâsheâd introduced herself, and her last name was only confirmation of the obvious: she has money. Loads of it, and not the kind that opens doors but the kind that makes you incapable of imagining what a closed one even looks like.
Although that might have something to do with her face, too. Oscar had clocked it the way sheâd clock a poorly concealed weapon. Dangerous, beauty like that, depending on who wields it.
The next thing she'd noticed had been the ring, a thin golden band around her finger.
Which brings them to the issue at hand.
âFew weeks ago, detective,â Lando says, releasing a thick spiral of smoke. Thereâs a carmine stain around the filter of her cigarette. She tilts her head. âShould I call you detective?â
Oscar gives her a close-lipped smile. âJust Oscar will do.â Sheâs not a real detective, after all, not anymore.
âOs-cah,â she sounds it out, teasingly imitating Oscarâs pronunciation. âQuite a charming accent youâve got, there.â
With her free hand, Landoâs twirling a thick, dark curl around a finger. She watches Oscar through her eyelashes, and her eyes are sparkling, intense.Â
It makes Oscar feel like prey.
âRespectfully, Mrs. Buttonââ
âLando,â she interrupts, with a crinkle of her nose.
ââLando.â Oscar taps her pen a few times, mincing her words. âYou donât look too distraught about your husbandâs⌠night-time activities.â
A small laugh, no warmth in it. âWell thatâs because Iâm not.â Lando leans in, bracing her delicate wrists on the mahogany desk between them. This close, Oscar can smell her perfume, a woody, musky scent. âCouldnât fault him for that, could I? Not when Iâve got my own ways of keeping myself busy, while heâs out and about.â
Oscar swallows. âI see. Why come to me, then, if you donât want a divorce?â
âOh, no." Lando widens her eyes. "I do want a divorce.â
âYou saidââ
âI said I donât mind the cheating, 's all. If anything, the cheatingâs a good thing. Because you,â Lando nudges Oscarâs forearm, a fleeting touch, âare about to get me some evidence not even Jensonâs lawyers can argue with.â
âI havenât taken your case yet,â Oscar points out, matter-of-factly.
âOh, but you will,â Lando says, sitting back. âYou see, Iâm very persuasive, when I wanna be."
Oscarâs got no doubt about that.
Hm. It's tempting. Sheâs been needing a win, something to restore her confidence, and this seems like a simple enough case. Itâs her bread and butter, after all, helping rich, unhappy wives catch their unfaithful husbands in the act.
So why does it feel like sheâs in over her head?
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Tags: First Orgasm, Drunk Sex, Getting Together, Polyamory, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Orgasm Denial, entire cast is genderbent
---------
"Oh, you're⌠you're a lesbian?"
Carlos is going to crack her into a pan and scramble her all the way to Tuesday!
"Mate," she just says, rapping her knuckles against Oscar's knees. "You are joking, yes?"
"What? Why? I mean, I'm not⌠I don't know. Good for you, I guess? But just because⌠I mean, that doesn't make you, like, the vagina wizard."
She's drunk, Carlos decides. Drunk out of her mind. She can barely talk anymore, and apparently, she can't remember the rivalry they've had going for over a year now over who gets to bag Lando. Which is stupid anyway, because Lando is straight and unbaggable. Carlos knows. She's come very close, once.
"First of all, we call ourselves vagicians. And second of all â yes, it does!"
yuri Geoscar os, with transfem George and cisfem Oscar, 3,5k, rated E
also on ao3
-------
âYouâre not keeping up, moomoo!â
Oscar stumbles along behind her long-legged girlfriend. Tips of her fingers loosely intertwined with Georgeâs, whoâs striding about a mile ahead along the deserted street leading back to their apartment.
âThatâs because I wasnât born half-giraffe!â Oscar huffs, jogging a bit to keep up. Itâs the middle of the night. Actually, itâs past the middle of the night, tipped over into early morning. The sky isnât dark, but itâs mostly light pollution and not dawn that gives it a pale, gray shimmer.
Theyâd spent the last few hours kneeling at the coffee table in Alex and Landoâs flat, playing Uno and Monopoly and stuffing themselves with gummy bears, getting wine-drunk.
Well, Oscar was. George is on a meal plan that includes neither gummy bears nor wine, and sheâs serious about her health. Oscar should have joined her in abstaining, but she finds it impossible to endure Lando and Alex sober, especially playing Monopoly. Besides, George likes it when sheâs a little tipsy. Says itâs easier to make her laugh, even though Oscarâs already known for her embarrassing giggles whenever George so much as opens her mouth.
âGeorge!â Oscar squawks when she almost steps into an open manhole. âPlease, I do not have the coordination for steeplechase at this hour!â
George stops and waits for Oscar to catch up, then presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She has to lean down about three stories, thanks to the heels sheâs wearing.
âI apologize. I just need to get home, pronto.â
âHm?â Oscar realizes sheâs fallen forward into Georgeâs chest, eyes closed. She could stay there forever. The air is mild, and George smells like sunscreen. Itâs summer. Oscar loves the summer.
âCouldnât you have peed at theirs?â Oscar grumbles as George starts moving again, tugging her along.
âItâs not that,â George says mysteriously, and Oscar gives up. George likes to be a little theatrical sometimes, and Oscar would be lying if she said she didnât love it. So she lets herself be pulled along, past the closed newsstand, the dog park, and the little community book cabinet where George insists on browsing every single time they pass by.
Except today.
Really must be urgent, then.
The climb up the four flights of stairs to their flat is pure torture on Oscarâs numb legs. Itâs not just the wine. Sheâs been kneeling on the floor half the night, cutting off her circulation. George masters the stairs in her heels like an elegant flamingo, only stopping to send an amused look down at where Oscarâs gone down on all fours, trying to crawl up with the added help of her hands.
âDo I have to start calling you hisshiss?â George inquires, leaning against the stairwell wall with her arms crossed, suddenly not in such a hurry anymore.
âWhat?â Oscarâs muddled brain canât make sense of that.
âYouâre crawling up the stairs like a snake!â
âIâm on all fours. Snakes are flat!â Oscar argues, because she canât help being a bit of a pedant about these things. âA cow works just fine for what Iâm doing. Besides, arenât cows famously bad at climbing stairs?â
âNo, they can climb them, I think,â George muses. âBut they canât go back down? Something like that.â
âIâm a reverse cow, then,â Oscar mutters as she reaches the top of the stairs. There are three more flights to go. George mutters a âBlimey!â and bends down to pick her up under the arms.
She never even takes off her heels. Oscar finds herself practically flying up the stairs with a solid hand in her back, pushing her along. Then thereâs their front door, the jingle of keys, a click, a shuffle, the door falling shut, and then George is upon her, hot mouth on hers, long fingers tangling in Oscarâs hair.
It takes a moment â stumbling along the hallway into the kitchen, losing shoes along the way, until Oscar feels the edge of the table at her back â for her to realize what is happening.
âOh. Oh!â she gasps, once Georgeâs mouth leaves her enough breathing room to talk, and George pulls back with a huge, genuine grin.
âThis is why I was in a hurry!â she pants.
âThatâs⌠oh wow!â Oscar tries to think back to any obvious signs George mightâve given her. âWhen did you⌠I mean, I donât remember being particularly sexy, what with the way I kept bickering with Lando about the jail rules.â
âAh, see, thatâs what did it for me. When you told him if weâre suddenly going to introduce unspoken house rules, youâd create one where you can become the leader of a prison gang that specifically targets bratty twinks.â
Oscar barks a laugh. âThatâs what does it for you nowadays, is it? Twink abuse?â She leans back in to kiss her.
George goes soft and pliable under her hands, lets herself be spun around, folded backwards over the table. It breaks their mouths apart. Oscar canât reach her when she leans back. If theyâre Tetris pieces, George is the line, and Oscar the square. Broad, calm, and dependable, like a cow â thatâs how George describes her. Hence the pet name.
âHey,â George whispers, leaning back on her elbows. No one had bothered to turn the lights on, but thereâs a big window, the light-polluted sky painting her in shades of gray. She looks soft like this, despite all her sharp angles.
âHm?â Oscar hums, distracted. Sheâs eating George with her eyes â the soft, fluffy locks that have fallen from the clip holding them together in the back, the almost comically long lashes casting soft shadows, the elegant arch of her neck.
âCould you try and touch my breasts?â
That snaps Oscar out of it. Her mouth goes dry.
âYeah?â she asks, breathless.
George answers with a bright, cheesy smile, too white in the gray gloom of it all. âI saw you look!â she says.
Itâs true. Oscarâs been looking, all night. George had chosen a tiny top, made from weirdly liquid-looking material, smooth and clingy. One full year of HRT and thereâs not much breast to show for it, and probably never will be, but sheâs gone braless today, and her swollen nipples have been on full display. One time, she bent down to retrieve a fallen game token, and Oscar got a perfect look down her top.
âAre youâŚâ she starts, but George just nods, decisive.
âJust be gentle. Theyâre still very sensitive. But I think it might be⌠the fun kind, today.â
Oscar doesnât need to be told twice. She reaches for the hem of Georgeâs top, sliding it up along her ribcage, revealing soft skin, pale in the grayscale of the night.
Her nipples are a dark contrast. The tissue around them has started to swell into the cutest little A-cup breasts, only noticeable when sheâs like this â topless, with her back arched, Oscarâs face hovering level with her chest.
âGeorge, theyâre beautiful,â Oscar whispers, unable to tear her eyes away. âCan IâŚâ
âPlease!â George gasps.
Oscar pulls her top further up, folding it over her head, where it refuses to slide down Georgeâs arms, hanging there like a backpack. Oscarâs hands are busy roaming back down. Hair, cheeks, neck, collarbones, spreading out from there so only her thumbs brush past her nipples, soft as a feather.
âYes!â Georgeâs voice is breathy and high-pitched, and she gives a soft whimper when Oscar does it again, just the pads of her thumbs, just grazing the side of her nipples.
âMouth?â Oscar asks, looking up to find George biting her lip and giving a quick nod.
Oscar leans in, letting her breath ghost over the swollen peaks, then sticks out her tongue and probes.
Thereâs no immediate reaction, no hiss of pain, no flinch, so she licks again, flat of her tongue across the hard nub of Georgeâs nipple.
That draws a sound from her. A mix between a gasp and a laugh.
âIt feels good, moomoo! It actuallyââ
Her voice gives out in a sudden sob, but Oscar knows not to be alarmed by it. George has always been quick to cry, no matter the emotion. Good or bad, happy or angry or sad. Oscarâs pretty sure this is a happy sob. Relieved, too.
She devotes her full attention to the pale breast before her. In the low light, you can barely make out Georgeâs bikini lines, but she draws her tongue along where she knows them to be, presses her warm hands into Georgeâs sides, thumbs circling under her ribs. From time to time she licks across one of the perky nipples, or nudges them lightly with her nose, or breathes warm air against them.
George is silently crying above her, until sheâs not. The sobs turn into moans, the whimpers into gasps, and before long Oscar has her entire mouth wrapped around her tit, giving a tentative suck.
When she looks up, Georgeâs eyes are wide and shimmery, mouth open, hair loose. Oscar pushes her tongue into the underside of her nipple, watching her face, and finds no signs of hurt, just raw wonder.
âFuck, moomoo!â George whispers. âYouâre sucking my breasts!â
Oscar does it again, a little harder, until George gives a small hiccup.
âImagine if there was milk coming out,â George says. Not even the gray shadows can hide her blush. âYouâd look stunning, with it running out the corners of your mouth!â
Oscarâs mouth waters. The thought of pleasing her girlfriend alone is getting her all kinds of wet. And theyâre already in the kitchenâŚ
She draws back from Georgeâs breast with a mysterious smile and motions her to wait a moment. Then she turns around to the fridge behind her, opens it, and finds a bottle of semi-skimmed milk.
Georgeâs skin is yellow in the fridge light, and gray in all the corners the light canât reach. Sheâs still leaning back on her elbows, huge eyes locked on Oscar as she takes a big gulp from the bottle, keeping the milk in her mouth.
No one has ever looked that good bathed in shades of yellow and gray. Oscar pales in comparison by nature, but it must look even more ridiculous right now, with her cheeks puffed out like a hamster. Still, George stares at her like she canât quite believe Oscarâs real.
Oscar swallows part of the milk, enough so she can open her mouth without spilling. She doesnât bother closing the fridge door before she goes back to George. She likes the way it illuminates her tits, makes them shine from Oscarâs spit.
âCrikey,â George mewls. It endears Oscar greatly how serious she is about her funny words. Theyâre not meant as a joke. Sheâs yelled this in high ecstasy before. Oscar takes it as incentive to keep going and closes her mouth around Georgeâs nipple, tongue pushing through the milk, probing. She looks up to where Georgeâs eyes are already on her, lids drooping, mouth open in a broken gasp.
âOh, fuck!â she moans when Oscarâs tongue touches her, cold shock of the milk chilling her nipples, making them even harder. Her light blue eyes look dark for once. Sheâs so beautiful like this â unguarded and undone and clearly aroused. Oscar doesnât remember the last time she managed to make her girlfriend feel like this. Sometimes itâs hard not to blame herself, not to think itâs because she isnât sexy enough. So sheâs grateful for this chance. Determined to make the most of it. Whatever George wants. Whatever she wants.
âSuck m-me!â
Oscar does. Carefully. The milk must feel soothing on Georgeâs nipples because there isnât even a flinch, so Oscar sucks her in a little more, until her mouth is stretched tight around the whole swell of soft flesh, lips parted enough to let a few drops of milk spill from the corners of her mouth. George gasps, loud and sudden, eyes welling up again. Oscar keeps her gaze, hums around her mouthful of tit, then lets a few more drops escape. They trickle down Georgeâs soft stomach, curving along the soft arch of her tummy, which has started to rise and fall faster with each breath. Oscar swallows the rest of the milk with her mouth still around her tit. The sound is obscene, draws a shaky giggle from George, then another gasp when Oscar pulls back, nudges the shiny nipple with her nose, and goes chasing the escaped drops of milk with her tongue.
âBloody hell, moomoo!â George whimpers, belly jumping under Oscarâs feather-light touches. âThatâs fuckââ
Sheâs interrupted, just a beat too late, by the fridge beeping behind them.
For a second, they forget theyâre in the middle of something. Both break into soft huffs of laughter, quiet to suit the empty hour. Oscar kicks her leg up without looking, swings it until her foot connects with the fridge door, slamming it shut. The beeping stops and the room falls back into shades of gray.
âI just realized,â George says after a moment. Her tears have dried again, never fully formed. âI should do this to you instead. Milk you.â
âHm,â Oscar says, face still pressed against Georgeâs tummy. ââs okay. Told you, Iâm a reverse cow.â
That draws another laugh out of George. Short and too loud. Itâs an addictive sound. Oscar pushes her tongue into Georgeâs belly button, then traces another path of milk back up toward her breast.
âWait,â George hiccups, long fingers tangling in Oscarâs hair, keeping her head down. âMy⌠my shorts, can you takeâŚâ
Oscar hums her agreement into Georgeâs skin and feels for the button of her denim shorts, flicking it open with a smooth twist of her wrist sheâs quietly proud of. George sighs in relief when Oscar pulls them off, letting them slide down her legs in a way the shirt had refused to do.
âMoomooâŚâ George whispers. âPanties, too.â
Oscar hums again, tries to ignore the flood of heat rushing between her own legs. George is wearing simple, functional cotton underwear, which Oscar carefully eases over her bulge. Sheâs leaked a little, thereâs a string of slick clinging to the fabric as Oscar pulls it away. Her mouth waters.
A sharp hiss comes from above when Georgeâs clit is fully exposed to the cool night air. Oscar gives it a quick kiss before she moves up to mouth at Georgeâs pubic bone, then back to the milk drying all over her torso.
Once sheâs back at her breasts, going to lavish attention on the neglected one this time, she lifts her eyes to Georgeâs again.
They arenât met. George is staring off at the corner of the ceiling, eyes unfocused, mouth hanging open.
Oscar takes her time, running her mouth and hands all over Georgeâs tits until sheâs trembling, almost crying.
âFuck me, moomoo, please!â she begs, voice wet and raw. âIâm, like, fully hard right now. Fully!â
Oscar has a hard time pulling her mouth away, despite the sharp stab of arousal at those words.
âGrind?â she asks. âOr anal?â
Sheâs an efficient communicator.
âGrind.â
So is George, when she needs to be.
Oscar pulls her oversized T-shirt off without fanfare. Toes off her white socks, steps out of her boy shorts and boxers. The sports bra comes last. Sheâs aware of Georgeâs hungry eyes on her, the same way sheâs aware of her skin, pale under the silvery light. A quick glance at the window tells her the moon is watching now, giving her the haunting complexion of a ghost who died of scurvy. Lovely.
âYou look⌠evanescent!â George breathes as she scoots back on the table.
Theyâre doing this here, then. Oscar steps forward, planting her hands on the table on either side of Georgeâs hips.
âNot sure either one of us knows what that means,â she says, hoisting herself up with ease. Sheâs athletic, though not exactly elegant.
âEffulgent!â George insists.
One time, George had lovingly called her jejune, only for them to look it up later and find out it means âdull.â
âWell, you look simply georgeous!â Oscar fires back, leaning down to kiss her now that her lips are back within reach.
George giggles into the kiss, but it doesnât take long to steer her back on track. Itâs slow, the way theyâre licking into each otherâs mouths, hands exploring each otherâs bodies as if anew. Unhurried. Maybe itâs the early hour. The lack of traffic noise from outside. The moonlight spilling through the dirty window. The wine. Maybe itâs just them, trying to burn this moment into the cortex of their brains.
Time dissolves as they start to grind against each other. Oscar is dripping wet, and it makes for an easy, slippery slide. She hasnât shaved in a while, so they donât have to worry about carpet burn as she rubs her folds along Georgeâs big clit.
âYou feel so good, moomoo!â George gasps when Oscarâs lips trail off to suck at her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. After a while, George lets out a sudden sob. âSit up? I want to see youâŚâ
Oscar complies, sitting up straight without breaking the rhythm sheâs worked up â the slow slide, back and forth, aided by the constant stream of slick pouring out of her. Theyâre wrapped in a cloud of her scent, but itâs hard to feel self-conscious when your girlfriend is looking at you like that.
âCalamitous,â George heaves, hands wrapping around Oscarâs waist â the only part of her that isnât square and practical. âYou might make me come today!â
âNo pressure,â Oscar says. Itâs a terribly sarcastic-sounding string of words, but she means them. When she glances down at the tip of Georgeâs clit, peeking out from between her folds, she finds it leaking. Liquid streams down her sides, pooling on their kitchen table.
âFuck, George!â she says in awe. âYouâre so wet!â
Georgeâs eyes flutter as she pulls her hands away from Oscarâs waist to pinch her own nipples. Oscar watches, doesnât dare blink. More liquid beads at the tip of Georgeâs clit. Itâs clear. Oscar wants to taste it so badly, but George is moaning in time with her thrusts, so she focuses on that, watches George play with her nipples, memorizes every detail.
âOh, criââ
Georgeâs knees jerk up and Oscar catches them, leans back against them for leverage as she continues to rub against her girlfriend, increasing the pressure.
âI donât know if I just came,â George groans, hips stuttering under Oscarâs weight. âI donâtâŚâ
âWant me to keep going?â Oscar asks softly.
âYes!â George sobs, so Oscar does.
Sat up. Hands braced on knees. Clit on clit, sliding, thrusting, eyes fixed on the whimpering mess her girlfriend is turning into.
Gray turns to blue as the night wears on. They donât move much. Sometimes Oscar bends down to nip at Georgeâs breasts or kiss her stupid. Sometimes they just lie on top of each other, feeling the rise and fall of their chests, maybe dozing off until one of them starts to move again, grinding into each otherâs slick until it squelches.
The kitchen is orange by the time George taps Oscarâs thigh, signaling her to get off. Sheâs soft, dazed, strands of hair clinging to her lips. Only when Oscar climbs off does she notice the burn in her upper thigh.
âYou good?â she asks. Her voice is barely a whisper, but George hears, humming in answer.
âDrink?â Oscar asks, carrying her shaky legs over to the fridge and pulling out the milk again.
Georgeâs eyes are closed but blink open when Oscar comes back, pressing a tall glass of milk to her neck, where sheâs damp with sweat.
âGood moomoo,â George murmurs, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
Oscar helps pull her up into a sitting position, then hops back up to join her. Good thing they have a sturdy table.
They sit like that, saying nothing. Limbs tangled into an impossible knot. Naked. Passing the glass of milk back and forth, watching orange light spill in through the window.
When the glass is empty, they find each otherâs lips again and keep drinking from there, half-asleep and sated.
Oscar pulls back to find George with eyes closed, smiling faintly, a hint of teeth caught in the plush curve of her lower lip.
âThoughts?â Oscar asks, too tired for full sentences.
George hums low, then says, âI forgot to check it.â She opens her eyes as far as they will go, which is barely halfway. Swaying with exhaustion, just like Oscar. Itâs like theyâre trapped in a boat, in the middle of the sea. Sitting and swaying in tandem.
A million years later, George clarifies, âThe little library.â
âYeah,â Oscar grunts.
âWhat if I missed something good?â
âYou didnât,â Oscar says. George just looks at her through her heavy lids. Orange light. Ice-blue eyes. Lashes. Shadows. Ethereal. Seraphic. Sacrosanct.
âNo one will have been there in the middle of the night,â she adds. Georgeâs top is hanging off the edge of the table like a cliff. Oscar grabs it, pulls it over her girlfriendâs head.
âCome on!â she says. âLetâs go take a look.â
somehow... from both sides. Lando isn't great. Oscar is way worse.
in answer to the following kink meme prompt:
Girl!Osc wearing a skirt in a full train and getting fucked/fingered by any guy (though I'd prefer it not to be Mark, sorry).
dnw: established relationship
dub-con or even non-con is fine
Landoscar, r63, os, 3k words, rated E (view tag list on ao3!)
on ao3
------------------
One hour of pure torture lies ahead of Oscar.
Sheâs crammed into the furthest corner of an overcrowded train, dragging her from the airport straight through the middle of the city before swinging back out towards her parentsâ house.
The âeau de public transportâ is as revolting as ever â cold sweat, chain-smoker breath, jackets left too long in the washer. Oscarâs used to it by now. Unless a junkie bites the head off a half-dead pigeon right in front of her, the subway experience canât really shock her anymore.
The most shocking thing about this train ride is her company, anyway. Itâs the neighbourâs boy, Lando Norris. Heâs two years older, insufferably cocky, and the perfect blend between cute and hot. Growing up next to him had been absolute torture. Itâs taken her until he moved halfway across the world to realise sheâs bi, because sheâs been forced to have the most revolting crush on a goddamn boy throughout her formative years.
Nowadays, heâs supposedly some hotshot DJ. Oscarâs not buying it, because what kind of hotshot DJ needs a free ride on the subway anyway? Oscarâs student transit pass happens to come with a plus-one, so her dad had taken it upon himself to offer the Norrises her services.
So Oscar went all the way out to the airport just to pick him up for his hotshot-DJ summer vacation at his parentâs house.
She waited an hour for his delayed flight.
And then he walked right past her at arrivals. Didnât recognize her. As if they hadnât grown up in neighbouring houses for their entire lives.
Now heâs here, standing behind her, eyes glued to his phone, not even pretending to care about her existence.
The truth is, Lando Norris is a self-absorbed arsehole.
And still, Oscar put on a skirt to come pick him up. Sheâs not sure why. She doesnât even own it, nicked it from the girl she shares a dorm with during the week. And itâs not like sheâs still into him. Itâs just⌠it would finally feel like winning. Like closure. If he looked at her now and thought she was fit.
Fat chance of that.
The train groans to life, lurching forward. Every stop feels like a threat that the whole thing might finally give up the ghost. Shuddering and heaving like a dying boar, then the deafening rattle once it picks up speed.
Oscarâs face is nearly pressed against the dark window. Her reflection stares back, pale and hollow-eyed. Hovering just over her shoulder is Landoâs reflection, head bent over his phone.
He has a mullet now. A haircut that looks like a complete bogan disaster on every person on Earth, except him.
Brakes screech. The train jerks hard as it slams into the next stop. Oscar braces without thinking; Lando doesnât. He stumbles forward and pins her tighter against the glass. The gap he leaves is instantly swallowed by the crush of passengers, his half-grunt of protest vanishes in the noise.
Doors beep shut. And again: creaking, crashing, deafening rattle. Bang bang bang.
The line of Landoâs lean frame presses against her back.
He feels solid, nowadays. He used to be all awkward limbs, but clearly heâs been working out.
The train takes a curve, and the motion pulls him into her, top to bottom. He almost drops his phone, hands grasping for something to hold somewhere around her hips. They stay there a moment too long and it lands like a line of crack. Oscar looks herself in the eyes, in the windowâs reflection, and keeps her face perfectly still. Heâs just a boy. Heâs just a stupid boy. She doesnât even want him anymore.
Just wants him to want her.
He finally shoves his phone into his pocket and braces against the next curve with his hand flat against the window, right next to her face, bracketing her in. Still, heâs pulled into her, by the weight of everyone behind pressing into him.
Oscar can feel every inch of his dick against her arse.
Not because heâs hard or anything. Just because heâs massive.
Sheâs spent many hours of her life secretly studying that massive fucking dick, sheâs not proud to say. Call it morbid curiosity. Heâs lived his entire teenage years in his track pants, because heâs too cool to be uncomfortable. They donât hide anything. She used to lose whole Sundays waiting for his crewâs weekend party pics to drop on Insta, just so she could zoom in on that fucking bulge.
Now itâs right there, pressing into the cleft of her arse, thick and fleshy. She feels his breath on the back of her neck, like he might be saying something, apologising maybe, but itâs too loud with the constant creakclashrattlebang and the pulse hammering in her ears.
When the centrifugal force finally lets them go and pulls him a step back, she doesnât let him. Leans backwards, just enough for her arse to keep touching him without it being too obvious itâs on purpose. Heâs shifting nervously, but the train crashes into its next stop and the doors open and theyâre only just nearing the city proper. The train is getting fuller still. He manages to tear himself away from her arse for half a second before heâs pushed back against her, slotting into place.
Oscar dares a glance at his reflection and almost smiles.
Even in the half-blurred reflection she can easily make out that heâs gone scarlet.
Lando Norris had always been too cool, too popular, to even notice her existence â so seeing him reduced to this squirming, overwhelmed mess, just because his dickâs touching her arse, gives her a power rush unlike any before.
She keeps staring straight ahead, not blinking an eye, as the dying boar sounds start back up. Except now, every rattle, every movement, she uses as an excuse to shift her arse against his bulge.
It doesnât take long until she notices him twitch. In her periphery she can see his reflectionâs mouth fall open, but she doesnât even grace him with a glance. Just shifts her arse back against him with the movement of the train, relentless, as his massive fucking dick grows into a massive fucking boner, pressing heavy and insistent along the full curve of her arse, the tip of it reaching halfway up her back.
God. She canât even imagine what it would feel like to have him inside of her. He would literally rearrange her organs. Bulge out her tummy like those monster hentais she definitely isnât secretly getting off to.
The Norrises have a pool in their backyard. Nowadays itâs covered year-round, but back when Lando was a teen, he used to spend all summer out there, stretched between the chlorine water and the plush sun lounger, working on his tan and his vanity muscles, right underneath Oscarâs bedroom window. Which suited Oscar just fine, because Oscar used to spend all summer inside her room. She watched, through the slats of her blinds, how the life of a popular kid played out. The pool parties she wasnât invited to whenever the parents were gone for a weekend. The hours and hours spent just lying there, not giving a thought to skin cancer as the sun roasted him into the perfect shade of gold.
He had a girlfriend, the summer before he graduated. Figure like a supermodel, though surprisingly flat-chested. Oscar watched them fuck in the pool all the time. They had this MO of leaning over the pool edge, all casual, in case someone else came into the backyard and they had to act like they were just cuddling. But Oscar, from her window, had the perfect view â could track it all by the movement of the water rolling off them, Landoâs naked arse a blurred, tantalising shadow beneath the surface.
It never took very long. Though neither did Oscar, face pressed against her blinds, half-draped over her desk while she rubbed herself raw. One time, right after, Lando hauled himself out of the pool, dick still tenting out his boardies, and it made her come so hard, she genuinely thought sheâd gone blind for a moment.
The train slams into the next stop and Oscar pushes backwards with so much force, she can hear him groan, despite all the noise around them. Heâs given up trying to get away from her, is leaning into her instead, chest pressed against her back, close enough that she can feel how fast heâs breathing. The reflection shows him sweating, locks sticking to his forehead, face flushed around the nose, the same strange way Oscar always flushes. She has to suppress a smile when she can feel him grind into her. Itâs so rock-hard, it probably hurts. Heâs still desperately trying to find her eyes in the window, grab some form of acknowledgement, but she keeps stoically staring straight ahead, not giving him the satisfaction. Acts like heâs not even there, like she canât feel his massive fucking cock rubbing between her arsecheeks.
By the next stop, which is the one before the main station, he gives up fighting his better judgement. As the masses shift around them, his hands find her hips yet again, sliding up to her waist. The carriage is absolutely chockers now, Oscar jammed up against the window, tits flattened against the glass, which must be quite a view from the platform. Lando looks delirious, arms wrapped around her, one hand resting on her lower belly, spread so wide it spans her entire womb. She swears sheâs dripping through her underwear. Thereâs something running down her legs she doesnât think is sweat.
When the train starts up again, she can feel him fumbling with his pants, forehead pressed into the back of her neck as he looks down. Oscar wishes she could do the same, but she can only sense the sudden absence of weight against her backside, and then her skirt, catching on something.
Her knees almost buckle once she feels the hot, leaking tip of his dick digging into the bare split of her arse. Thank fuck heâs not looking at her reflection anymore, because her blank expression finally wavers, breath catching in her throat. The train lurches and his heavy cock slides further underneath her skirt, finding the drenched, dripping cotton of her undies. He moans, right by her ear. More a whine than a moan, actually. Oscar wishes she could hear more of it â he sounds absolutely pathetic. Not even a little bit like the larger-than-life heartthrob sheâd always regarded him as, before she went to uni and learned to have some self-respect.
The entire length of his cock slides along her inner thighs, following the line of her ruined undies, and as the train jolts and sways, they grind together in a stop-start rhythm, dangerous and unsatisfying, though Oscar canât remember a time in her life sheâs felt more powerful than right now. Landoâs sweating even worse than her dripping pussy, and sheâs doing this to him. Sheâs pushed him so far past the edge that he saw no other option than to haul out his monster of a dick on a train full of people, and rut himself between her thighs.
She deserves his dick. She deserves his dick inside her! Even though his hand is still spread flat across her underbelly, he makes no move to slip his fingers underneath the skirt and give her clit some attention. Too wrapped up in his own, throbbing crisis â and it is throbbing, Jesus! Oscar can feel it pulse and nudge at her swollen lips, even through her undies. She only has to tilt her hips the tiniest bit, and there it is, thick, fat promise, dipping just the cruelest bit inside.
Landoâs completely gone for. Face buried in the crook of her neck, entire body trembling, fingers gripping her like a lifeline. Unless heâs gained some stamina over the last few years, Oscar has to assume heâs about to blow.
She preens, on the inside. On the outside, sheâs the same stone statue sheâs been since theyâve boarded this train. Even when the train pulls into the main station with screeching brakes, she doesnât so much as blink, even though she knows exactly whatâs going to happen next.
Lando startles out of her neck as everything around them starts moving. People are starting to leave the train, leaving more and more gaps around them, all their cover dissolving, until theyâre so close to being exposed, itâs sheer dumb luck that a massive man barrels in before everyoneâs had the chance to leave the train, and comes to stand directly in front of them. Then, gradually, the gaps fill with new passengers boarding, until theyâre packed in just as tight as before.
Landoâs too busy watching the people around them in the windowâs reflection, looking like a deer in headlights, to notice Oscarâs fingers dip underneath her skirt and nudge her undies just slightly to one side.
He only starts breathing again when the doors close and the train surges forward, picking up speed as it leaves the station, the brick wall of a bloke behind him pressing him back into Oscar again, into the wet, open heat of her.
Oscar can hear him whimpering once he realises heâs actually slipping inside now, the walls of her hole slowly stretching around his fat, leaking cock. He gets frantic, hands grasping at the smooth glass of the window, at her belly, legs buckling, eyes rolling in his head.
Itâs not the first time Oscarâs seen this expression.
She remembers one particular night, sitting at her desk, hunched over a complicated homework problem, when sheâd noticed an orange glow in the darkness of the Norrisesâ backyard.
There was a pair of binoculars sheâd been keeping on her desk, just to watch a magpie nest in the neighbourâs guttering, which came in handy now.
Lando was sitting on the edge of the pool, drawing back on a thin joint and blowing massive clouds into the night air. He had to be seriously high, because his face had gone slack and strange. His eyelids kept fluttering and his chest was heaving. Only when he looked down, mouth hanging open, did Oscar think to shift the binoculars, and realised what she hadnât noticed at first glance, in the dark.
Landoâs hand was fisted in someoneâs hair, guiding a head bobbing up and down between his legs from the pool. It was the hand with the joint in it, dangerously close to lighting the personâs hair on fire. Classic Lando, really â the sort of thing only he could pull off, somehow coming across as the biggest arsehole on the planet and effortlessly cool at the same time.
Oscar already knew she didnât have to wait long. There his eyes went, rolling up in his head and leaving them entirely white, which looked quite eerie, in the dark. Not eerie enough to keep Oscar from grinding the edge of her desk as she was clutching the binoculars with both hands. It wasnât easy to keep the line of sight steady enough to actually see something, which is why she almost missed it when the other person finally came crawling out of the pool, spitting a mouthful of come into the grass and snatching the joint from Landoâs fingertips. To her surprise, it wasnât the flat-chested supermodel girlfriend. A distant light from the back porch caught the short, curly hair and long, feminine lashes of Landoâs best friend Max, making a face as he wiped the last of the mess from his tongue, while Lando had sunk back into the grass, eyes closed, his naked dick resting on his stomach, slowly going soft.
Itâs the only time Oscarâs ever seen his dick. In the dark, half-hidden by Maxâs body, and blurred, thanks to the shaking binoculars in her hands. But she gets to feel it now, pushing forward inch by inch, as her greedy pussy swallows him deeper. Itâs everything sheâs imagined it to be. Wretched and alive, weeping and shuddering, ripe for it with barely any movement. Landoâs face is buried in the crook of her neck, leaking something down her skin and running into the channel between her tits. Sweat, or snot, or tears, or drool. Who knows. Who cares. He canât pull back without the bloke behind him noticing the movement, so heâs stuck like this, sheathed inside her, and she can⌠She has the power toâŚ
Her mind blanks for a second, overwhelmed with pure desire. But thatâs okay, she doesnât need her mind for this. All she needs to do is pump her pelvic floor, clenching down on him rhythmically. Heâs not even fighting it, just sobbing and whimpering into the crook of her neck, a complete wreck of a man. If anyone around them is noticing his strange behaviour, they donât seem too fussed, but everyoneâs eyes are glued to either the phone in their hands or, like Oscarâs, the hollow-eyed ghost of their own reflection, while she stands among them milking him within an inch of his life.
She sees the eerie, turned-up eyes make another appearance when he finally cracks, teeth catching the straps of her top, thighs shaking behind hers. She feels his dick swell and throb as his orgasm rips through him, emptying into the hungry grip of her cunt, and she keeps clenching and pumping, until she can hear him whine and splutter so clearly, itâs as if all the noise around them had dropped away to nothing.
Itâs only the screeching of the brakes that saves him. Yet another stop, yet another lurch, yet another shift of the masses around them, as everyone who needs to get off starts jostling towards the doors. The big bloke behind him moves and Lando manages to slip out, leaving a stripe of hot, thick liquid painted across her inner thigh.
When the doors open, he finally peels his face from her shoulder and for the first time, their eyes meet in the windowâs reflection.
There are tear tracks running from both his eyes, lashes clumped and wet, and a line of drool still stringing from Oscarâs shoulder. Oscar keeps her face perfectly still, watching the panic slowly surface on his.
He has no idea whether she was actually on board with all this. Has no idea whether sheâs on the pill or if he just bred her on a packed train. And despite growing up side by side their whole lives, he has no idea who she is, because he never once bothered to find out.
The doors are already beeping to indicate theyâre closing when the panic wins out. With one frantic shove he stuffs himself back into his track pants and bolts, slipping past the human brick wall behind him and out of the doors onto a heaving platform, while Oscar keeps standing there, staring at her own reflection.
Fat ropes of come are running down her legs. She discreetly tucks her undies back in place to keep it inside, and allows herself the tiniest grin.
Landoâs bag is still wedged between her feet, decorated with thick white drips.
Oh well. He still has his phone. And Oscarâs pretty sure Max lives somewhere around here, nowadays.
Promt: how about the 2019 rookies trying to cook together for some reason?
I know I said I would write something in June... but I wrote this entire thing like 5 minutes after you sent the prompt.
Set right after Canada GP, because I'm still trying to digest it.
(this is for the shenanigans fic prompts)
---------
"Unless you guys somehow Freaky Friday'd today's race," Alex says upon opening his hotel room door, "you are the wrong McLaren."
Lando shoulders his way into the room, jostling Alex aside with the huge bag he's carrying. A huge bag that produces a worrying cacophony of clanking and banging, as though it's filled to the brim with pots and pans.
"Change of plans!" Lando announces as he clangs and crashes his way into the kitchenette Alex's hotel room happens to be equipped with. "Oscar had to leave early to prevent Mark Webber from setting fire to the MTC, so I'm filling in for the sorry-for-yeeting-you-outta-the-race dinner."
Alex hesitantly closes the door and follows behind Lando, who's busy unpacking ingredients for what appears to be the pinnacle of fine dining: spaghetti with tomato sauce.
"And why the fuck would you do that? I mean, I know you guys have the whole 'teammates first' shtick, but that seems absurd, even for you."
"Ummm," Lando hums, upending the rest of the bag onto the counter, which creates a clatter so loud it startles even the unresponsive ghoul that's been haunting Alex's room for the past half hour. "I kinda owe him. For gently letting down a date or two after a night out. And maybe some alibis, too."
"Well, I'm not his slighted girlfriend, am I?" Alex huffs, bending down to pick up the kitchen utensils the hotel staff could just as well have lent them. He pauses with a knife in his hand. "Wait," he says. "Does he think I'm his slighted girlfriend?"
"He just said you'd probably prefer not having to look at his face tonight anyway," Lando shrugs. "Besides. It'll be fun! When was the last time we had some fun, huh? Just you and me and that sentient storm cloud over there."
Alex shoots a sidelong glance at George, who's lying face-down on the couch across the room, muttering dark imprecations into the suede upholstery.
"I'd rather spend a night with Oscar licking my boots than having to eat whatever comes out of your cooking!" he decides, putting the knife on the counter.
"Ew!" Lando says. He's still shaking the bag. "If you let him do that, no wonder he thinks you're his girlfriend."
Finally, he manages to shake loose two six-packs of canned gin and tonics. They slide across the counter, bowling down all the utensils Alex has just picked up again.
"You know," Alex sighs, "you're a millionaire, right? And you can't even treat me to some room service?"
"Too late to bother the staff," Lando insists. He's pulled out his phone and Alex can see over his shoulder that he's typing how cook spaghetti into Google, then pauses to look up at George over by the couch. "Will he be eating with us?"
Alex shrugs. "We'll see, I guess. He's put on such a brave face for the press, we should let him wallow for a bit."
"Sounds like he's putting some kind of dark spell on your hotel couch, mate," Lando says, disregarding all the kitchen utensils and ingredients to go straight for the canned cocktails.
Alex shrugs again. "What's one more curse, really?" he says and grabs one of the cocktails as well, because if Lando's starting his cooking session with that, he'll need it.
Lando goes back to his Google search for how cook spaghetti 3 people, Alex goes to wash the tomatoes he brought, and George continues to curse parmesan, the Pope, and everything else the country of Italy has ever produced.
"This says I need two kilos of tomato!" Lando pipes up, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "Two kilos, for a bit of sauce? I'm not lugging around two kilos of tomatoes, that'd be mental!"
"Could've cut back on the booze or half the McLaren motorhome kitchen interior you brought," Alex points out.
"Shouldn't two kilos of tomatoes make two litres of sauce?" Lando muses, not listening. "That's too much for us, no?"
Alex doesn't even want to begin reasoning with him about that one, so instead he just gives a defeated, "Why didn't you look up the recipe before you came?" and silently mourns the loss of Oscarian boot-licking for tonight.
"Didn't think it would be that complicated," Lando admits, then decides cheerfully, "So none for George then."
"I think we're covered for a simple aglio e olio," Alex says, pointing at the three entire heads of garlic Lando thought were necessary alongside the handful of tomatoes.
From behind them comes a sudden hiss at the carelessly uttered Italian words, which makes them both jump, but George doesn't rouse from the couch, so they both turn back to the food.
"Tell me what do!" Lando says, as though Alex is his substitute Google.
"Can you peel and slice garlic?" Alex asks, doubtfully.
"I can crack open a gin and tonic with my teeth," Lando offers.
"Please don't. You're gonna hurt your â alright. Cheers I guess."
Alex accepts the opened can that's handed to him and doesn't try to stop Lando from using his teeth on the second one, too. He's rich enough to buy himself a new set of teeth every day for the rest of his life, probably. If that's what he wants to spend his money on â still better than a yacht.
At least Lando is surprisingly deft with a knife, two cans into the six-pack. He needs precise instructions, but once he's got the hang of it, he's not a total disaster. Alex busies himself bringing the pasta water to a boil, and just when it's ready, he hears a strange snapping sound from behind.
Lando hears it, too. He whips around and almost slices Alex's arm open as he yelps and flails.
George must have floated off the couch sometime in the last few minutes â now he's standing by the table Lando unpacked the ingredients on, snapping every single piece of spaghetti in two while looking like a haunted porcelain doll.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Lando screeches, as Alex side-steps the knife flailing. Understanding dawns on him a second later, and he gasps, "Oh my god! Are you doing this to spite Kimi? Does the spaghetti act like an Italian voodoo doll?"
"How dead would both our teams kill me if I posted this in my stories?" Alex muses, fishing for the phone in his back pocket.
Lando manages to grab his wrist just in time. He looks genuinely concerned. "Mate, come on! You'll be fired!"
Which â wow! A startlingly sensible thought from him. Last year's media training must have been extensive. Either that, orâŚ
Alex squints at him, then whispers, "âŚOscar?"
"Mate, you really can't handle any alcohol at all, can you?" Lando-maybe-Oscar grouses.
"Of course!" Alex crows, slapping the counter. "That's why they put you both on inters and somehow killed your car when you were driving into the points! Because the race results wouldn't be fair if you were bodyswapped, so Papaya Rules demanded you both finish outside the points!"
"Still a better explanation than 'We thought thereâd be a sudden flood'," George interjects weakly â the first words he's spoken all night. It makes both Alex and Lando forget their argument as they fall into loud cheering instead and join him at the table to finish destroying the rest of the offending pasta.
It's only when the fire alarm goes off that they realise Lando had already turned the stove on and was cooking a pan of olive oil into a plume of smoke.
"Well fuck," Lando says, entirely too easily. "That's happened to me before. Won't be cheap, mate. They send out like a bazillion fire trucks if you trigger the alarm at a hotel."
"You know I'll be sending you the bill, right?"
"Mate, send it right to Osc â this is all his fault. Plus, what is he doing with his fuckton of money anyway? Buying shirts from Uniqlo is what!"
"You have a point," Alex admits, watching out of the corner of his eye as George, even in his zombified state, drifts over to switch off the stove and shuffles to the hotel phone to let reception know they should cancel the alarm if they still can.
Maybe Alex should've thought of that himself. Maybe he really is drunk.
"Okay then, which one of you's in the nicer hotel?" he shouts over the shrieking alarm, ambling into the bedroom to grab the suitcase he's never really unpacked. "I'll be crashing at one of yours tonight."
"Mine's close to a McDonald's," Lando says. "Plus Oscar's room is free now, I guess."
"Perfect," Alex nods, grabbing George's elbow as he passes and pulling him out the door with him. "Nothing Italian about a McDonald's."
****
AlexÂ
I'm in your room
OscarÂ
?
AlexÂ
*hotelÂ
If you're texting back you must be able to read the newsÂ
Just so you knowÂ
You have even more to make up for now
OscarÂ
Yep.Â
Sorry đđĽş
****
Alex hides a tired smile in the sheets that still smell like Oscar's fucking chocolate deodorant.
At least there's no doubt that this is the real Oscar, this time.
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Zak tells him first, in the vague, careful way Zak says things when he tries to sound casual about something that is absolutely not casual. Andrea tells him again later, more formally, in the sort of voice people use for incident post-mortems, contracts, and minor explosive hazards.
âOscar is a hybrid.â
Lando stares at him. âWhat, like Toyota?â
Andrea only folds his hands on the table and looks at Lando with the grave patience of a man who has already decided not to rise to anything today. âIt is private medical information. It does not affect his ability to race.â
Which is apparently the McLaren way of saying your new teammate is part wasp, please donât make it weird.
And Lando doesnât. Mostly because there is nothing to make weird.
Oscar looks normal. Annoyingly normal, actually. Normal hair, normal hands, normal ears, normal little mouth that quirks when Lando makes a joke that is not even that funny. He doesnât have wings. He doesnât click his mandibles. He doesnât crawl up walls or hiss at jam. He wears his team kit properly, sits through meetings with his arms folded, and answers questions in that calm, clipped way that makes Lando want to poke him just to see if anything interesting falls out.
Oscar is just his teammate, a quiet guy who feels entirely too dense to be knocked off balance, standing his ground right up until he puts three tenths on you where it hurts.
Aside from the biggest red flag is that he drinks Coca-Cola mixed with water like it is an acceptable life choice, which frankly seems more alien than the wasp thing.
So Lando forgets.
Not fully. There is always a part of him that knows, tucked away with all the other things he has been told once and is meant to behave normally about. The same way he knows where the exits are in a room, which mechanics walk behind him in the garage, which corners punish him if he gets greedy.
Until Singapore. Because heat does something to Oscar.
At first, Lando thinks it is just the usual Singapore misery. Everyone is sweaty. Everyone is irritable. The paddock feels boiled in its own plastic wrapping, all stale air and humidity trapped under lights that never seem to switch off. After FP2, Oscarâs fireproofs cling to him, his hair damp at the temples, colour high in his cheeks. He looks tired, which makes sense. They all do. Singapore makes everyone look like they have been lightly poached and then served under fluorescent lighting.
Then Lando sees the ridge.
It happens in the garage, quick enough that he almost misses it. Oscar bends over the sidepod, one hand braced on the halo as Tom talks him through front wing changes. His race suit is half down, sleeves tied at his waist, fireproof stretched across his back.
Under the fabric, at the base of his spine, something moves.
A hard dark shape pushes against the materialâsegmented, glossyâthen sinks back under his skin like it was never there.
Lando stops drinking, and water spills down his chin.
Oscarâs head turns. For half a second, his face goes completely blank. Not surprised, exactly. More like every shutter in him comes down at once.
Then he says, very evenly, âMissed your mouth there.â
Lando wipes his chin with the back of his hand. âYeah. Noticed.â
Oscar looks away first.
After that Lando canât stop seeing things.
The shadow under Oscarâs skin when heâs overtired, low and slow, like something shifting in sleep. The dark hook that appears beneath his waistband when he stretches and disappears before Lando can look directly at it. The way Oscar goes perfectly still whenever anyone touches too low on his back, even by accident, like his whole body is closing around a secret while his face works out what expression to make.
Small things. Things nobody else notices.
Lando notices all of them.
Then thereâs the smell.
Sweet at first. Barely there. Lando catches it in the driver room corridor and assumes someone has opened an energy gel. Something sugary, sharp, almost floral, sitting oddly under the usual motorhome stink.
Then Oscar walks past, and Landoâs whole mouth fills with spit.
He grabs the wall.
Oscar stops dead. âLan?â
âIâm fine,â Lando says, which is a lie with shoes on and a hat.
Oscar doesnât move. His eyes move over Landoâs face, quick and controlled.
The smell thickens. Hot sugar. Ozone. Sweat. Something chemical enough to make Landoâs skin prickle all over.
Oscarâs jaw tightens. âDonât follow me,â he says.
Which obviously makes Lando want to follow him so badly he nearly blacks out.
He doesnât. Barely.
Oscar shuts himself in his driver room for twenty-three minutes. Lando knows because he stands in the corridor pretending to scroll through his phone. He stays there like an idiot, staring at the flooring, breathing through his mouth when the smell leaks faintly through the doorframe.
When Oscar comes back out, heâs changed shirts. His hair is damp, like he has dunked his head under the sink. His face is calm again, but too pale around the mouth, and he keeps one hand close to his stomach for a few seconds before he catches himself and lets it fall.
âEverything okay?â Lando asks.
Oscar glances at him. âYes.â
âYou smell like a melted battery.â
Oscar blinks.
Lando winces. âBad wording.â
âItâs pheromonal.â
âRight.â
âYou should stay away from me when it happens.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre clearly affected.â
Lando laughs, too high and too fast. âNo, Iâm not.â
Oscar looks pointedly at Landoâs hand.
Lando realises he is gripping Oscarâs sleeve. He lets go. âStatic,â he says.
âThatâs not what static is.â
âCould be.â
Oscarâs mouth twitches, but it doesnât reach his eyes.
Thatâs the bit that stays with Lando. Not the ridges or the smell or the shadow shifting low under Oscarâs skin.
Itâs the way Oscar looks embarrassed by his own body. Like every strange part of him is a mistake he can usually keep zipped under a suit.
And maybe Lando wouldâve left it alone, if Oscar hadnât started avoiding him.
Oscarâs avoidance is shit.
He still sits next to Lando in debrief because that is where his chair is. He still answers when Lando asks him things, still makes dry little comments under his breath that only Lando catches. But he stops standing close. Stops letting their shoulders touch in hospitality. Stops leaning in to look at Landoâs phone when Lando starts laughing at something stupid.
That last one is offensive.
âYouâre being weird,â Lando says eventually.
Oscar doesnât look up from his rice. âNo.â
âYou are.â
âIâm eating lunch.â
âYouâre eating lunch two seats away from me.â
Oscar looks at the empty chair between them. Then back at his rice. âIt was free.â
âItâs always free. This is McLaren.â
Oscar sighs. âLando.â
There it is. Warning tone. Soft enough that no one else clocks it, but Lando feels it under his ribs anyway.
Lando leans back in his chair, pretending his pulse hasnât jumped. âWhat?â
Oscar keeps his voice low. âIâm trying to be sensible.â
âAbout what?â
Oscarâs eyes flick to him.
Lando knows. Not the details. Not yet. But enough to feel the room tilt a little.
The next time it happens, Oscar doesnât even make it to his driver room.
It is after qualifying, late enough that the garage has started to empty out. Mechanics move around in that exhausted, efficient way, getting in the last few setup changes before curfew.
The air is still hot. Singapore refuses to cool properly, even at night, turning from wet heat into something heavier and stickier, clinging to the back of Landoâs neck as he cuts through the corridor behind hospitality.
He finds Oscar half hidden between flight cases and the service wall, one hand pressed flat to the panelling, the other low on his stomach. His race suit is still half-zipped, and his shoulders are shaking.
âOsc?â
Oscarâs head snaps up. âDonât.â
Lando stops.
From ten feet away, Oscar looks fine in the way Oscar often looks fine when he absolutely is not: sweaty, pale, pissed off, normal Oscar in normal McLaren kit, glaring like Lando has interrupted him doing taxes.
Then something moves under his shirt. Low. Wrong.
Oscarâs mouth pinches shut. Lando forgets how to breathe.
âOh,â he says.
Oscar laughs once, sharp and ugly. âYeah.â
âIs it bad?â
âNot if I get away from you.â
That lands strangely. âMe?â
Oscarâs eyes are too dark. âYou make it worse.â
Lando should have a joke for that. Any joke. He has thousands, most of them unusable, most of them terrible, and usually one turns up even when it should not.
Nothing comes.
Oscarâs hand slips lower, fingers pressing into the orange fabric at his waist. His breathing stutters.
âGo get Mark,â Oscar says.
Lando stays where he is.
Oscarâs eyes narrow. âLando.â
âYou told me not to follow you last time.â
âYes.â
âAnd I did.â
Oscar swallows.
The smell rolls over them again, hot-sweet and unbearable. Landoâs knees soften with it. His brain goes syrupy at the edges, everything narrowing to Oscarâs mouth, Oscarâs hands, the tremor in Oscarâs thighs, the dark flicker beneath his skin.
âFuck,â Oscar whispers.
Thatâs when Lando gets it.
Oscar isnât hard to be around because he looks like something inhuman. Heâs hard to be around because most of the time he doesnt. Because he can sit in briefings and answer questions and laugh quietly at Landoâs shit jokes while something ancient lives under his skin, waiting for the exact wrong temperature, the exact wrong season, the exact wrong boy standing too close in a corridor after qualifying.
Lando takes one step closer.
Oscarâs back hits the wall.
âDonât,â Oscar warns, weaker this time.
Lando stops just outside armâs reach. âTell me whatâs happening.â
Oscarâs throat works.
For a second Lando thinks heâll refuse. Then Oscar looks at the floor and says, flat as a blade, âMating season.â
Landoâs brain leaves his body, walks into traffic, and dies there.
He manages, somehow, âRight.â
Oscarâs laugh is barely a breath. âThatâs it?â
âWhat else am I supposed to say?â
âAnything smarter.â
âBit late for that.â
Oscar shuts his eyes. Beneath the fireproof top, something shifts again, low under his abdomen. Dark. Hooked. There and gone.
Landoâs mouth goes dry. Oscar opens his eyes.
âNow you know,â he says.
And Lando, because he has never once in his life made the sensible choice when the stupid one has teeth, says, âOkay.â
Oscar stares. Lando steps closer.
âOkay?â Oscar repeats.
âYeah.â
âYou donât even know what that means.â
âNo,â Lando says, voice rough. âBut I know what you look like when youâre trying not to ask for help.â
Oscarâs face goes very still.
The corridor hums around them. Distant voices. The faint clank of equipment being packed away. Someone laughs outside, completely unaware that Lando Norris is about to make several catastrophic life choices beside a hospitality fire extinguisher.
Oscarâs hand twitches at his side.
Lando sees it.
Then Oscar says, so quietly it barely survives the air between them, âPhysio trailer.â
Lando blinks.
Oscar glances towards the narrow door at the end of the service corridor. The McLaren physio trailer sits tucked between freight cases and cooling units, lights still on, blinds drawn. Meant for stretching, ice baths, recovery.
Nothing about this is recovery.
His voice drops lower. âLock it behind you.â
Landoâs pulse kicks hard enough to hurt. âOsc.â
Oscarâs jaw flexes. Heâs still braced against the wall, still trying to stand like nothing is happening while his body betrays him by degrees. The sharp sweet smell of him clings to the back of Landoâs throat.
âIf you come in,â Oscar says, very carefully, âyou stay until I say.â
Lando swallows.
The sensible answer is to get Mark. The sensible answer is to back away, breathe through his mouth, pretend he hasnât seen the dark flicker shifting beneath Oscarâs skin. The sensible answer is probably written down somewhere in a McLaren emergency protocol nobody thought to show him, because nobody expected him to be this stupid.
Oscarâs fingers curl against the wall.
Lando reaches for the door handle. âReady?â
Oscarâs eyes close for half a second. Something moves across his faceâquick, unguardedâand then itâs gone, tucked back behind the usual composure. The careful mouth. The stubborn set of his shoulders.
Normal Oscar. Almost.
Lando opens the door and Oscar follows him in, and the smell comes with them, sweet and thick and inescapable, and Lando pulls the door shut and locks it and doesnât think about how easily he made that decision.