carcar + landoscar fic requests always welcome

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 she’s wearing.

“I apologize. I just need to get home, pronto.”

“Hm?” Oscar realizes she’s fallen forward into George’s chest, eyes closed. She could stay there forever. The air is mild, and George smells like sunscreen. It’s summer. Oscar loves the summer.

“Home, moomoo!” George commands, ignoring Oscar’s wine-drunk, silent euphoria. “It’s urgent!”

“Couldn’t you have peed at theirs?” Oscar grumbles as George starts moving again, tugging her along.

“It’s not that,” George says mysteriously, and Oscar gives up. George likes to be a little theatrical sometimes, and Oscar would be lying if she said she didn’t 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 Oscar’s numb legs. It’s not just the wine. She’s 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 Oscar’s gone down on all fours, trying to crawl up with the added help of her hands.

“Do I have to start calling you hisshiss?” George inquires, leaning against the stairwell wall with her arms crossed, suddenly not in such a hurry anymore.

“What?” Oscar’s muddled brain can’t make sense of that.

“You’re crawling up the stairs like a snake!”

“I’m on all fours. Snakes are flat!” Oscar argues, because she can’t help being a bit of a pedant about these things. “A cow works just fine for what I’m doing. Besides, aren’t cows famously bad at climbing stairs?”

“No, they can climb them, I think,” George muses. “But they can’t go back down? Something like that.”

“I’m a reverse cow, then,” Oscar mutters as she reaches the top of the stairs. There are three more flights to go. George mutters a “Blimey!” 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 there’s 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 Oscar’s hair.

It takes a moment – stumbling along the hallway into the kitchen, losing shoes along the way, until Oscar feels the edge of the table at her back – for her to realize what is happening.

“Oh. Oh!” she gasps, once George’s mouth leaves her enough breathing room to talk, and George pulls back with a huge, genuine grin.

“This is why I was in a hurry!” she pants.

“That’s… oh wow!” Oscar tries to think back to any obvious signs George might’ve given her. “When did you… I mean, I don’t remember being particularly sexy, what with the way I kept bickering with Lando about the jail rules.”

“Ah, see, that’s what did it for me. When you told him if we’re suddenly going to introduce unspoken house rules, you’d create one where you can become the leader of a prison gang that specifically targets bratty twinks.”

Oscar barks a laugh. “That’s what does it for you nowadays, is it? Twink abuse?” 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 can’t reach her when she leans back. If they’re Tetris pieces, George is the line, and Oscar the square. Broad, calm, and dependable, like a cow – that’s how George describes her. Hence the pet name.

“Hey,” George whispers, leaning back on her elbows. No one had bothered to turn the lights on, but there’s a big window, the light-polluted sky painting her in shades of gray. She looks soft like this, despite all her sharp angles.

“Hm?” Oscar hums, distracted. She’s eating George with her eyes – 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.

“Could you try and touch my breasts?”

That snaps Oscar out of it. Her mouth goes dry.

“Yeah?” she asks, breathless.

George answers with a bright, cheesy smile, too white in the gray gloom of it all. “I saw you look!” she says.

It’s true. Oscar’s 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 there’s not much breast to show for it, and probably never will be, but she’s 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.

“Are you…” she starts, but George just nods, decisive.

“Just be gentle. They’re still very sensitive. But I think it might be… the fun kind, today.”

Oscar doesn’t need to be told twice. She reaches for the hem of George’s 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 she’s like this – topless, with her back arched, Oscar’s face hovering level with her chest.

“George, they’re beautiful,” Oscar whispers, unable to tear her eyes away. “Can I…”

“Please!” George gasps.

Oscar pulls her top further up, folding it over her head, where it refuses to slide down George’s arms, hanging there like a backpack. Oscar’s 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.

“Yes!” George’s 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.

“Mouth?” 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.

There’s no immediate reaction, no hiss of pain, no flinch, so she licks again, flat of her tongue across the hard nub of George’s nipple.

That draws a sound from her. A mix between a gasp and a laugh.

“It feels good, moomoo! It actually–”

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. Oscar’s 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 George’s bikini lines, but she draws her tongue along where she knows them to be, presses her warm hands into George’s 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 she’s 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, George’s 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.

“Fuck, moomoo!” George whispers. “You’re sucking my breasts!”

Oscar does it again, a little harder, until George gives a small hiccup.

“Imagine if there was milk coming out,” George says. Not even the gray shadows can hide her blush. “You’d look stunning, with it running out the corners of your mouth!”

Oscar’s mouth waters. The thought of pleasing her girlfriend alone is getting her all kinds of wet. And they’re already in the kitchen…

She draws back from George’s 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.

George’s skin is yellow in the fridge light, and gray in all the corners the light can’t reach. She’s 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 can’t quite believe Oscar’s real.

Oscar swallows part of the milk, enough so she can open her mouth without spilling. She doesn’t bother closing the fridge door before she goes back to George. She likes the way it illuminates her tits, makes them shine from Oscar’s spit.

“Crikey,” George mewls. It endears Oscar greatly how serious she is about her funny words. They’re not meant as a joke. She’s yelled this in high ecstasy before. Oscar takes it as incentive to keep going and closes her mouth around George’s nipple, tongue pushing through the milk, probing. She looks up to where George’s eyes are already on her, lids drooping, mouth open in a broken gasp.

“Oh, fuck!” she moans when Oscar’s tongue touches her, cold shock of the milk chilling her nipples, making them even harder. Her light blue eyes look dark for once. She’s so beautiful like this – unguarded and undone and clearly aroused. Oscar doesn’t remember the last time she managed to make her girlfriend feel like this. Sometimes it’s hard not to blame herself, not to think it’s because she isn’t sexy enough. So she’s grateful for this chance. Determined to make the most of it. Whatever George wants. Whatever she wants.

“Suck m-me!”

Oscar does. Carefully. The milk must feel soothing on George’s nipples because there isn’t 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 George’s 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.

“Bloody hell, moomoo!” George whimpers, belly jumping under Oscar’s feather-light touches. “That’s fuck–”

She’s interrupted, just a beat too late, by the fridge beeping behind them.

For a second, they forget they’re 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.

“I just realized,” George says after a moment. Her tears have dried again, never fully formed. “I should do this to you instead. Milk you.”

“Hm,” Oscar says, face still pressed against George’s tummy. “‘s okay. Told you, I’m a reverse cow.”

That draws another laugh out of George. Short and too loud. It’s an addictive sound. Oscar pushes her tongue into George’s belly button, then traces another path of milk back up toward her breast.

“Wait,” George hiccups, long fingers tangling in Oscar’s hair, keeping her head down. “My… my shorts, can you take…”

Oscar hums her agreement into George’s skin and feels for the button of her denim shorts, flicking it open with a smooth twist of her wrist she’s 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.

“Moomoo…” George whispers. “Panties, too.”

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. She’s leaked a little, there’s a string of slick clinging to the fabric as Oscar pulls it away. Her mouth waters.

A sharp hiss comes from above when George’s clit is fully exposed to the cool night air. Oscar gives it a quick kiss before she moves up to mouth at George’s pubic bone, then back to the milk drying all over her torso.

Once she’s back at her breasts, going to lavish attention on the neglected one this time, she lifts her eyes to George’s again.

They aren’t 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 George’s tits until she’s trembling, almost crying.

“Fuck me, moomoo, please!” she begs, voice wet and raw. “I’m, like, fully hard right now. Fully!”

Oscar has a hard time pulling her mouth away, despite the sharp stab of arousal at those words.

“Grind?” she asks. “Or anal?”

She’s an efficient communicator.

“Grind.”

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. She’s aware of George’s hungry eyes on her, the same way she’s 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.

“You look… evanescent!” George breathes as she scoots back on the table.

They’re doing this here, then. Oscar steps forward, planting her hands on the table on either side of George’s hips.

“Not sure either one of us knows what that means,” she says, hoisting herself up with ease. She’s athletic, though not exactly elegant.

“Effulgent!” George insists.

One time, George had lovingly called her jejune, only for them to look it up later and find out it means “dull.”

“Well, you look simply georgeous!” Oscar fires back, leaning down to kiss her now that her lips are back within reach.

George giggles into the kiss, but it doesn’t take long to steer her back on track. It’s slow, the way they’re licking into each other’s mouths, hands exploring each other’s bodies as if anew. Unhurried. Maybe it’s the early hour. The lack of traffic noise from outside. The moonlight spilling through the dirty window. The wine. Maybe it’s 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 hasn’t shaved in a while, so they don’t have to worry about carpet burn as she rubs her folds along George’s big clit.

“You feel so good, moomoo!” George gasps when Oscar’s lips trail off to suck at her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. After a while, George lets out a sudden sob. “Sit up? I want to see you…”

Oscar complies, sitting up straight without breaking the rhythm she’s worked up – the slow slide, back and forth, aided by the constant stream of slick pouring out of her. They’re wrapped in a cloud of her scent, but it’s hard to feel self-conscious when your girlfriend is looking at you like that.

“Calamitous,” George heaves, hands wrapping around Oscar’s waist – the only part of her that isn’t square and practical. “You might make me come today!”

“No pressure,” Oscar says. It’s a terribly sarcastic-sounding string of words, but she means them. When she glances down at the tip of George’s clit, peeking out from between her folds, she finds it leaking. Liquid streams down her sides, pooling on their kitchen table.

“Fuck, George!” she says in awe. “You’re so wet!”

George’s eyes flutter as she pulls her hands away from Oscar’s waist to pinch her own nipples. Oscar watches, doesn’t dare blink. More liquid beads at the tip of George’s clit. It’s 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.

“Oh, cri–”

George’s knees jerk up and Oscar catches them, leans back against them for leverage as she continues to rub against her girlfriend, increasing the pressure.

“I don’t know if I just came,” George groans, hips stuttering under Oscar’s weight. “I don’t…”

“Want me to keep going?” Oscar asks softly.

“Yes!” 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 don’t move much. Sometimes Oscar bends down to nip at George’s 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 other’s slick until it squelches.

The kitchen is orange by the time George taps Oscar’s thigh, signaling her to get off. She’s soft, dazed, strands of hair clinging to her lips. Only when Oscar climbs off does she notice the burn in her upper thigh.

“You good?” she asks. Her voice is barely a whisper, but George hears, humming in answer.

“Drink?” Oscar asks, carrying her shaky legs over to the fridge and pulling out the milk again.

George’s eyes are closed but blink open when Oscar comes back, pressing a tall glass of milk to her neck, where she’s damp with sweat.

“Good moomoo,” 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 other’s 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.

“Thoughts?” Oscar asks, too tired for full sentences.

George hums low, then says, “I forgot to check it.” She opens her eyes as far as they will go, which is barely halfway. Swaying with exhaustion, just like Oscar. It’s like they’re trapped in a boat, in the middle of the sea. Sitting and swaying in tandem.

A million years later, George clarifies, “The little library.”

“Yeah,” Oscar grunts.

“What if I missed something good?”

“You didn’t,” Oscar says. George just looks at her through her heavy lids. Orange light. Ice-blue eyes. Lashes. Shadows. Ethereal. Seraphic. Sacrosanct.

“No one will have been there in the middle of the night,” she adds. George’s top is hanging off the edge of the table like a cliff. Oscar grabs it, pulls it over her girlfriend’s head.

Now he’s 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. She’s not sure why. She doesn’t even own it, nicked it from the girl she shares a dorm with during the week. And it’s not like she’s still into him. It’s 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.

Oscar’s face is nearly pressed against the dark window. Her reflection stares back, pale and hollow-eyed. Hovering just over her shoulder is Lando’s 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 doesn’t. 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 Lando’s lean frame presses against her back.

He feels solid, nowadays. He used to be all awkward limbs, but clearly he’s 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 window’s reflection, and keeps her face perfectly still. He’s just a boy. He’s just a stupid boy. She doesn’t 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, he’s 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 he’s hard or anything. Just because he’s massive.

She’s spent many hours of her life secretly studying that massive fucking dick, she’s not proud to say. Call it morbid curiosity. He’s lived his entire teenage years in his track pants, because he’s too cool to be uncomfortable. They don’t hide anything. She used to lose whole Sundays waiting for his crew’s weekend party pics to drop on Insta, just so she could zoom in on that fucking bulge.

Now it’s 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 it’s 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 doesn’t let him. Leans backwards, just enough for her arse to keep touching him without it being too obvious it’s on purpose. He’s shifting nervously, but the train crashes into its next stop and the doors open and they’re 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 he’s 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 he’s gone scarlet.

Lando Norris had always been too cool, too popular, to even notice her existence – so seeing him reduced to this squirming, overwhelmed mess, just because his dick’s 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 doesn’t take long until she notices him twitch. In her periphery she can see his reflection’s mouth fall open, but she doesn’t 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 can’t 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 isn’t secretly getting off to.

The Norrises have a pool in their backyard. Nowadays it’s 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 Oscar’s 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 wasn’t 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 – could track it all by the movement of the water rolling off them, Lando’s 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 she’d 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. He’s 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 he’s 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. It’s so rock-hard, it probably hurts. He’s 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 he’s not even there, like she can’t 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 she’s dripping through her underwear. There’s something running down her legs she doesn’t 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 he’s 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 – he sounds absolutely pathetic. Not even a little bit like the larger-than-life heartthrob she’d 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 can’t remember a time in her life she’s felt more powerful than right now. Lando’s sweating even worse than her dripping pussy, and she’s doing this to him. She’s 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 – 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.

Lando’s completely gone for. Face buried in the crook of her neck, entire body trembling, fingers gripping her like a lifeline. Unless he’s gained some stamina over the last few years, Oscar has to assume he’s about to blow.

She preens, on the inside. On the outside, she’s the same stone statue she’s been since they’ve boarded this train. Even when the train pulls into the main station with screeching brakes, she doesn’t so much as blink, even though she knows exactly what’s 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 they’re so close to being exposed, it’s sheer dumb luck that a massive man barrels in before everyone’s 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 they’re packed in just as tight as before.

Lando’s too busy watching the people around them in the window’s reflection, looking like a deer in headlights, to notice Oscar’s 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 he’s 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.

It’s not the first time Oscar’s seen this expression.

She remembers one particular night, sitting at her desk, hunched over a complicated homework problem, when she’d noticed an orange glow in the darkness of the Norrises’ backyard.

There was a pair of binoculars she’d been keeping on her desk, just to watch a magpie nest in the neighbour’s 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 hadn’t noticed at first glance, in the dark.

Lando’s hand was fisted in someone’s 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 person’s hair on fire. Classic Lando, really – 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 Lando’s fingertips. To her surprise, it wasn’t the flat-chested supermodel girlfriend. A distant light from the back porch caught the short, curly hair and long, feminine lashes of Lando’s 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.

It’s the only time Oscar’s ever seen his dick. In the dark, half-hidden by Max’s 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. It’s everything she’s imagined it to be. Wretched and alive, weeping and shuddering, ripe for it with barely any movement. Lando’s 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 can’t pull back without the bloke behind him noticing the movement, so he’s stuck like this, sheathed inside her, and she can… She has the power to…

Her mind blanks for a second, overwhelmed with pure desire. But that’s okay, she doesn’t need her mind for this. All she needs to do is pump her pelvic floor, clenching down on him rhythmically. He’s 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 don’t seem too fussed, but everyone’s eyes are glued to either the phone in their hands or, like Oscar’s, 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, it’s as if all the noise around them had dropped away to nothing.

It’s 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 window’s reflection.

There are tear tracks running from both his eyes, lashes clumped and wet, and a line of drool still stringing from Oscar’s 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 she’s 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 they’re 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.

Lando’s bag is still wedged between her feet, decorated with thick white drips.

Oh well. He still has his phone. And Oscar’s pretty sure Max lives somewhere around here, nowadays.

"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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – wow! A startlingly sensible thought from him.  Last year's media training must have been extensive. Either that, or…

Alex squints at him, then whispers, "…Oscar?"

"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 there’d be a sudden flood'," George interjects weakly – 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 – 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."

****

Alex 

I'm in your room

Oscar 

?

Alex 

*hotel 

If you're texting back you must be able to read the news 

Just so you know 

You have even more to make up for now

Oscar 

Yep. 

Sorry 😔🥺

****

Alex hides a tired smile in the sheets that still smell like Oscar's fucking chocolate deodorant.