#star.games

Slowly, she lets her eyes open, blinking awake into the dark room. She can’t help but furrow her brows, almost certain they left the curtains half open when they went to bed last night given how much Lily likes waking up to the sun soaking her. 

Under the sheets, Oscar bites into her thigh, lapping at it immediately after he does. Fuck, as good as it feels that definitelyisn’t right. Oscar’s not a biter for starters, he’s always been so gentle with her. A little too gentle sometimes. And even if by some miracle he decided to start indulging her unspoken fantasies now, the teeth are all wrong. The sharpest points of his bite feels too far apart, almost as if it were his canines digging in the most and not the two right in front. 

Her thoughts are cut off when Weird-Oscar presses a kiss to her entrance, the tip of his nose pushing against the hood of her clit. He nuzzles into her, breathing her in as he presses kisses along the outer edge of her lips. 

“Mhm,” Lily moans, arching into the touch, her fingers latching into his… curls? That’s not right. Lily frowns, dragging her nails through his hair experimentally. His hair feels messy, loose ringlets that have tussled out during his sleep. 

Before she can say anything more, Almost-Certainly-Not-Her-Oscar is pushing into her, the tip of his tongue lapping at her entrance, lips latching onto her labia. 

“Fuck,” she moans, fingers tugging against his hair, pushing him further into her. He goes willingly, shifting under the sheets to hold onto her hips. His hands feel bigger than they should as well, thumbs meeting each other just short of her navel. Fuck, yeah this is definitely not her Oscar. 

She’s heard about this before. People temporarily switching with different versions of themselves across realities, swapping bodies with someone else, a whole assortment of bizarre things that can happen when a little bit of magic is involved. The general consensus is it doesn’t really count if you do something with another version of your partner. 

Assuming it is your partner, of course. 

It’s hard for her to dwell on the ethical implications of whatever is going on while kisses are being pressed against her core, her mind melting more with each one. 

The man — who she hopes is another version of Oscar — brings one hand down, slowly pushing the tip of his finger into her cunt. His tongue latches onto her clit, tip circling it with practiced precision all while his finger continues to work into her. It goes in easier than it should, the usual tension she experiences seemingly nonexistent here. 

Lily can’t help the string of moans and curses she lets out, fingers tensing at the feeling, hips bucking up to meet his lips. 

This Oscar seems to capitalise on simplicity. His lips sucking against her gently while his fingers curl to find the soft spot within her that has her seeing stars in seconds 

She lets herself revel in it — the feeling of his hair tickling her over-sensitive thighs, the way his other thumb presses right underneath her navel, the feeling of his shoulders holding her apart every time she tries to close them.

Fuck, he’s really, really good at this. 

It doesn’t take long for warmth to start coiling behind her navel. The build up steady yet entirely unexpected. 

Seemingly sensing her nearing the edge, he hums against her, tongue suckling her with a steady fervour, fingers curlings with precision. 

Lily’s jaw drops with a strangled moan, tipping over the edge before she can do anything to stop it. She feels her eyes squeeze shut, the back of her eyelids painted white hot as pleasure courses through her. 

He continues to suck on her clit, gently easing as he helps her ride out her orgasm, fingers slowing before stilling entirely. 

Eventually, after what feels like hours, Lily begins to whine in overstimulation, pulling her hips away from the feeling. 

Beneath the sheets, Alternative-Universe-Oscar chuckles to himself, pressing a final kiss against her before pulling back, easing his fingers out gently, wiping against the sheets. 

Her fingers release their clutch against his hair, falling against the sheets uselessly while she takes a deep steadying breath. Her mouth feels dry, her head pounding, and her cunt aching in the best way possible. 

“Jesus Mags, nearly fuckin’ ripped my hair out,” he chuckles beneath her, pushing the covers up and over his head. 

Lily frowns, eyes shooting open. Pushing onto her elbows, she looks down at Lando emerging from beneath the sheets, dopy smile plastered against his wet lips as he grins up at her all 32 teeth on display. 

“Morning sleepyhead,” Oscar whispers against Lando’s cheek, wrapping his arms around his waist as he walks into their kitchen, finally back from an obscenely early meeting. Lando hums in response, eyes half lidded as he turns to wrap his own arms around Oscar, leaning them against the counter next to the stove. They sway in place for a minute, absorbing the first moment they’ve had with just for themselves in days.

“I got the final design for my helmet this morning,” Oscar whispers eventually, tentative with how he broaches the topic of racing.

“Yeah?” Lando asks, pulling back enough to look Oscar in the eye. Oscar hums, stepping back to pick up the box he set down on the counter moments before. He opens the bag, shifting the crash helmet between his hands for a minute before passing it to Lando.

Lando turns it in his hands, brushing his fingers over the familiar patterns. It hasn’t changed much since last year — well apart from the obvious lack of 8 at the top where his number sits. It still has the familiar mix of blue, red, and yellow; the southern cross at the temples; sponsor decals that match his own. Nothing new to it really, Lando’s about to tease him for that fact when he notices it. On the right side of his helmet, just next to the connection point for the HANS device — a small gold star.

Lando stills, rubbing his thumb along it. He shouldn’t be surprised, Oscar earned that star. It makes sense to incorporate it into his helmet. It’s just —

“It’s supposed to mirror yours,” Oscar whispers, gaze transfixed on his twisted fingers, doing his best to swallow his nerves. “I wouldn’t —“ he cuts himself off with a deep breath, looking up to Lando now. “I wouldn’t have done it without you. Without you constantly pushing me to be better. Without you as a teammate. Without— without you as a partner,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last part, cheeks blushing over a deeper red with every word.

Lando sets the helmet down without breaking eye contact, stepping forward till he’s standing hardly a foot away from Oscar who continues to wring his hands.

“Osc,” he hears on the other side of the wall, Lando knocking gently against the thin divider between their driver's rooms. “You alright?” 

Oscar opens his mouth, response dying at the tip of his tongue as he whines in painful arousal. Fuck. 

“No,” he admits quietly after a minute, the word coming out in a breathy huff. He can feel tears threatening to spill over, building up in the corners of his eyes while tension begins to swirl in the valley of his pelvis. 

Lando's pushing through the door before he knows it. Pausing in the doorway to stare at the scene before him — Oscar pressed against the shared wall of their rooms, eyes glassy and distressed. 

“Oh Oscar,” he coos, gaze flickering over Oscar as if he were a distressed animal.

Oscar's not quite sure what he looks like but if he had to guess he'd say he looks nothing short of wrecked. He can feel his shorts straining against his crotch, a single tear spilling down his cheek, his face angry, red, and blotchy from the hot flashes. 

Lando takes a tentative step forward, softly clicking the door shut behind him. 

“Osc,” he starts, voice gentle in the way Oscar’s only ever heard him speak to children, “what’s wrong?”

The only response Oscar manages is a whine, dropping his head against the wall as he curls further into himself. 

“Fan— ngh, fuck.” He feels like his throat is closing in, his head spinning as all the blood in his body seems to rush south. “Fan gift,” he finishes, nodding his head in the direction of the sleek black box sitting on his desk. 

Lando furrows his eyebrows in confusion, following Oscar’s gaze. He lets his eyes flick back to Oscar, stepping further into the room and picking up the box to inspect it. 

“Think ‘s cursed or som’thin’,” Oscar slurs, squeezing his eyes shut as he fights the urge to shove his hand down the front of his shorts. 

“Unlabelled box of chocolates and you thought it was a good idea to eat them?” Lando teases, flipping the box over in his hands, leaning back against the desk. 

“Not —“ He’s cut off by another whimper, an ache running through the length of spine straight to his dick. “Not my brightest idea, yeah.” 

Oscar takes a deep breath in as an attempt to calm his erratic heart beat. His dick is aching, he can’t think of a singular moment in his 22 years on earth that he’s ever been this horny.

“Feel like I’m gonna fuckin’ combust if I don’t cum right now,” he huffs out, words swallowed by a painful whine. The back of his knees feel weak, thighs tremmoring with the effort of holding himself up. 

“Well we can’t have that can we.” 

When he manages to finally pry his eyes open, Lando is pushing off his desk and stepping closer to Oscar — caging him against the wall as he rests his hand on Oscar’s hip. 

A shiver runs down his spine. One that has nothing to do with the effects of whatever the hell was in those chocolates and has all to do with the fact that Lando Norris — his teammate and the recipient of a long time hero-worship crush — is pressing him against a wall. 

“Oscar,” Lando prompts, voice suddenly serious. “Do you want me to help you cum?”

Fuck.

Oscar all but moans, knees buckling as he feels the effects of Lando’s words travel through him. 

”Need you to use your words,” Lando emphasises with a squeeze to his hip, breath ghosting over the sweat slicked skin of his exposed collar bone. 

“Yes,” Oscar responds immediately. “Yes. Fuck, yes please.”

Lando hums, fingers dipping into the waistband of his shorts as he leans in, tilting his head up to make eye contact. 

“Tell me to stop and we stop,” Lando adds. Something in his eyes tells Oscar he’s serious. That despite the fast paced, quick fuck nature of this spontaneous arrangement he truly means it. He nods, immediately adding a breathy yes when Lando hums low and disappointed. 

Lando makes quick work of shoving Oscar’s shorts down, letting them pool around his ankles. He pauses, thumb hooked into the band of his boxers, waiting for Oscar to nod before he pushes them down as well. 

“Oh baby,” Lando coos once more, voice sugary sweet and laced with fondness. “Look at you.”

Oscar forces his eyes open, blinking several times in quick succession to rid himself of the dots framing the edges of his vision. He drops his chin to his chest, peering into the small gap between them. 

The tip of his cock is an angry red, the length of him flushed pink. He’s rock hard too, harder than he’s ever been he thinks. Precum collects at the head of it, shimmering in the harsh over head lighting — glossy, pink, and desperate. 

Lando’s tanned fingers splay over the pale milky skin of his waist, thumb gently caressing the divot of his hipbone. 

”You gotta be quiet f’r me,” Lando mumbles, waiting for Oscar to nod before wrapping his fingers around the base of him. 

Oscar’s jaw goes slack, a moan dying at the back of his throat as he forces himself to stifle it. His vision goes white, eyes closing without meaning to. 

Lando rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, collecting the copious amounts of precum and spreading it along the length of him. He pauses, giving Oscar a second to get used to the feeling and quiet any other moans that threaten to spill over. 

Lando brings his unoccupied hand up, hovering it an inch away from Oscar’s mouth, waiting for him to nod before pressing it against him, an extra precautionary measure to ensure Oscar stays quiet. 

“Tap me twice if you want to stop, yeah?”

With a final nod, Lando starts moving his hand up and down. Slow at first, collecting more slick with every pass over his tip. After a minute of this, he speeds up, gently tugging up and down Oscar’s length. 

Jesus, he’s about two seconds away from the edge all from a two minute handy and some continued consent. 

Silently, Oscar whimpers behind Lando’s hand covering half his chin. His hips buck erratically, meeting Lando’s hand halfway. 

Lando hums in satisfaction, keeping his rhythm steady, leaning forward and resting his forehead into the crook of Oscar’s neck.

“That feel good?” He whispers against the shell of his ear. “God you’re so wet, leaking all over my hand. Kind of pathetic don’t you think? I mean, it’s just a handy and you look like you’re about a second away from cumming.” 

Oscar can’t help the whine he lets out, louder than any of the ones before, his hips faltering at Lando’s words. 

“Jesus Osc,” Lando exhales, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Are you really? Close I mean?”

Oscar nods pathetically, eyes slipping shut once more as he nears the edge. 

“God that’s hot,” Lando mutters to himself, squeezing the base of Oscar’s cock as he continues to stroke him. Oscar’s vision goes white, jaw slack against the palm of Lando’s hand. 

His orgasm hits him like a freight train, tipping him over the edge before he even knows he’s at it. Lando continues to stroke him through it, grip loosening — slowing and eventually stopping once Oscar begins to whine at the overstimulation. 

Lando draws his hand back, letting the one covering Oscar’s mouth move to cup his jaw instead. Oscar continues to breathe heavily, shoulders dropping as he falls forward against Lando’s chest. 

“Shhh, it’s ok,” Lando whispers, grimacing as he holds Oscar’s hip with his cum slicked hand. “I got you. I got you.”

Oscar hums, eyes slipping shut as the familiar wave of post orgasm exhaustion washes over him. 

Lando lets them sway like that for a minute, brushing his thumb over Oscar’s cheek, giving him the time and space to cool down from the heightened experience. When Oscar eventually grimaces at the cooling cum against his waist and the sweat dripping down his spine, Lando shifts them once more. He steps back, tilting Oscar’s jaw to look at him. 

“You ok?” He asks, voice soft and light. Oscar hums, too tired to thinks of the implications of his teammate giving him a fucking handjob in his driver’s room all becasue he was stupid enough to eat something from a fan. 

“Ok,” Lando nods, thumb brushing underneath Oscar’s tired eyes. “Gonna clean you up now, yeah?” 

Oscar hums in acknowledgement, stepping out of his shorts and letting Lando guide him into the adjoined bathroom. Lando sits him down on the closet toilet seat, making quick work of rinsing his hand and wetting the edge of the hand towel. He runs the cloth over Oscar, purposefully gentle with his still sensitive cock. When he’s done he wrings the towel out, doing his best to get rid of any residual cum. 

Lando moves around him with ease, moving through the room as if it were his own. He steps back into the small bathroom holding a new pair of shorts, a shirt, and a pair of boxers that definitely don’t belong to Oscar. 

“Get changed,” Lando says. “I’ll wait for you outside. We’ve still got half an hour before fan forum.”

Oscar moves mindlessly, peeling his sweat soaked shirt off and changing into the clothes Lando brought him. 

When he steps back out, he feels a lot better than he did ten minutes ago. There’s still the lingering tiredness and ache within his core sure, but he doesn’t feel like he’s seconds away from exploding. 

“Uhh,” he shifts awkwardly, glancing towards Lando who’s sitting on the couch scrolling on his phone. “Thanks for uhh — for helping.”

Oscar feels the heat rush up his neck, painting his cheeks a deep shade of red. What’s he supposed to say? There isn’t exactly a guide on what to do in the event that your teammate helps you get off because you were stupid enough to eat something very obviously cursed by a fan. 

“‘Course mate,” Lando replies, his own cheeks flushed red. “I mean, still pretty stupid of you to eat the chocolates,” he adds grinning through it. 

“Fuck off,” Oscar drawls, laughing despite himself as he falls into the couch next to Lando. 

Lando’s in his driver’s room, shoving the last few tidbits littering the space into his bag, more than ready to get out of here. 

“Lando,” Oscar sing-songs — fucking sing-songs — as he saunters into Lando’s driver’s room, causing him to shoot his head up and stare at Oscar immediately.

“Are you fucking drunk mate?” Lando questions before Oscar can do anything else, brows furrowing as his face contorts with absolute horror and confusion. 

“Why would I be drunk?” Oscar scoffs, pushing himself onto the physio table next to Lando’s bag. He brings his hands to rest on Lando’s waist, pulling him to stand between Oscar’s open legs. 

“Fuckin’ actin’ like you’re drunk,” Lando scoffs, allowing himself to be pulled in despite his apprehension. 

“‘M not drunk. Not even tipsy,” Oscar insists, squeezing Lando’s waist with failed reassurance, dropping his forehead to rest against Lando’s chest. 

Oscar doesn’t do this — get all affectionate and touchy when they’re out without reason. The reason almost always being he’s drunk. Or horny. Or —

“Osc?” Lando asks, pushing Oscar back slightly by the shoulder. When he looks for it, he notices that Oscar’s pupils are blown wide, black pits ringed with the thinnest band of honey brown. 

“Oscar did you eat the TimTams that fan gave you yesterday?” 

Oscar huffs, slightly defeated, before grinning up at Lando with a look that has guilty plastered all over it. 

“The ones everyone told you definitely had some kind of love spell on them?” He adds on, rolling his eyes with amusement. 

“Ok, listen,” Oscar starts, staring up at Lando, eyes glassy and love struck in the way they always get when he does this. “You know how I feel about the double coated ones.”

Lando scoffs, attempting to peel himself out of Oscar’s arms. Who in-turn whines, arms encircling his waist to draw him back in. 

See the thing is, this isn’t exactly the first time this has been a problem.

The first time it happened was his rookie year, back when Oscar was still getting used to the increased attention that came with being an F1 driver and the increased number of people trying to put petty curses on him as well. 

It started with small stuff — his shirt had turned hot pink in the middle of fan-stage once, he’d have a song stuck in his head all day, he’d be particularly clumsy in a way that couldn’t be explained. All the small stuff that seems to slip through the FIA trackside wards for the first few months of a new driver joining the grid. 

It had stopped being a problem less than five races in. And really, that should have been the end of it. Except, Oscar — ever the smart one between them — as it turns out, has a particular tendency of ignoring all magical training he receives when it comes to TimTams. 

Navigating the first instance of Oscar and a pack of love-cursed TimTams had been awkward to say the least. 

They had been sitting in Oscar’s driver’s room, fooling around in the rare gap between sessions, when Oscar opened the packet. The effects had been pretty instantaneous, Oscar turning into a bit of love sick fool seemingly out of nowhere and latching himself onto Lando. Thankfully, the effects had been short lived and Oscar had been mortified after the whole ordeal. 

Not enough to stop him from doing it again clearly. And again. And again. Until eventually, it become so common that no one batted an eye when it happened nowadays. 

Lando sighs, running his fingers through the mop of tussled hair falling against Oscar’s forehead. God, I love this idiot, he can’t help but think to himself. 

“Osc,” he tries, squirming in Oscar’s grip. “I wanna finish packing.”

Oscar grunts, tightening his grip on Lando, snaking his fingers underneath the hem of his team polo. He’s always so clingy like this, latches onto Lando and refuses to let out. It would be cute if it wasn’t so inhibiting. 

“Oscar come on,” he tries again, rocking back and forth on his feet in an attempt to dislodge him. 

Oscar doesn’t budge. Instead he continues to trail his fingers up along Lando’s spine, running up along the planes of his shoulder blades, thumb caressing his ribcage, head still resting against his chest. 

Lando hums, letting his shoulders drop in defeat while he lets Oscar continue his ministrations. Oscar takes the unspoken invitation to continue, pulling his head back enough to stare up at Lando. 

He looks soft like this, the tension that builds up within him during race weekends seems to have melted away, replaced instead by rosy pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. 

“I love you,” Oscar whispers, voice light and breathy. He pulls back, hands dropping down to rest on Lando’s hips once more. He looks serious all of a sudden, the teasing dopy edge he had a minute ago gone. 

“Fuck, Lando, I do. And I’m not jus’ saying that because of the fucking TimTams. I love you. Like proper fucking love you,” Oscar continues to ramble, words spilling out before he can seem to stop them, “and I’ll say it again when I’m not cursed with whatever version of infatuation it was this time. But fuck, yeah I really do love you. 

Lando stares down at him, jaw slightly slack at the confession, cheeks burning the longer Oscar goes on. 

They’ve been dancing around this for ages now, both too scared to tell the other how they truly feel given the nature of their relationship — there isn’t exactly a guide on dating your teammate and direct rival. 

“Shut up you muppet,” Lando mumbles, hands cradling Oscar’s jaw as he kisses him. It’s deep, slow, and filled with an unmeasurable amount of love. 

—

Later, when they’re curled around each other in Lando’s hotel room — Oscar still riding the last waves of his love curse — Lando pulls out his phone, opens twitter for the first time in months, types two sentences, and drops it back down with a snort of amusement to himself. 

Lando @/LandoNorris