reb's stories

The dream always starts the same way.

Too real.

Lando never realizes it’s a dream until it’s already over.

They’re in some quiet corner of a paddock that doesn’t exist, not quite any circuit he knows, just a blurred mix of garages and dim evening light. The noise is distant, muted, like someone turned the world down just for them. Oscar is standing close. Too close for reality. Close enough that Lando can see the faint freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his brows when he’s concentrating.

Close enough that their shoes almost touch.

“You keep doing that,” Oscar says.

His voice in the dream is softer than it ever is in real life. Not gentle, exactly, just… less guarded.

“Doing what?” Lando asks.

“Looking at me like you’re about to say something.”

Lando lets out a quiet breath. In the dream, he doesn’t feel nervous. Doesn’t overthink. Everything feels natural, like this version of them has existed for years. “Maybe I am.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “Dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Oscar says, stepping closer, “you never just say something. You do something stupid first.”

Their shoulders brush.

The contact sends a warm, electric jolt straight down Lando’s spine. He doesn’t move away. Neither does Oscar. The air feels thick suddenly, charged in that way that only exists in dreams and almost-moments.

“You’re not stopping me,” Lando murmurs.

Oscar tilts his head. “Did I say I wanted to?”

That does it.

Lando’s hand lifts before he can think, fingers catching lightly at the front of Oscar’s team kit , right near the collar. The fabric bunches under his grip. Oscar’s eyes drop to the touch, then back up again, slower this time.

“Lando,” he says quietly.

It should sound like a warning.

It doesn’t.

Lando steps closer. Their chests nearly touch now, breaths mixing in the small space between them. He can feel the heat of Oscar through the thin layers of fabric, can see the way his lashes lower slightly as his gaze flicks down to Lando’s mouth.

“You gonna tell me to stop?” Lando asks softly.

Oscar doesn’t answer.

His hand lifts instead, resting lightly against Lando’s side, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just there. Warm. Steady. Enough to make Lando’s heart start hammering.

“Thought so,” Lando whispers.

He closes the distance.

The first brush of their mouths is tentative, like both of them are testing if this is real. It’s soft. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels more like a question than anything else.

Oscar exhales against him.

Then his hand slides up, fingers curling lightly at the back of Lando’s neck, and the kiss deepens. Still slow, still warm, but certain now. Lando’s chest tightens with something almost dizzying as he leans in, pressing closer, one hand sliding from Oscar’s collar to his jaw.

Oscar kisses him back properly.

Not teasing. Not smug. Just… there. Present. Warm in a way Lando has never seen outside this dream. Their foreheads almost bump when they shift, both smiling faintly into it, breath mixing between soft, lingering kisses.

“Finally,” Lando murmurs against his mouth.

Oscar huffs a quiet laugh. “Took you long enough.”

Lando leans in again, slower this time, savoring it, the warmth, the closeness, the way Oscar’s thumb brushes once against the side of his neck. Everything feels suspended. Perfect. Like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Missed you,” Lando whispers.

Oscar’s expression softens in that impossible, dream-only way. “I’m right here.”

“I know, love” Lando smiles and kisses him again.

⸻

“Oi.”

The world snaps back hard.

A hand taps his shoulder. Not gentle. Not romantic. Just enough to jolt him out of sleep.

“Lando. Wake up.”

Lando’s eyes fly open.

Bright motorhome ceiling. Narrow bunk. The faint hum of paddock generators outside. Reality hits like cold water. He blinks up, disoriented, heart still racing from the dream—

—and finds Oscar standing over him.

Very real. Very awake. Very much not soft.

Oscar’s arms are crossed, expression flat in that usual mildly-annoyed way he gets when Lando is being inconvenient. He’s already in partial team kit, headset hanging around his neck.

“You alive?” Oscar asks. “You’ve snoozed through three alarms.”

Lando stares at him.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Hello?”

“Oh my god,” Lando whispers before he can stop himself.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Lando says instantly, sitting up too fast and nearly smacking his head on the low ceiling. He drags a hand through his hair, trying to reset his brain. His heart is still pounding like he just ran a marathon. “Why are you in my room?”

“I knocked,” Oscar says. “You didn’t answer. Door was unlocked.” He glances around. “You sleep like you’re in a coma.”

Lando avoids eye contact. Avoids looking at Oscar’s mouth. Avoids remembering literally anything from thirty seconds ago. “Right. Cool. Thanks. You can go now.”

Oscar doesn’t move.

“You were talking,” he says.

Lando freezes.

“…What?”

“In your sleep,” Oscar says casually. “Couldn’t really hear what. Just… mumbling.”

Lando’s soul leaves his body.

He grabs the nearest hoodie and pulls it over his head just to have something to do. “Yeah, well. I do that. Normal. Human behavior.”

Oscar watches him like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, with an intrigued expression. Lando absolutely hates it. “You look weird.”

“I just woke up,” Lando snaps, voice going slightly higher than intended. He clears his throat. “Of course I look weird.”

A pause.

Oscar shrugs finally. “Briefing in fifteen,” he says. “Figured you’d want a warning before Andrea sends someone to drag you out.”

“Heroic,” Lando mutters.

Oscar turns to leave, then pauses at the door. He glances back once, expression neutral, a little sharp around the edges, nothing like the warmth from the dream.

“Try setting an alarm that actually wakes you,” he says. Then he walks out.

The door clicks shut.

Silence.

Lando slowly flops back onto the pillow and stares at the ceiling in horror.

“…Right,” he mutters to himself. “Cool. Great. Normal.”

He presses his hands over his face.

Because dream-Oscar kissing him softly in golden light is one thing.

Waking up to real Oscar standing over him with crossed arms and mild irritation is another entirely.

⸻

The briefing room is already half full when Lando walks in.

He’s determined to be normal.

Completely normal.

Unremarkable.

Unhaunted by extremely vivid dreams involving his teammate and a level of emotional intimacy that absolutely did not exist in real life or will not ever exist between them.

Normal.

He grabs a coffee on the way in, nods to a couple engineers, drops into his usual seat like nothing is wrong. Like he didn’t wake up thirty minutes ago with Oscar standing in his motorhome and the lingering phantom memory of being kissed senseless against a wall.

Normal.

Oscar walks in two minutes later.

Also normal.

Infuriatingly normal.

Too normally normal.

Freshly showered, hair still slightly damp, McLaren polo neat, tablet tucked under his arm. He gives the room a quick polite nod and takes his seat beside Lando like this is just another routine debrief and not the site of Lando’s impending psychological collapse.

“Morning, again,” Oscar says quietly, setting his tablet down.

Lando takes a sip of coffee to buy himself half a second.

“Morning.”

Good. Casual. Calm. He can do this.

Oscar glances sideways at him.

Lando keeps his eyes on the big screen at the front of the room. Telemetry graphs. Lap comparisons. Safe. Neutral. Non-threatening.

“You look tired,” Oscar says mildly.

“I slept great,” Lando says immediately.

Too immediately.

Oscar pauses. “Right.”

Lando stares harder at the telemetry screen like it personally insulted him.

Around them, engineers shuffle papers and connect laptops. Someone at the front starts pulling up data from FP2. The usual pre-briefing buzz fills the room, low voices, keyboard clicks, chair legs scraping.

Normal environment.

Professional environment.

Definitely not a place where Lando should be remembering the feeling of dream-Oscar’s hand in his hair.

He grips his coffee cup a little tighter.

It felt so good to be loved like that.

“Did you get my setup notes from yesterday?” Oscar asks quietly, businesslike.

“Yes,” Lando says. Good. Racing talk. Safe topic. “Yeah. I— I looked through them last night.”

He risks a glance sideways.

Big mistake.

Oscar is already looking at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing. Just… watching, slightly curious, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

Lando’s stomach flips.

“Everything alright?” Oscar asks.

“Yes,” Lando says again, too fast. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Oscar’s mouth twitches faintly. “You’re gripping that coffee like it’s about to escape.”

Lando immediately loosens his grip. Then realizes that makes it obvious. Then awkwardly re-grips it in what he hopes is a casual manner.

Cool as a cat, Lando.

Across the table, one of the engineers glances between them briefly, clearly sensing something off.

Great.

Fantastic.

Perfect.

The briefing officially starts. Data appears on the screen. Their performance engineer begins talking through lap deltas. Everyone turns their attention forward.

Lando tries. He really does.

He nods at the right moments. Asks a question about tire warm-up. Even cracks a small joke about sector two that gets a couple quiet laughs. On the surface, he’s completely fine.

Inside, his brain is running two parallel tracks:

Track A: Professional racing driver. Listening. Engaged. Focused.

Track B: You literally dreamed about kissing your teammate against a wall and then woke up with him in your room. You also wished he would have kept kissing you for longer, either versions of him.

He shifts in his chair.

Oscar notices.

Of course he notices.

“You’re fidgeting,” Oscar murmurs under his breath without looking at him.

“I always fidget,” Lando mutters back.

“Not like that.”

Lando goes still immediately.

Across the table, another engineer glances up again. Then another. There’s a subtle shift in the room, that almost imperceptible team awareness when something is slightly off between drivers.

Lando can feel it.

Great. Now everyone thinks he’s weird.

He tries to focus harder on the screen. Fuel numbers. Strategy options. Anything.

Then Oscar leans slightly closer to see something on Lando’s tablet.

It’s a small movement. Innocent. Practical.

But it brings him just a bit too close.

Close enough that Lando can feel the faint warmth of him. Smell clean shampoo and the ever-present trace of garage air. Close enough to feel his breath land on the side of Lando’s neck. Close enough that his brain, traitor that it is, flashes back to the dream — the almost-kiss, the soft voice, the soft breaths, the—

He inhales sharply.

Oscar immediately leans back.

“…Okay,” Oscar murmurs, now definitely suspicious. “What is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing,” Lando whispers, staring straight ahead. “Absolutely nothing. Never been more normal in my life.”

Oscar watches him for a long second.

Then, very quietly: “Did I do something?”

The question hits harder than it should.

Lando turns his head slightly. Oscar isn’t teasing. He looks genuinely unsure, brows faintly drawn, voice low enough that no one else can hear.

And suddenly Lando feels worse.

Because Oscar has no idea.

None.

He’s just existing. Breathing. Sitting too close and being unfairly attractive and completely unaware that Lando’s brain has betrayed him.

“No,” Lando says quickly, softer this time. “No. You didn’t do anything.”

Oscar studies him a moment longer. Searching.

Then he nods once, accepting it, at least on the surface.

“Alright,” he says quietly.

They both turn back to the screen.

The briefing continues.

But the weird tension lingers, subtle but noticeable. A couple engineers exchange quick glances. Their performance coach looks between them once, faintly puzzled. It’s not dramatic,  just enough that people can tell something’s… off.

Lando can feel every second of it.

He forces himself to contribute more. Asks another technical question. Makes a comment about balance mid-corner. Anything to look normal.

Beside him, Oscar has gone very composed. Professional. Focused forward.

But once, just once, Lando catches him glancing sideways.

Not confused now.

Not suspicious.

Something else.

Something almost thoughtful.

And Lando immediately looks back at the screen, heart pounding again, because he has the horrible, sinking feeling that whatever weird energy is hanging between them…

…it’s not just in his head anymore.

——

The briefing ends forty minutes later.

Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. Engineers cluster into small groups to discuss setup changes and run plans. The room fills with low conversation and the rustle of papers.

Lando stays seated a moment longer than necessary, pretending to scroll through data on his tablet. In reality he’s just trying to let his pulse settle before he has to stand up and exist like a normal human being again.

Beside him, Oscar is packing up calmly. Tablet into his bag. Pen clipped neatly into place. Every movement precise, controlled.

Normal.

Always so annoyingly normal.

“Simulator later?” Oscar asks, like nothing in the past hour has been strange at all.

“Yeah,” Lando says. “After lunch.”

Oscar nods. Slings his bag over his shoulder.

Then he hesitates.

It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice. But Lando does, because he’s hyper-aware of everything Oscar does right now in a way that is deeply unhelpful.

“You sure you’re alright?” Oscar asks quietly.

There’s no teasing in it this time. Just genuine concern.

Lando forces a small grin. “You’ve asked me that like four times.”

“And you’ve given the same weird answer every time.”

Lando opens his mouth. Closes it again. Because what is he supposed to say?

Sorry mate, I had an extremely realistic dream where you pinned me to a wall and looked at me like I was something you wanted and kissed me six ways to Sunday and now my brain can’t reboot.

Yeah. No.

“I just slept weird,” he settles on. “That’s all.”

Oscar studies him for a second longer than is comfortable. His eyes flick briefly to Lando’s mouth, then back up again so fast it might’ve been imagined.

“Right,” he says finally.

They stand at the same time.

Immediately almost bump shoulders.

Both stop.

There’s a tiny, awkward shuffle as they try to move around each other in the narrow space between chairs. Lando steps left. Oscar steps the same way. They pause. Then both try the other direction.

For half a second they’re just… standing there. Too close. Not touching. But very aware of each other.

One of the engineers walking past gives them a quick amused look before continuing out.

Lando feels his face heat.

Oscar clears his throat softly and steps back to let Lando pass first. “After you.”

“Cheers.”

Lando walks out of the briefing room trying very hard not to think about how aware he is of Oscar right behind him.

⸻

The paddock is bright and busy outside. Media milling around. Team members moving with purpose. The familiar controlled chaos of a race weekend.

It should ground him.

Usually it does.

Today it does not.

They walk side by side toward the McLaren hospitality without really talking. Not awkward exactly — just… charged. Like something unsaid is hovering between them.

At the entrance, a couple mechanics greet them.

“Good session this morning, boys” one says. “Balance looked strong.”

“Felt decent,” Oscar replies easily.

Lando nods, forcing himself into race-mode conversation. “Yeah, long run pace was better than yesterday.”

Normal. Racing talk. Safe.

They grab drinks from the fridge and lean briefly against the counter while discussing tire deg. A few engineers join. The conversation turns fully technical.

For ten blessed minutes, everything feels normal again.

Then one of the younger mechanics, completely oblivious, grins at them and says, “You two were proper in sync out there today.”

Lando nearly chokes on his drink.

Oscar just raises an eyebrow. “That’s… generally the goal.”

“Yeah but like,” the mechanic continues, gesturing between them, “on track and off. You’re always together lately. Proper duo.”

Lando stares very hard at the label on his bottle.

Oscar gives a short, polite smile. “We’re teammates.”

“Sure,” the mechanic says, clearly unconvinced but not pushing further. He gets called away a second later and disappears toward the garage.

Silence settles for a beat.

Lando exhales slowly. “People are weird.”

“People observe patterns,” Oscar replies mildly.

Lando glances at him. “You saying there’s a pattern?”

Oscar takes a sip of his drink. Doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks out through the hospitality glass toward the garage.

Then, casually: “You’ve been avoiding looking at me all day.”

Lando almost drops the bottle.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I literally have not.”

Oscar finally looks at him, one eyebrow slightly raised. “You just looked at the fridge while denying it.”

Lando presses his lips together.

Because… okay. Maybe.

“Alright,” Oscar says quietly, not unkind. “Did something happen?”

The question lands heavier this time. Less casual. More direct.

Lando opens his mouth with another automatic deflection ready.

Nothing comes out.

Because the truth is sitting right there, stubborn and embarrassing and impossible to explain without sounding insane.

Oscar watches him. Waiting. Patient, but intent.

The paddock noise hums around them, distant engines, voices, radio chatter, but inside the little space between them it feels oddly quiet.

Lando exhales.

“…I had a weird dream,” he mutters.

Oscar blinks. Clearly not the answer he expected. “Okay.”

“And it’s just—” Lando gestures vaguely. “You know when you wake up and it feels real for a bit and then your brain doesn’t catch up properly and you’re just… off?”

Oscar considers that.

Then nods slowly. “Yeah. Happens.”

Relief flickers through Lando’s chest. Small but real.

“Right,” he says. “So. That’s all.”

Oscar studies him for another moment. Like he’s deciding whether to push further.

He doesn’t.

“Fair enough,” he says quietly.

They stand there a second longer. Not tense now. Just… aware.

Then someone calls Oscar from across the hospitality.

He pushes off the counter. “Simulator later,” he says.

“Yeah,” Lando replies.

Oscar hesitates half a second before leaving. Just long enough to glance at him once more, something thoughtful in his expression again.

Then he’s gone, heading toward the garage.

Lando stays where he is, staring down at his half-empty bottle.

He tells himself it’s fine.

Totally fine.

Just a weird dream.

Nothing real.

Except for the small, traitorous part of his brain that keeps replaying the way Oscar looked at him just now, not confused, not teasing.

Just… quietly curious.

——

The simulator room is always dim.

Low lights. Screens glowing. The constant hum of machines and cooling fans filling the space with a steady, almost hypnotic sound. It’s usually one of Lando’s favorite places in the paddock — controlled, quiet, predictable.

Today, it feels like a trap.

He’s already strapped into the sim when Oscar walks in.

Lando hears him before he sees him, the soft thud of the door closing, the faint rustle of fabric as Oscar shrugs off his jacket. There’s a chair set up just behind the rig where the other driver usually sits during shared sessions.

It creaks softly as Oscar drops into it.

“Ready?” one of the sim engineers asks through the headset.

“Yeah,” Lando replies automatically.

A few setup adjustments. Steering calibration. Run plan explained. Then the virtual track loads around him, bright and precise across the curved screens.

He focuses on driving.

He really does.

For a while, it works.

Corners. Braking points. Tire management. His mind slips into the familiar rhythm of it, data and instinct blending until everything else fades into the background.

But he can still feel Oscar behind him.

Not touching. Not speaking. Just… there.

Watching.

The first run ends after twelve laps.

“Alright, box,” the engineer says. “Good baseline. Let’s pause and talk through front-end response.”

The sim freezes. Engine sound cuts.

The headset lifts slightly off one ear so he can hear the room.

The engineer starts discussing adjustments, pointing at data on the monitor to the side. Lando nods along, responding where needed. It’s normal. Technical. Safe.

Then the engineer gets called out of the room to check something with the performance group.

“I’ll be two minutes,” he says, slipping out.

The door closes.

Silence settles.

Lando stares straight ahead at the frozen virtual track. Hands still loosely resting on the wheel.

Behind him, the chair creaks softly.

Oscar shifts.

“…Was it a nightmare?”

The question is quiet. Careful. No signs of teasing.

Lando’s grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel.

He lets out a small breath through his nose. “What?”

“The dream,” Oscar says. “Earlier.”

He sounds almost hesitant now, like he’s not sure if he’s crossing a line but asking anyway.

Lando swallows. Keeps his eyes on the screen. “No.”

A pause.

“Just weird,” he adds quickly. “Not bad-weird. Just… confusing.”

Another small creak of the chair as Oscar leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

Lando can feel the shift in proximity without seeing it.

“Confusing how?” Oscar asks.

God. He’s persistent.

Lando huffs a quiet, half-laugh. “You’re really stuck on this, huh?”

“You’ve been off all day,” Oscar replies simply. “I’m trying to figure out if I did something.”

That makes Lando’s chest twist unexpectedly.

He finally glances back over his shoulder.

Oscar’s sitting there in the low light, forearms braced on his thighs, looking at him with that same steady, searching expression from earlier. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just genuine concern — and curiosity.

“You didn’t do anything,” Lando says quickly. “It’s not— you didn’t.”

Oscar studies his face like he’s checking for cracks in that statement.

“…Was I in it?” he asks after a moment.

Lando’s brain short-circuits.

He turns back around so fast it’s almost mechanical. “What? No. I mean—” He fumbles. “Not like— it wasn’t—”

Smooth. Brilliant. Incredible recovery.

Behind him, Oscar goes very still.

Then, softly: “So I was.”

Lando drops his head back against the seat for half a second. Mortified. “This is so embarrassing.”

Oscar doesn’t laugh.

That might be worse.

Another small silence stretches between them, thick but not uncomfortable exactly,  just… charged with something Lando doesn’t want to name.

“Was I mean?” Oscar asks.

The question is so unexpectedly gentle that Lando’s chest tightens.

He glances back again.

Oscar’s still leaning forward slightly, watching him in the dim simulator glow. There’s a faint crease between his brows now. Almost cautious.

“No,” Lando says quietly. “You weren’t mean.”

“…Right.”

Oscar sits back a fraction, processing that.

He doesn’t push immediately. Doesn’t make a joke. Just lets the answer sit there between them.

Then, after a moment: “So why’re you embarrassed?”

Lando stares at the frozen track again. The glowing racing line. The still grandstands.

Because you were soft.

Because you looked at me like you wanted me.

Because I woke up and for a second I thought it was real.

He swallows.

“…It just felt real,” he admits finally. “That’s all.”

Behind him, Oscar goes quiet.

Not uncomfortable quiet. Thinking quiet.

The simulator hum fills the space again. Low and steady.

After a few seconds, Oscar exhales softly through his nose.

“…Those are the worst ones,” he says.

Lando glances back.

Oscar’s expression is unreadable in the low light. Calm, but distant for a second, like he’s recalling something of his own.

Then he notices Lando looking and straightens slightly, composure sliding back into place.

The door opens just then as the engineer returns.

“Alright, let’s try another run,” he says, oblivious to the tension he’s walking back into.

Lando turns forward quickly, resetting his grip on the wheel.

Behind him, Oscar leans back in the chair again. Quiet. Controlled. Back to normal.

But the air between them feels different now.

More aware.

More real.

⸻

The second run is worse.

Not because of the sim, the car feels fine. Predictable. Stable through the high-speed sections. He hits his marks, adjusts braking points, gives feedback when asked.

From the outside, he looks completely in his element.

Inside, he’s hyper-aware of everything.

The weight of the headset.

The pressure of the seat harness.

Oscar sitting behind him.

Every time he speaks to the engineer, he can feel Oscar listening. Every time he shifts in the seat, he’s aware of the space between them, small, enclosed, impossible to ignore.

They don’t talk again while the session runs.

It’s almost easier that way.

Almost.

“Box, box.”

The sim slows. Stops. Screens fade slightly as the run ends.

Lando pulls the headset halfway off, rubbing a hand over his face. “Front’s better,” he says automatically. “Still a bit of mid-corner understeer, but manageable.”

“Yeah, we see that,” the engineer replies. “Let’s call it there for now.”

Harness unclipped. Steering released. The usual post-run routine.

The engineer starts packing up some notes, already half-focused on the next driver rotation. “Good session,” he says. “Oscar, you’re up in twenty?”

“Yeah,” Oscar answers.

Lando climbs out of the rig, stretching slightly as his feet hit the floor. He grabs his water bottle from the side table, takes a long drink, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands.

He turns.

Oscar is already standing.

They’re closer than expected, only a step or two between them in the tight simulator space. Close enough that Lando has to tilt his head slightly to meet his eyes.

For a second, neither speaks.

Then Oscar says, quietly, “You called me ‘love.’”

Lando nearly inhales his own water.

He coughs once, sharply, lowering the bottle. “I— what?”

“This morning,” Oscar says. Still calm. Still steady. “When you woke up.”

Oh. God.

Heat crawls instantly up Lando’s neck. “You heard that?”

“Hard not to,” Oscar replies.

There’s no mockery in his voice. No smirk. If anything, he sounds… careful.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I was half asleep,” Lando says quickly. “Didn’t know you were there. Brain wasn’t on. Just— dream carryover. You know. Happens.”

Oscar watches him for a moment.

Not convinced. Not unconvinced. Just… watching.

“Right,” he says.

Lando shifts his weight. Takes another unnecessary sip of water. Puts the bottle down. Picks it up again. Anything to avoid that steady gaze.

“You could’ve pretended you didn’t hear it,” he mutters.

Oscar’s mouth twitches slightly at that. Almost a smile. “Thought about it.”

“Yeah? And?”

“You looked like you were going to pass out already,” Oscar says. “Didn’t want to push it.”

That actually pulls a quiet laugh out of Lando despite himself. He rubs the back of his neck. “Appreciated.”

A small silence settles between them again.

Not awkward this time. 

Oscar shifts a step closer to the simulator rig, setting his hands lightly on the edge of it. Casual. Grounded. But he doesn’t break eye contact.

“…So,” he says after a moment. “In the dream.”

Lando groans softly. “We’re still talking about this?”

“You called me ‘love,’” Oscar repeats mildly. “I’m curious.”

Lando drags a hand down his face. Considers lying. Considers deflecting. Considers walking straight out of the room.

Instead, he sighs.

“It wasn’t—” He stops. Starts again. “It was just… one of those dreams where everything feels normal even if it isn’t. Like your brain just decides something’s real and goes with it.”

Oscar listens quietly.

“And?” he prompts.

Lando hesitates.

Then, quietly: “…We were together.”

There. Said.

He watches Oscar’s face carefully for a reaction, a laugh, confusion, anything.

Oscar just blinks once. Slow.

“…Together,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Lando says, forcing a shrug that isn’t very convincing. “Not like, dramatic. Just… normal. Close. You were being…” He searches for a safer word. “…nice.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches again, faintly. “I am nice.”

“Not like that,” Lando says before he can stop himself.

Silence.

Oh. Brilliant.

He closes his eyes briefly. “Forget I said that.”

But when he opens them again, Oscar isn’t offended. Or annoyed.

If anything, he looks… pleased.

He shifts his weight slightly, leaning one hip against the sim rig now, arms loosely folded.

“…In the dream,” Oscar says slowly, “was I… different with you?”

The question lands softly. Carefully.

Lando’s throat feels dry again.

“Yeah,” he admits.

Another quiet pause.

Then Oscar nods once, like he’s filing that information somewhere private. Processing it without judgment.

He pushes off the sim rig, straightening.

“Well,” he says lightly, composure sliding back into place. “Next time you dream about me, try not to say it out loud.”

Lando huffs a breath of laughter. “Trust me. I will.”

Oscar’s lips curve, just barely, before he turns toward the door.

But as he reaches it, he pauses.

Glances back.

And for a split second, his expression softens into something Lando has never seen from him before. Something quieter. Almost curious.

“…Did you like it?” Oscar asks.

Lando’s brain goes completely blank.

Oscar holds his gaze for exactly one second longer.

Then he opens the door and steps out into the corridor, leaving Lando standing there in the dim simulator room with his heart doing something dangerously close to a qualifying lap.

⸻

The next Grand Prix weekend arrived faster than Lando had expected.

Thursday morning in the paddock, he tried to appear calm. Tried being normal. Tried everything he could think of.

Then he spotted Oscar leaning against the McLaren hospitality railing, coffee in hand, sunglasses tucked into his hair, casually chatting with an engineer.

And the second their eyes met, Lando knew he was doomed.

Oscar’s gaze swept over him, slow, deliberate, like he could see straight through him. Then a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Oh no.

Lando tried to act casual as Oscar approached. He could feel his cheeks warming, his stomach doing that very inconvenient twist.

“Morning,” Oscar said, voice easy, tone teasing without a word of explanation.

“Hi,” Lando managed, forcing a shrug, backpack strap sliding up as he adjusted it unnecessarily. “Morning. Race weekend.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to look like he was studying him. Lando’s stomach tightened.

“You sleep alright?” Oscar asked, casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

Lando blinked. “What?”

“Sleep,” Oscar repeated, grin flickering. “You looked… tired last time.”

Lando’s heart skipped. He forced a laugh. “Yeah. Fine. Normal. Totally normal sleep. Nothing weird.”

Oscar hummed thoughtfully, clearly not buying it.

“No weird dreams lately?” he asked.

Lando choked slightly on his own breath. Why is he like this?

“I—no, nothing weird,” Lando said quickly, trying to sound casual, trying very, very hard not to betray how flustered he actually was.

Oscar’s smirk deepened, small and utterly infuriating. “Good. Just making sure you’re keeping your head in the game.”

Lando wanted to protest, but all he could do was mutter, “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Maybe a little,” Oscar admitted, tilting his head in that way that made Lando want to crawl under the nearest table.

They walked toward the garage, and Lando felt every step like a countdown to embarrassment. He kept glancing at Oscar, who seemed perfectly calm, perfectly collected… and perfectly aware of the effect he was having.

“You’re flustered,” Oscar said suddenly, voice soft, amused.

“I am not,” Lando replied immediately.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, a teasing glimmer in his eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

Lando groaned internally, trying to focus on the ground ahead of him.

“Relax,” Oscar said, leaning slightly closer. “It’s fine. You don’t have to act normal around me.”

Don’t have to act normal… Lando’s brain short-circuited. He cleared his throat. “I… I am normal.”

Oscar’s grin widened, just slightly, enough to make Lando’s face heat up further. “Yeah, you are. Definitely. Totally normal.”

The engineers didn’t notice. The bustle of the garage swallowed them up. But Lando couldn’t stop feeling every inch of his embarrassment pressed against his skin, and Oscar, as always, seemed to revel in it.

And Lando, against all odds, couldn’t even hate it.

⸻

By mid-morning, Lando had more or less accepted that he was in trouble. Oscar’s calm, teasing presence was impossible to ignore, and every little glance or casual lean made him flustered in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

As they walked past the McLaren hospitality, Lando tried to sound casual. “Careful, Oscar. People might start talking.”

Oscar’s smirk lifted, slow and deliberate, but he didn’t say anything immediately. He let the pause hang just long enough to make Lando’s stomach tighten. “People talk anyway,” he finally murmured, voice easy, teasing. And if Lando wasn’t feeling embarrassed enough, Oscar took the opportunity to throw his right arm over Lando’s shoulders.

Lando blinked, feeling the heat creep up his neck. “Yeah, but—” He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely toward the pit lane, “—don’t give them extra material.”

Oscar’s grin widened, that quiet sort of amusement that made Lando’s chest tighten. “Noted,” he said softly, tilting his head in a way that gave Lando no choice but to turn to him, neck still touching the heated skin of the younger’s bicep. He wished he could just let himself enjoy it, being so close to each other.

They leaned on the pit wall, ostensibly observing the team’s work in the hospitality, though Lando kept finding excuses to glance at Oscar. The quiet energy between them was suddenly noticeable to everyone around, though Lando desperately hoped it wasn’t obvious.

It was.

⸻

By Friday evening, the paddock had quieted down, and the hum of the Grand Prix weekend had softened. Lando was in his hotel room, sprawled on the bed with his laptop open, trying to review some notes, but his mind kept wandering back to earlier that day. Every glance, every touch and smirk from Oscar kept replaying in his head, making concentration impossible.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table. He reached for it and froze slightly when he saw the message.

Oscar: 

Ordering room service. Want to join?

Lando blinked, caught off guard, and then smiled. He typed back quickly:

Lando: 

sure

be there in 2 mins

Oscar: 

👍 

Don’t take too long

I’m starving

By the time Lando knocked on Oscar’s door, it was open before he could ring the bell. Oscar leaned casually against the frame, a tray stacked with food in his hands and that easy grin he always wore.

“Lando,” he said, voice light, “glad you could escape your room and join the feast,”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando muttered, smile unable to leave his face. The room smelled delicious, and the tray was piled with burgers, fries, little sandwiches, and enough sauces to start a small condiment empire.

Oscar set it down and gestured to the small table. “Sit. Don’t hover like you’re still in the garage.”

Lando laughed, lowering himself onto the chair. “I don’t hover. I… supervise. Big difference.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever you say, chief.”

They dug in, sharing bites, passing fries back and forth, and teasing each other over the smallest things.

“You’re supposed to be helping me with strategy, not stealing my fries,” Lando said between bites, holding up a hand dramatically.

“I am helping,” Oscar replied, grinning. “Teaching you the art of negotiation.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Lando laughed, shoving a fry toward him.

“And you’re too easy to annoy,” Oscar shot back, snatching it anyway. Lando groaned, throwing his hands up, and Oscar laughed so hard he had to clutch the table.

They talked about everything and nothing—team gossip, the funniest moments from the track, who’d made the worst coffee, how someone had managed to spill an entire box of tools (Lando almost cried laughing when he remembered how one tool ended in the livery during that one practice session). Every time one of them made a joke, the other doubled over laughing, sometimes snorting, sometimes flailing arms around dramatically.

At one point, Lando caught himself mid-laugh, staring at Oscar for just a second too long. Oscar noticed, smirked knowingly, and muttered, “Caught you.”

“Did not!” Lando protested, though his grin betrayed him.

“Totally did,” Oscar replied, laughing again. “Eyes say everything.”

The tray slowly emptied, their stomachs full, but neither of them seemed to care. They were too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the evening, laughing so much that the room felt warmer, louder, and lighter than it had all week.

Finally, Lando leaned back, wiping his hands. “Alright, you win. This was… actually a lot of fun.”

Oscar grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Of course it was. Admit it, you secretly love my terrible jokes.”

“I admit nothing,” Lando shot back, but he laughed anyway.

Lando knew he was done for.

⸻

As soon as the room service tray was cleared, Lando eyed the extra controller Oscar had left on the bed, after he had proudly announced that he brought his console with him.

“Seriously? You’re challenging me at FIFA now?” Lando asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oscar smirked, sliding onto the edge of the bed. “Of course. I have to make sure you’re not just good at dodging paddock photographers.”

Lando rolled his eyes but settled beside him, gripping the controller. “Prepare to be demolished.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Oscar said, grinning.

The game started, and immediately they were shouting and laughing at each other’s ridiculous mistakes. Lando tried a fancy trick, only to spin out and let Oscar score easily.

“No way! That was cheating!” Lando exclaimed, throwing his head back in laughter.

“Skill, my friend. Pure skill,” Oscar teased, nudging him lightly.

They bantered nonstop, teasing each other about every move. Lando tried to get revenge, snatching the controller when Oscar got distracted by a message on his phone, but Oscar grabbed it back with a laugh. Soon, they were doubled over in laughter, shoulders brushing as they fought for the next goal.

“Okay, okay, truce,” Lando gasped, holding up his hands. “Or we’re both going to break the controller in fits of rage.”

“Too late,” Oscar said with a grin, scooting closer so their legs were brushing. “We’re in too deep now.”

Neither of them noticed how tired they were becoming. They kept joking, swapping controllers, laughing at their own terrible plays, until Lando yawned, mid-complaint about one of Oscar’s goals.

“You’re… going… down…” he mumbled, voice trailing off, eyes already half-shut.

Oscar snorted, nudging him gently. “Sure, sure.” He yawned too, slumping back against the headboard.

The controllers fell onto the bed somewhere between laughter and exhaustion, and soon the jokes turned into quiet chuckles, then soft sighs, until both of them were curled up on the bed, half-on, half-off the pillows, the game paused and forgotten.

By the time the hotel room was quiet, they were asleep, still tangled up in blankets. 

Lando fell asleep thinking that maybe, it would be nice to have this, Oscar smiling at him, being happy, together.

⸻

Lando drifted into sleep, and the paddock, the hotel, the world itself faded away. He found himself lying back on a soft bed, sheets tangled around him, warm and heavy. And there was Oscar, leaning over him with that slow, infuriating grin, the one that made every nerve in Lando’s body hum.

“You’ve been thinking about me all day,” Oscar murmured, his voice low and teasing, one hand brushing a strand of hair from Lando’s forehead. “Careful… you might give yourself away.”

“I… maybe,” Lando admitted, chest tightening as he reached for Oscar, tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. “Maybe I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Oscar’s grin deepened, lips hovering just above Lando’s. “Oh? And what exactly have you been thinking about?”

Lando’s breath caught. “You… like this,” he whispered, voice shaky, eyes half-lidded. “Being here with you.”

“Mm,” Oscar hummed, brushing a soft kiss across Lando’s cheek, lingering near the corner of his lips. “I like the sound of that.”

Lando shivered, arching instinctively as Oscar’s hand moved slowly across his torso, teasing just enough to make him catch his breath. “Oscar… I…” he stammered, hands threading into Oscar’s hair. “I can’t… I can’t stop.”

“I know,” Oscar murmured, lips trailing down Lando’s neck, teasing, playful. “I’ve been thinking about this too… about you.”

“I… I need you,” Lando breathed, hips shifting, body on fire with want. “Oscar… please…”

“Shh,” Oscar whispered, lips brushing lightly along Lando’s chest, tracing patterns that made him tremble, fingers threading through the soft curls at the nape of Lando’s neck. “Relax. I’m right here.”

Lando’s heart pounded, every nerve alive with sensation. “I… I want… I can’t… you…” His words trailed off, lost in gasps and half-formed moans.

Oscar smiled softly, brushing a hand down Lando’s side and tugging lightly at his curls as he leaned closer. “I can feel how hard you are… how much you need me,” he murmured, voice low, warm. “God, you feel perfect.”

Lando arched instinctively, hands clutching at Oscar’s shirt, pulling him closer, trying to grind even harder into Oscar’s thigh. “Oscar… please…” he gasped. “I… I can’t hold it…”

“Don’t,” Oscar said, pressing his thigh closer to Lando’s dick, brushing lips along Lando’s collarbone and chest, trailing gentle kisses lower, teasing, never rushing, tugging at Lando’s curls in rhythm with each tremble. “Let me make you feel good, Lan.”

Lando’s body trembled, mind swirling in a haze of heat and want. Every touch, every whisper, every teasing kiss sent shivers rippling through him. He felt the tension building, inch by inch, breath catching, heart hammering, so close he could hardly think.

“I… I’m—so close…” Lando moaned, voice breaking, body trembling. “Oscar…”

“I know,” Oscar murmured, brushing through his curls again, tugging gently when Lando shivered, coaxing him with steady, warm hands. “I can feel it too,”

Hands tangled in each other, hips shifting instinctively, Lando could feel every inch of himself pressed toward the edge. Oscar’s lips, his hands in his hair, the way he whispered and teased—it was everything Lando had ever imagined, and more.

“I… Oscar…” Lando gasped, body coiled tight with anticipation, mind swimming, heart pounding. “I… I’m—”

And then, just as the tension was about to spill over, as Lando’s body trembled and he teetered on the brink, fingers clenching into Oscar’s curls… he woke up with a start.

⸻

Lando’s dream lingered like smoke in his mind—Oscar’s hands in his curls, the teasing whispers, the closeness, the heat. In the dream, everything felt so vivid, so real, so… consuming. He felt himself get caught up in it, every nerve alive, every thought focused entirely on Oscar.

The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, uneven sound of Lando’s own breathing. His skin felt several degrees too hot for his body, the ghost of the dream still clinging to him like a fever. He was certain that if he opened his eyes, the sheer force of his blush would illuminate the dark hotel room.

He didn't just cover his face; he pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars, trying to physically push the images of dream-Oscar back into the depths of his subconscious.

"Lando."

The voice was too close.

Lando flinched, a small, choked sound escaping his throat. He hadn't heard Oscar move. He hadn't heard the rustle of sheets. But suddenly, the edge of his bed dipped, and a hand—cool, steady, and very real—brushed against his wrist.

"Go away," Lando croaked, his voice thick. "Go back to sleep. I’m dying. Just let me die in peace."

"You’re not dying," Oscar murmured. His tone wasn't teasing now. It was low, vibrating with a gravity that made Lando’s dick twitch. "But you are shaking. And you’re making noises that I’m pretty sure aren't about FIFA."

Oscar’s fingers hooked around Lando’s wrists. He didn't yank; he applied a slow, insistent pressure, pulling Lando’s hands away from his face. Lando fought it for a second, his muscles locked in pure, unadulterated shame, but Oscar was patient. One by one, he pried Lando’s fingers back until Lando was forced to look at him.

In the dim light of the city glowing through the curtains, Oscar looked devastating. His hair was a mess from sleep, his eyes dark and dilated, fixed entirely on Lando’s flushed face.

"Your heart is going through your chest," Oscar whispered, his eyes flicking down to Lando’s throat, then back up. He didn't let go of Lando’s wrists. He pinned them lightly against the pillow, leaning over him until their noses almost touched. "Tell me what you were dreaming about."

"I can't," Lando breathed, his eyes darting everywhere but Oscar’s mouth. "Oscar, please. It was just—I’m tired. My brain is weird—"

"You called me 'love' again," Oscar interrupted. His voice dropped to a near-silent register, the kind that made the fine hairs on Lando’s arms stand up. "And you looked like you were in pain. Or like you were being properly fucked."

Oscar’s gaze searched Lando’s, dropping the last of his playful armor. The air between them was so thick it felt like it could snap.

"Lando," Oscar said, his thumb grazing the pulse point on Lando’s wrist. "Did you really want it to be real?"

The honesty of the question broke Lando’s remaining defenses. He couldn't lie, not when Oscar was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. Lando gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

The shift in the room was instantaneous.

Oscar didn't hesitate. With one smooth, decisive motion, he reached down and gripped the edge of the heavy hotel duvet, flinging it back. The rush of cool air hit Lando’s heated skin, making him shiver, the outline of his cock visible, and to his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but twitch.

Oscar moved, swung a leg over, settling himself firmly over Lando’s thighs, their cocks rubbing a little against each other. The weight was grounding and overwhelming all at once. Oscar sat up, his knees bracketed on either side of Lando’s hips, his hands sliding from Lando’s wrists up to his shoulders, then finally cupping his neck.

"Oscar," Lando gasped, his hands instinctively coming up to rest on Oscar’s waist, gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

"If we're doing this," Oscar whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed against Lando’s ear, "we’re doing it for real. No more dreams."

He shifted, his body weight pressing down on Lando’s cock as he began a slow, rhythmic grind against the older. The friction was electric, the heat of their bodies meeting through the thin layers of their clothes. It was exactly like the dream, but a thousand times sharper—the scent of Oscar’s skin, the sound of his hitching breath, the solid reality of him, the precum staining the front of their boxer.

Lando let out a broken moan, his head falling back against the pillow as he arched into the contact. His fingers dug into Oscar’s hips, guiding him, needing that pressure more than he needed his next breath.

Oscar let out a low, guttural huff of a laugh against Lando’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin there. "Better than the dream?"

"Shut up," Lando choked out, pulling Oscar down by the back of his neck to finally, finally kill the distance between their mouths. "Just… don’t stop."

⸻

The kiss wasn’t like the one in the dream.

The dream had been golden and soft, a hazy question asked in a quiet corner. This was an answer, it was loud, desperate, and crashing into reality with the force of a high-speed collision. Lando pulled Oscar down by the neck, his fingers tangling in those dark curls with a frantic grip, and Oscar met him with a groan that vibrated straight through Lando’s chest.

It was messy. It was teeth and tongue and the salt-sweet taste of skin. It was the sound of Oscar’s heavy breathing filling the small gap between them and the frantic rhythm of Lando’s heart finally finding its match.

Oscar shifted his weight, his thighs bracketing Lando’s hips, and began to move again, after pulling both of their boxers down. The friction was agonizingly perfect. With nothing separating their leakig cocks, every slide of Oscar’s body against his felt like a live wire sparking. Lando’s head thrashed back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut as a jagged breath hitched in his throat.

"Osc—" Lando gasped into the kiss, his hands sliding down from Oscar’s hair to grip the hem of his shirt, pulling the fabric taut. "God, you ruin me"

“You’re perfect,darling" Oscar murmured against his lips, his voice wrecked, stripped of all its usual Aussie dry wit. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Lando's, his eyes dark with a hunger that made Lando feel like he was melting into the mattress. "All for me, Lando"

Oscar’s hands, usually so steady on a steering wheel, were trembling slightly as they slid down Lando’s sides. He pressed his palms flat against the bed, using the leverage to grind down harder, more purposeful.

Lando’s back arched, his hips rising instinctively to meet Oscar’s cock. A broken, high-pitched sound escaped him—a sound he would have been mortified by twenty minutes ago, but now he only wanted to repeat it. He wanted Oscar to hear exactly what he was doing to him. He wanted Oscar to know that the dream hadn't even come close to the real thing.

"You're so red," Oscar whispered, his gaze tracing the flush that had spread from Lando’s cheeks down to the collar of his shirt. He leaned down, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of Lando’s neck, and inhaled deeply. "You wanted this for forever. Admit it."

"I hate you," Lando breathed, though his hands were busy pulling Oscar’s hips closer, refusing to let him pull away even for a second. "I hate how much you know."

"You don't hate it," Oscar countered, his teeth grazing Lando’s earlobe before he moved back to his mouth. "You love that I’m the only one who sees you like this."

The friction intensified, a slow, torturous heat building in the pit of Lando's stomach. Every slide of their dicks was a promise of what was to come. Oscar’s movements were steady, rhythmic, and devastatingly effective. Lando felt like he was hovering on the edge of a cliff, the same one he’d fallen off in his sleep, but this time, there was no waking up to an empty room.

Oscar caught Lando’s hands, pinning them above his head with one hand, his fingers interlacing with Lando’s. He looked down at him, his expression a mix of fierce possession and a vulnerability that Lando had never seen before.

"Look at me," Oscar commanded softly.

Lando forced his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred. Oscar was looming over him, a silhouette of heat and muscle, his chest heaving.

"It's real, Lando," Oscar said, his voice a low, grounded rumble. "I'm real. And I'm not going anywhere."

Lando swallowed hard, his fingers squeezing Oscar’s. The embarrassment was still there, a tiny flickering ember, but it was being rapidly smothered by something much larger, much more powerful. He wasn't the lonely driver in the motorhome anymore. He was here, in the dark, with the one person who made the world make sense.

"Show me," Lando whispered, his voice cracking. "Show me it's real, love,"

Lando watched, his throat tight and his pulse thundering in his ears, as Oscar spit in his palm and made a quick, slick adjustment. The slick heat of his palm was a sudden, electric contrast to the cool air of the room. When Oscar reached down, his hand sure and steady as he brought their cocks together, Lando’s head hit the headboard with a soft thud, his eyes rolling back in sheer, dizzying relief.

"Oscar," Lando choked out, his fingers digging into the mattress, his knuckles white.

Oscar didn't answer. He settled back over Lando’s lap, his weight a grounding force, and began to grind down again. It was direct, slick, and devastatingly hot. The rhythm was like a countdown, a fast and desperate pace that mirrored the final laps of a race where everything was on the line.

The friction was agonizingly perfect. Oscar’s hand worked with a relentless, driving motion, fingers going over Lando’s split, caressing their throbbing cocks one second, and changing the pace the next. Lando’s world narrowed down to the feeling of Oscar’s chest heaving against his, the scent of hotel soap and adrenaline, and the incredible, heavy pressure of their bodies meeting.

"Look at me," Oscar rasped, his voice a wrecked shadow of itself.

Lando forced his eyes open, his vision swimming. Oscar was looming over him, his face tight with concentration and a fierce, vulnerable kind of want. He looked like he was vibrating with the same tension that was about to snap Lando in half.

"I want you" Oscar breathed, the words punctuated by the rhythmic slide of his body against Lando’s. "This is... us."

The tension peaked, a sharp, white-hot line that Lando couldn't retreat from. His core tensed, in that familiar and burning way he grew accustomed to, but now even more intense. He arched his back, a fractured, high-pitched sound escaping him as he finally climaxed. Oscar let out a low, guttural growl against Lando’s shoulder, his grip tightening as they both came at the exact same moment.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged, dying echo of their breath.

Oscar collapsed forward, his head resting in the crook of Lando’s neck, his body heavy and warm. Lando’s arms came up instinctively, wrapping around Oscar’s back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine with a slow, trembling touch. The embarrassment that had haunted him all these months was gone, replaced by a quiet, buzzing exhaustion that felt like peace.

Lando shifted his head, his lips brushing against Oscar’s sweat-dampened hair. "Definitely better than the dream," he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Oscar let out a tiny, huffed laugh, his chest expanding against Lando’s. He didn't move to get up. He just tightened his hold, his voice muffled against Lando’s skin.

"Don't let it go to your head, Norris," he murmured. "But yeah. Way better."

Oscar didn't move to get off him. Instead, he shifted his weight, sliding down until they were lying side-by-side on the tangled sheets, the duvet pulled carelessly over them both. Lando didn't hesitate, immediately curving into Oscar’s side, throwing an arm and a leg over him to lock them together.

He felt ridiculously giddy, a bubbly, chaotic warmth spreading through his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with adrenaline. He was tucked against the crook of Oscar’s neck, listening to the solid, calming rhythm of his heart finally slowing down.

Lando shifted, pushing his nose against the soft skin of Oscar’s shoulder, a breathless, happy giggle escaping him. "You’re actually real," he whispered, feeling a little frantic need to confirm it again. "You’re not going to dissolve into golden light."

Oscar tightened his arm around Lando’s waist, bringing him closer until there was no space left between them. He let out a soft, low chuckle that resonated through his chest. "I think the lack of clothes and the very real cum that’s dripping makes it pretty hard to be a dream, Lando."

Lando hummed, content to just breathe him in. He felt light, dizzy, and overwhelmingly happy. He tracing small, absent patterns on Oscar’s bicep, feeling the tension slowly leach out of his own muscles.

"It was so hard to not do something stupid," Lando murmured, the memory of the dream still warm in his mind, but now replaced by the much better reality. "The way you looked at me all this time, I really thought I was going crazy."

Oscar went quiet for a moment, his fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of Lando’s neck. The silence wasn't awkward, it was heavy with a new kind of honesty.

"You weren't crazy," Oscar said quietly, his voice stripping away the last of his usual defenses. He turned his head to look at Lando, his expression serious and incredibly intense in the dim light. "Because I've been looking at you like that for a long time."

Lando froze, lifting his head slightly to look into Oscar’s eyes. "What?"

Oscar smiled, a small, genuine expression that reached his eyes. "I've wanted you since the first time I saw you, Lando. Before I even signed the contract. Before I knew what it was like to race alongside you."

Lando felt his breath hitch, his heart rate spiking in a completely different way than before. The giddiness turned into something deeper, something anchoring.

"Really?" Lando asked softly, searching Oscar's face.

"Really," Oscar confirmed, brushing a thumb along Lando's cheek and raising his head to kiss the same spot. "I’m just... not very good at saying stupid things first like you are. I usually do something stupid later." He smirked, that familiar teasing glint returning to his eyes, but it was warmer now.

Lando laughed, a loud, genuine sound that filled the quiet room. He buried his face back into Oscar’s neck, hugging him tighter. "You're a nightmare, you know that?"

"But I'm your nightmare," Oscar murmured, kissing the top of Lando’s head.

"Yeah," Lando whispered, closing his eyes, perfectly content. "My nightmare."

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

There’s a single candle on the table between them, flame flickering with every small movement, throwing low yellow light across the walls. It dances over George’s hands as he rests them around his glass, over Max’s profile as he leans back in his chair, listening.

Dinner is simple. Pasta gone slightly cold. Bread torn by hand instead of cut. They didn’t bother with music.

They don’t need it.

They sit across from each other, knees brushing under the table, and talk about childhood like it’s a language they both learned too early.

Max talks about growing up fast. About tracks and early mornings and a father who believed pressure made diamonds, that strength was something you carved out of a child before they had a chance to ask for gentleness. He says it casually, like he always does, like it’s just another fact about gravity or lift or velocity.

George listens.

He talks about karting too, but differently. About rules and order. About wanting to be good, to be correct, to never give anyone a reason to be disappointed. About a father who taught him discipline without fear, pride without pain. Someone who stood firm without raising a hand.

The candle flickers.

Max laughs at something George says, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect to be understood this easily.

And George—

George watches him and feels something deep and aching unfold in his chest.

He thinks about how young Max was. How small.

How falling didn’t always mean tripping.

How sometimes it meant being pushed down by words, by hands, by anger that had nowhere else to go.

How there were moments, bruises hidden under sleeves, apologies that weren’t his to give, silence learned too early, breath knocked clean out of him, where no one stepped in before the damage was done.

George’s fingers tighten around his glass.

He thinks, absurdly, irrationally, If only I had been born earlier.

Just a little.

Enough to stand at the edge of the track. Enough to kneel beside a scraped-up boy and cradle his head, shield him from the impact of the world, especially Max’s world. Enough to fall first if it meant Max wouldn’t have to.

He imagines it so clearly it almost hurts:

Max stumbling. Gravity winning. His body throbbing from the force of the violence.

George stepping forward without thinking.

Taking the collision so Max wouldn’t have to.

Even once.

Just one time.

“You’re very quiet,” Max says, interrupting the thought.

George looks up, startled. The candlelight catches in Max’s eyes, warm and steady and searching.

“Sorry,” George says. “I was just—thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” Max replies, smiling.

George exhales, something like a laugh. “You ever wish,” he says slowly, breath staggering, trying to make the lump in his throat disappear, “that someone had been there a bit sooner?” his voice cracks slightly and he already feels his eyes burning with unshed tears.

Max doesn’t joke this time.

He looks down at the table, thumb tracing the rim of his plate. “Sometimes,” he admits.

The word hangs between them.

George reaches across the table without quite realizing he’s doing it. His hand stops halfway, hesitates—then Max closes the distance, resting his fingers against George’s knuckles.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not rushed.

It’s gentle. Deliberate.

The candle flickers again, casting their shadows together on the wall, two shapes overlapping, inseparable.

“I’m here now,” George says, quietly. Not as a promise, he’s never been one to make promises, but as a fact.

Max’s grip tightens, just a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

And for the first time that evening, George feels like that old violence has finally been softened. Not erased. But caught.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The apartment wasn’t supposed to feel like home.

It was supposed to be a “temporary housing arrangement.” 

When they signed the lease, George said it was strictly practical.

Max took his time scanning the place — two bedrooms (though one was more of a glorified closet), one bathroom, a kitchen that hummed when you turned the light on, and a living room big enough for a couch and Max’s flight manuals spread everywhere.

“Two people, one rent,” he’d reasoned. “Cheaper than living on campus.”

The only problem was that the reasonably sized bedroom — had one singular, massive bed in the corner of it that stared back at the pair in its awfully comfortable way. 

“There’s only one bed,” Max pointed out.

George barely looked up from the paperwork. “We’ll get another one.”

They didn’t.

⸻

The setup worked — mostly.

Until it didn’t.

⸻

George’s textbooks multiplied overnight.

Stacks of legal theory, tort law, and constitutional interpretation appeared like fungi — under the coffee table, beside the sink, even on the microwave once. Case law printouts, highlighter caps in every shade, post-its with cryptic reminders like “Intent ≠ Motive” that Max tried to understand once before giving up.

Then came Max’s turn. Model airplane parts on the nightstand , equations scrawled in the margins of the grocery list, a half-finished cup of coffee left in the sink because he overslept again. There was a long week where he tried to build a model engine on the kitchen counter, and George nearly lost his mind.

“Max, this is where we eat.”

“This is also where I engineer.”

“That’s not a verb.”

“It is when I do it.”

⸻

The fridge, though — that was neutral territory.

Schedules pinned up with cat magnets. A new one every few weeks — Max’s contribution to their “décor.”

The first was a cat in aviator glasses. Then came one wearing a pilot’s cap.

George pretended to be annoyed but secretly started a mini collection: one holding a briefcase, one with a gavel, even a cat wrapped in a tiny graduation robe.

“You know,” Max said one night, leaning on the fridge door, “you could just admit you like them.”

George didn’t look up from his notes. “I tolerate them.”

“Sure,” Max said. “That’s why you named them.”

“I did not—”

“You called that one ‘Sir Whiskerton.’”

“That was sarcasm.”

“Then why does he have a name tag?”

George glared. Max grinned. Sir Whiskerton stayed, guarding their very important stacks of papers.

⸻

George’s schedule: 8 a.m. lectures, legal research blocks, study sessions that stretched into midnight.

Max’s: engineering labs, simulator hours, “aircraft systems” that George keeps calling “plane stuff.”

Their days rarely aligned. Sometimes Max got home from class and George was already half-asleep at his desk, glasses tilted, pen still in hand.

Sometimes George woke up at 3 a.m. and found Max on the balcony, hoodie zipped up, hair messy, whispering equations into the dark like prayers.

So they took care of each other in small, quiet ways.

⸻

They were also different in every way.

George thrived on order — outlines, plans, perfect handwriting, lectures highlighted in three colors.

Max lived on chaos and caffeine, scribbling formulas in pen on the backs of napkins and sometimes the actual wall (they had a whole fight about it, George had to call his mom to ask if dish soap can help remove black ink off of the walls, Max fixed it the next day by painting the small section of the wall, George swore he deliberately picked a darker paint than the original, Max just shrugged and promised to keep his formulas exclusively on paper for the time being.)

But somewhere in the middle of that, a rhythm formed.

Max packed George’s lunch when he knew he’d forget to eat. He left it in the fridge with a cat-shaped post-it that said “don’t starve pls.”

George found it before a study session and smiled like an idiot in the library bathroom.

In return, he started buying Max’s favorite snacks and leaving them in the pantry. “Don’t crash before your flight sim,” his own note read.

They never talked about it, but they didn’t have to.

⸻

The bed thing was an accident.

The apartment came with one big bed, and George had sworn he’d sleep on the couch until they found another. That plan worked, for exactly two nights. By night three, his back felt like someone had tried to rearrange his spine.

At 2 a.m., Max found him sitting upright on the couch, looking utterly defeated.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“I can’t feel my lower back.” 

“You could just—” Max gestured toward the bed. “You know.”

George gave him a look. “You snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

Max smirked. “Then I’ll snore on your side.”

George groaned but gave in.

That night, he slept better than he had in weeks.

⸻

Now they share.

They claim it’s “for convenience.” Max says the heating system is bad and George radiates warmth. George mutters something about not wanting to argue at 2 a.m.

In reality, it’s because somewhere between the cat magnets and the packed lunches and the late-night study sessions, they stopped needing an excuse.

⸻

Max is usually the first to fall asleep — sprawled, starfished, mumbling about flight paths in his dreams.

George slips in later, quietly, careful not to wake him.

Except Max always shifts closer, still half-asleep, mumbling something soft in Dutch against George’s shoulder.

And George — George, who’s supposed to be composed and precise — lets himself melt just a little. His hand traces slow, sleepy circles on Max’s back until his own breathing matches his.

⸻

One morning, George was in full panic mode — mid-semester exams, three essays due, and a presentation on constitutional law.

He was standing in the kitchen, muttering to himself and flipping through flashcards, when Max appeared in a hoodie and messy hair, a mug in hand.

“You’re talking to yourself again.”

“I’m rehearsing,” George snapped. “I need to be concise.”

“You could try being human, that might help.”

George glared at him over his coffee cup. “You have an engine to disassemble or something?”

“Already did. It exploded.”

George paused. “…Exploded?”

“Small explosion. Contained. Mostly.”

George set his coffee down very carefully. “Max.”

Max just grinned. “Relax. No casualties.”

“Other than your GPA.”

“Funny coming from someone who hasn’t seen sunlight in a week.”

George opened his mouth to retort — then stopped when he noticed the neatly packed lunchbox on the counter.

A sandwich. An apple. A small note taped to it that read, ‘Don’t argue with idiots before 9 a.m.’

He sighed. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re welcome.”

⸻

By winter, the apartment felt less like a crash pad and more like a home.

They decorated for Christmas — well, Max did. He hung an airplane ornament on a potted plant and called it a tree. George tried to correct him, gave up halfway through, and added a tiny bow to the pot instead.

When the heating broke, they layered blankets on the bed until it looked like a fort. George pretended to mind, but he didn’t — not when Max’s arm found its usual spot around his waist.

⸻

They argued, too. Loudly.

George once found an empty energy drink can balancing on his law textbook.

“Are you serious?!” he’d yelled from the kitchen.

Max yelled back from the shower. “It’s called recycling!”

“On my constitutional notes?”

“Then move them!”

They didn’t talk for three hours after that.

Then Max appeared in the doorway, damp hair sticking to his forehead, holding out a new can of George’s favorite energy drink.

“Peace offering?”

George took it, sighing. “…You’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah,” Max said softly. “I know.”

They still bicker over everything:

Who left the light on, who forgot to take the trash out, who used the last of the milk.

They make out in the kitchen five minutes later.

⸻

One night, after a brutal exam week, they both crashed early. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater.

George shifted closer, half-asleep. “You’re warm.”

“Pilot body heat,” Max murmured, drowsy.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

George chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you like it.”

There was a long pause. George took the opportunity to shift closer to Max and bury his head in the crook of his neck. He breathed Max in, trying to slowly memorise the way his nose fits against the older’s neck, the way their laundry detergent smells on Max even after days.

A trail of pecks pressed to hot skin, followed by a quiet: “Yeah. I do.”

⸻

They didn’t talk about that either.

But the next morning, Max found a new cat magnet on the fridge.

A cat curled up with another, tiny paws touching.

No note. No comment.

Just that.

He smiled for the rest of the day.

⸻

Sometimes, Max would come home late and find George still awake, head buried in his notes, the light from his Ipad illuminating his eye bags. 

“Hey,” Max would say softly, leaning against the doorway. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

“I have to finish this.”

“You also have to sleep.”

George sighed. “You sound like my mother.”

“Your mother doesn’t make out with you.”

George’s pen slipped out of his hand. “…Max.”

“What?” Max’s grin was shameless. “It’s true.”

George looked up, exasperated but smiling despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

And Max crossed the room, tilted his chin up, and kissed him — slow, familiar, the kind of kiss that made George forget all about case law.

⸻

Sundays were for pretending.

Pretending they weren’t both behind on assignments. Pretending they didn’t have exams creeping closer. Pretending they weren’t living in an unspoken relationship built out of shared coffee mugs and one (very) shared bed.

It was 9:47 a.m. when George finally blinked awake, blinking at the sunlight spilling through the half-closed curtains. The air smelled faintly of coffee — strong, black, the way Max liked it — and something buttery.

He rolled over to find Max sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, carefully balancing a tiny model airplane wing in one hand.

“You’re building that on the bed?” George mumbled, voice raspy.

Max grinned without looking up. “The table’s full of your notes.”

George squinted. “That’s not a justification.”

“It’s not not a justification.”

He was impossible. Brilliant, endearing, infuriating — and, somehow, George’s favorite kind of chaos.

⸻

Max’s little workstation was spreading — parts laid out on a breakfast tray beside an untouched plate of toast. George sighed, stretching, and then leaned over the edge of the bed to sniff the coffee mug sitting on the nightstand.

“Is this mine?”

“Yours is the one with less sugar.”

George took a sip anyway. “You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

George froze for a fraction of a second — long enough for Max to catch it.

He looked up, smiling faintly. “In a roommate way, obviously.”

“Obviously,” George said, hiding his smile behind the lukewarm coffee mug.

⸻

Breakfast was quiet, in the kind of way that meant comfort rather than awkwardness.

George sat with his laptop propped against his knees, scrolling through an outline of case law for his upcoming moot court. Max tinkered with his model, occasionally stealing bites of George’s toast when he thought he wasn’t looking.

He was definitely looking.

“Do you ever not steal my food?”

Max shrugged, mouth full. “I pay rent.”

“That’s not currency for my toast.”

“It’s in the roommate code.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“I wrote it.”

George rolled his eyes. “You’re absurd.”

“You’re infatuated.”

George fought it. Lost. “Unfortunately.”

⸻

At some point, Max gave up on pretending to work and leaned against George’s shoulder, lazily watching him type.

“Why do you do that?” Max asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Stay up so late. You already know all this stuff.”

George sighed. “It’s not about knowing. It’s about being sure.”

“You’re already sure.”

He glanced at Max, who was watching him with that frustratingly steady expression — the one that made it impossible to hide behind sarcasm.

“You think too much,” Max said. “You could just… stop for a bit.”

“I can’t just stop.”

Max smiled softly. “Then I’ll make you.”

George blinked. “Excuse you?”

Before he could protest, Max closed the laptop and nudged it to the side. Then he just looked at him — calm, warm, almost unbearably fond.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No studying. Just… stay here.”

“Ten minutes won’t—”

“George.”

There was a firmness in Max’s tone that made George sigh in defeat. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

Max grinned. “Good. Now lie down.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You implied it.”

“Lie down, lawyer boy.”

George huffed, but he did.

⸻

It was peaceful, somehow. Max lay beside him, their legs brushing, one of Max’s hands tracing idle patterns on George’s arm. The sunlight caught the side of Max’s hair, golden and soft, and George found himself watching the way his eyelashes fluttered as he blinked.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring until Max smirked. “You’re looking at me.”

“You’re in my line of sight.”

“There’s a whole room.”

“I like this part of it.”

Max’s grin softened into something else — quieter, fonder. “You’re getting worse at denying things.”

George turned onto his side. “You’re getting better at reading me.”

The gentle smile turned into a smirk George knew well enough, one that Max wore when he was about to say the stupidest things George had ever heard in his life.

“You’re my favorite subject.”

George’s hands automatically found his face, letting out a long groan behind his palms.

“Max—”

And whatever protest George was about to make vanished the second Max took his hands off his face and leaned in. George began to smile, already knowing what this usually led to.

The kiss was slow — not the kind of rushed, playful thing they usually shared between arguments and jokes. This one lingered, deliberate, heavy with everything they hadn’t said yet.

When Max finally pulled back, George’s breath caught in his throat.

“You have 5 more minutes,” he whispered.

Bumping his nose against George’s, Max’s voice was barely above a murmur. “Of course you kept track.”

George smiled and pulled Max on top of him by the nape.

⸻

They stayed like that for a while — tangled in sunlight and blankets, the kind of lazy warmth that made the rest of the world feel far away. Sharing kisses and long hugs that made George wonder if there is a possibility of ever melting into one another.

At some point, George’s phone buzzed with a reminder for his afternoon study session. He glanced at it, then back at Max.

“I should probably—”

Max reached out and shut the phone off with one finger. “No.”

George blinked. “No?”

“You’ve been studying for six days straight.”

“I have a—”

“You have me right now.”

George looked at him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly and sank back down. “You’re going to ruin my GPA.”

“I’ll take responsibility.”

“You can’t just take responsibility for—”

“I’ll cross-examine your grades if I have to.”

George laughed. “That’s not how law works.”

“It’s how Max works.”

George rolled his eyes but let his head fall against Max’s chest anyway. “I hate how charming you think you are.”

“You love how charming I am.”

“…Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

⸻

Later that evening, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. George was cooking pasta — or trying to — while Max hovered nearby, eating raw noodles and being unhelpful.

“Stop that.”

“I’m testing them.”

“They’re not even cooked.”

“Still counts.”

“Do you even know how to boil water?”

Max gestured at the pot. “It’s literally boiling.”

“That’s because I did it.”

“You’re such a control freak.”

“And you’re such a—”

He didn’t get to finish, because Max leaned over and kissed him, quick and smiling against his lips.

George blinked, dazed. “That was disgusting, I could taste the uncooked pasta, you know?”

“You need to try new things, lawyer boy.” Max said simply, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard. “I’ll show you later what I can truly do.”

George’s heart did something traitorous. “You’re insufferable.”

Max handed him a bowl. “Yum!”

⸻

They ate dinner sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching some half-finished documentary Max had started weeks ago. Halfway through, George’s head dropped onto Max’s shoulder.

“You’re falling asleep,” Max murmured.

“I’m multitasking.”

“You’re losing.”

“Quiet.”

“Uh huh.”

George smiled, eyes half-closed. “You know… this is kind of nice.”

Max’s hand brushed over his. “Kind of?”

“Yea. It’s perfect.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The next morning felt heavier than usual. The kind of heavy that wasn’t fixed by coffee or another lap around the paddock. Your badge weighed on its lanyard like a brick, your eyes burned from lack of sleep, and every sound—air guns, chatter, the beep of telemetry—felt like it was hitting you twice as loud.

You kept moving anyway. Because that’s what you did: kept moving. Smile for the sponsors. Nod through the meetings. Check and recheck the numbers until they blurred. You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking until you dropped a piece of paper and had to crouch to pick it up, hiding your face as you exhaled through your nose.

When you straightened, he was there.

Lando. Helmet under one arm, still suited up but with his balaclava tugged loose around his neck. His eyes flicked from your trembling hands to your face, and something in them sharpened.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Come with me for a sec.”

“I’m fine—”

“Just a sec,” he repeated, softer but no less firm.

You hesitated, but he was already tilting his head toward the side corridor behind the tyre racks. It wasn’t far—barely three steps away from the noise—but once you ducked behind the crates, the world dimmed. Quieter. Cooler.

He set his helmet down and crouched a little so you’d meet his eyes. “You’re running on fumes,” he murmured.

Your throat bobbed. “I’m just—tired.”

“Burnt out,” he corrected gently. “You’ve been at it since before I even got here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the truth of it sat like a stone on your tongue. You let out a shaky laugh instead. “I don’t really have a choice.”

He reached out, slow enough that you could pull away. You didn’t. His palms slid up your arms until his thumbs rested just below your shoulders, rubbing small circles over your team uniform. The warmth of it made your eyes sting.

“You do,” he said. “At least for a minute.”

You blinked at him. “A minute?”

He grinned faintly. “Two, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

It was so very him—gentle but teasing—that you felt the edge of a smile break through. He saw it and his grin widened just enough to show a dimple. Then, still keeping one hand on your arm, he reached into his pocket and produced a slightly squashed protein bar.

“Breakfast of champions,” he said, waggling it at you. “Half for you, half for me.”

You huffed a laugh, the sound catching on something raw. “That’s not exactly a five-course meal.”

“Good thing we’re not exactly at a five-star restaurant,” he replied. “Come on. Sit.”

You sat on an upturned crate. He plopped down next to you, shoulder warm against yours, and ripped the wrapper open. For a moment you both chewed in silence, the hum of the paddock just a distant buzz.

And then he did something small but devastatingly kind—he pressed his forehead lightly against yours. Not a kiss. Not even quite a hug. Just contact, a shared breath.

“Better?” he asked, voice low.

You swallowed. “A little.”

“Good,” he said. “Because you don’t have to do all of it alone. Not here. Not with me around.”

You let your head tip onto his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t make a joke. Just shifted enough to tuck his chin lightly over your hair and keep you steady.

For the first time all day, the static in your ears eased.

⸻

Later, back at the workbench, your tablet open again, you felt his knee bump yours under the table. When you glanced up, he was already looking at you, a quiet promise sitting in his eyes.

And you realized you weren’t just surviving the weekend anymore. You were finding little pockets of stillness—because he’d gone looking for them with you.

⸻

The day blurred by after that small interlude, though it didn’t feel quite so heavy. Each moment with him—each brush of his hand, each quiet glance—was like a counterweight to the noise that usually pressed in. You still moved through the team briefings, the tire changes, the endless data streams, but there was a subtle steadiness now. Like someone had pressed pause on the chaos long enough for you to catch your breath.

By late afternoon, the garage had emptied again, leaving only the faint hum of machinery and the occasional clink of a dropped tool. You were crouched by the side of the livery, checking a wiring harness, when you felt it: a hand on your shoulder, nudging you upright.

“Careful,” Lando murmured. His proximity made your chest tighten—not in panic, just in that sharp, fluttering way that meant your heart noticed him before your brain did.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Sure,” he said, grinning, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned just slightly closer, letting the warmth from his shoulder brush against yours. “You know, you don’t have to look like a robot that’s survived three consecutive races. You can… just be tired if you want.”

You let out a short laugh, more breath than sound. “And admit weakness? Not a chance.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and intimate, and his fingers found yours again, curling around your hand in a way that felt entirely natural. You froze at the contact, feeling the tension in your fingers unwind slowly as if it had been waiting for him.

“You’re stubborn,” he said, almost like a compliment. “But I like it. Makes me work harder to get through to you.”

“I’m sure,” you replied, with a dry edge that barely masked the warmth rising in your chest.

“You don’t have to fight so hard, you know,” he said, eyes searching yours. “Even if it’s just for a minute, let someone in. Let me in.”

You swallowed, the weight of the day pressing at your chest again. “I… I don’t even know how to stop sometimes,” you admitted, voice quiet.

“Then start small,” he murmured, squeezing your hand. “A minute. Ten seconds. Doesn’t matter. I’ll wait.”

You blinked at him, caught between wanting to crumble into relief and wanting to maintain some shred of control. But then—subtle, almost imperceptible—you allowed yourself to rest your forehead against his shoulder, letting the hum of the garage and the faint warmth of his hoodie anchor you.

He didn’t speak, didn’t shift. Just let you exist against him. And in that silence, in that small surrender, you realized: maybe letting someone in didn’t have to mean losing yourself.

When you finally pulled back just enough to look at him, his curls were tousled, a stray lock falling across his forehead, his eyes soft but attentive. “Better?” he asked, that familiar mixture of teasing and care lacing his tone.

“Yeah,” you said, voice almost inaudible, but this time with conviction. “Better.”

He smiled, small and secretive, like he’d just shared an inside joke with your heart. “Good,” he said. “Because I’ve got your back. Always.”

And just like that, the world felt slightly less heavy. Not gone entirely, but lighter. Manageable. Because he hadn’t just found the quiet; he’d built it with you, piece by careful piece.

⸻

Later that evening, when the last mechanics had trickled out and the fluorescent lights cast long, mellow shadows across the garage floor, he leaned against the edge of the workbench. He wasn’t rushed, didn’t need words, but his presence filled the space beside you.

“You think,” he said thoughtfully, “that everyone else notices this—us being ridiculous?”

You raised an eyebrow, letting a small, amused smile curve your lips. “Being ridiculous how?”

“Touching hands, leaning on each other, pretending we’re actually calm humans instead of walking chaos machines,” he replied, eyes crinkling with mischief.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Then yes. Everyone definitely thinks we’re ridiculous.”

“Good,” he said, nudging your knee with his own. “I like being ridiculous with you.”

Your chest warmed at the words, and without thinking, you let your hand drift into his, fingers threading together naturally. The contact was gentle, easy, but it carried a weight that neither of you needed to explain.

Lando leaned slightly, resting his chin atop your shoulder. “Truce?” he murmured, voice low.

“For what?” you asked, humoring him.

“For letting each other be human,” he said simply.

You considered it for a heartbeat, then tilted your head to nudge his cheek with your own. “Truce,” you agreed.

And for the first time that week, the garage—the noise, the chaos, the relentless pace—didn’t feel like it was pressing down on you. Because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. You had Lando.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

⸻

Masterlist

The stack of packages on your kitchen table looked ridiculous.

You filmed them in one smooth pan for your video intro, narrating with a half-laugh.

“Okay, so this is what happens when you don’t check your PO box for a week,” you said, waving a hand at the pile. “Don’t worry, most of these are giveaway books—you guys know I don’t keep everything. I’ll donate what I can, and a few of these will go straight into the literacy charity auction we’re running next month.”

You sliced open the first package, angling the camera so your viewers could see the glossy hardcover inside.

“Publishing’s sending out so many fantasy titles this season,” you said, flipping the book in your hands. “I’ll probably keep one copy for a review, and the rest I’ll send out to you guys.”

You filmed a few more unboxings, a stack of thrifted paperbacks you’d picked up on your lunch break, and wrapped the video with your usual soft smile:

“Thanks for sticking with me after a long day. Remember—books are for sharing.”

You uploaded it quickly, then shoved your phone aside. You still had to prep dinner, fold laundry, and answer work emails before bed. Social media was a passion, but it wasn’t the only thing keeping the lights on.

⸻

The next morning, you woke to a flood of notifications. That wasn’t unusual—new video, new engagement—but one username made you sit bolt upright.

landonorris liked your video.

At first, you thought it was a parody account. It had to be. You clicked through, half-asleep—and froze.

Blue check. Millions of followers. The real deal. Formula 1 driver. Cars, cameras, Monaco, champagne.

And somehow, he was watching you open boxes of books in your messy kitchen.

You locked your phone quickly, trying not to overthink it.

⸻

But then he came back.

A week later, when you posted your monthly “wrap-up”—sitting cross-legged on the floor, stacks of books balanced around you, explaining what you’d read—his name popped up in the comments.

landonorris: do people actually read that many pages in a month or is this witchcraft

You blinked at it, reread it twice. Then, hesitantly, typed back:

you: it’s just staying up too late and drinking too much coffee :)

He liked it almost immediately.

⸻

After that, it was like he couldn’t stop.

When you did a thrift haul and mentioned how much joy it gave you to rescue neglected books:

landonorris: character is in the creases right?

When you filmed a PSA about donating duplicate ARCs to schools instead of reselling them:

landonorris: respect. more kids need stories.

When you went live during a charity readathon to raise funds for libraries, bleary-eyed but still smiling after 14 straight hours of reading:

landonorris: you’re insane. also, you’ve read more today than i’ve read in 23 years.

That one made you laugh so hard you had to pause mid-sentence.

Your followers noticed, of course. Screenshots started floating around. Rumors swirled. But you ignored them. He was just a name in the comments. A blue check didn’t mean anything.

Right?

⸻

Until the day he followed you.

The notification hit like a weight: landonorris started following you.

Your heart pounded in your chest. He didn’t just pass by anymore. He’d chosen to stay.

You didn’t follow back. Didn’t comment. You just kept posting as usual, tried to pretend it didn’t matter.

But you noticed yourself refreshing the notifications more often.

⸻

Two weeks later, the message arrived.

Your phone buzzed during your lunch break at work. You almost ignored it—until you saw his name in your DMs.

landonorris: i just learned i’ve been pronouncing “epitome” wrong my whole life. felt like the kind of confession you’d forgive.

You stared at it for a full minute, your caesar salad forgotten on the desk.

You shouldn’t answer. It was safer not to. But something about the clumsy honesty of it made you smile. Against your better judgment, you typed back:

you: book people forgive those confessions.

landonorris: even famous drivers who probably shouldn’t admit it?

you: especially them.

landonorris: good. because i have a few more.

And just like that, the conversation started.

⸻

Over the next weeks, he slipped into your daily life like it was natural. He asked what you were reading on your commute, teased you for how many sticky tabs you used in one book, and once sent you a picture of his half-empty suitcase with a single paperback tossed in.

landonorris: this is me trying to take ur advice. packing a book.

you: proud of u. will u actually open it tho?

landonorris: 50/50.

It wasn’t the glossy version of him in the magazines. He was… real. Curious. Funny. Sometimes a little lonely, though he never said it outright.

One evening, as you sat on your couch editing a video, your phone buzzed again.

landonorris: random question — that café you posted earlier today. the one with the green tiles and fairy lights?

you: yeah? what about it?

landonorris: it’s one of my favorites. i’ve been there loads when i’m in town.

Your typing paused.

you: …you’re in town?

landonorris: yep. just got in yesterday actually.

you: oh. i didn’t realize.

landonorris: wasn’t sure how long i’d be here, but looks like i’ve got a free evening on friday. figured it’d be stupid not to at least ask… do you want to meet up? dinner? my treat, somewhere nice

The message sat there like a spark in your chest.

He wasn’t making some grand, dramatic request from miles away. He was here, in your city, casually asking if you wanted to share a meal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And before you could overthink it, your fingers typed back:

you: dinner sounds good.

landonorris: perfect. i’ll find us somewhere.

You didn’t even want to imagine what “somewhere” meant in his world.

But for the first time, you let yourself look forward to finding out.

The message didn’t leave your mind all night.

Dinner? My treat. Somewhere nice.

He had typed it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he wasn’t a world-famous driver, and you weren’t someone who filmed thrift hauls at midnight after clocking out of your actual job. Like the idea of the two of you sitting at a table in public wouldn’t cause the internet to self-destruct.

You tried to convince yourself it was a joke. He was playful, half-sarcastic most of the time. Maybe he was just… testing the waters.

But when you woke up, there it was again. A notification.

landonorris: no, seriously. i wasn’t kidding. i’m here. you posted that café the other day—it’s five minutes from my hotel.

You sat up in bed so fast your blanket nearly slid off.

The café. You’d posted a quick snap of it two days ago in your Instagram stories: a sunlit corner table, a cappuccino with too much foam, and the book you were annotating for your next review. It wasn’t fancy—just one of your comfort places, the kind of spot you’d found years ago when you needed a quiet corner that didn’t empty your bank account.

And now he was saying he’d been there too? That he’d recognized it?

you: wait, really?

landonorris: really. i thought i was hallucinating when i saw the post.

you: it’s not exactly monaco.

landonorris: no. that’s why i liked it.

You frowned at your phone, rereading the message.

landonorris: so. dinner?

you: why do you want to meet me?

landonorris: why wouldn’t i?

You hesitated. The list in your head was long: because he had no shortage of glamorous people to talk to. Because you were ordinary. Because dinners in his world probably involved a guest list and photographers. Because meeting him in real life meant whatever comfortable bubble you’d built through screens might pop instantly.

you: it just… seems like you have better things to do.

His reply came fast.

landonorris: not really.

landonorris: honestly, i’d rather have coffee in that café again than go to another sponsor dinner.

You bit down on a smile before you could stop yourself.

you: you’re terrible at convincing people you’re not creepy.

landonorris: oh come on. creepy would be if i said i memorized the book you were reading in the photo.

you: …did you?

landonorris: maybe.

you: lando.

landonorris: fine. it was called “I Must Betray You.” i only remembered because i bought it yesterday.

Your stomach flipped.

landonorris: it’s sitting on the hotel nightstand. waiting for me to become a changed man of culture.

you: and are you?

landonorris: not yet. i fell asleep on page four.

That made you laugh so hard you had to bury your face in the pillow.

⸻

The day crawled.

At work, you answered emails with half your brain while replaying the conversation in your head. A colleague leaned over your desk at one point and frowned.

“You look like you’re hiding a secret,” she said.

You forced a smile. “Just tired.”

Which wasn’t entirely a lie. You were tired. Tired of thinking in circles, of wondering if this was smart, of calculating how many ways it could go wrong.

By the time you got home, you had talked yourself out of it at least three times.

And then your phone buzzed again.

landonorris: don’t cancel.

you: i wasn’t going to.

landonorris: liar. i can feel the cancellation energy radiating.

you: you don’t know what i’m thinking.

landonorris: yeah i do. you’re sitting there with your hair in a messy bun, chewing your lip, trying to decide if this is insane.

You froze. You were doing that.

you: okay that’s creepy.

landonorris: not creepy. just accurate.

you: so what if i am thinking that?

landonorris: then i’d say stop overthinking and let me buy you dinner.

you: it’s not that simple.

landonorris: it is though. i’ll pick a place that isn’t scary. promise.

you: define scary.

landonorris: menus without prices.

you: okay good.

landonorris: so, mcdonald’s?

you: perfect. i’ll bring coupons.

landonorris: deal.

⸻

The next morning, you expected him to forget. To move on with his fast-paced life, leaving your little conversation as just another passing thing.

But then his post popped up.

A cappuccino. A half-cropped book. The caption: trying to do this right ☕️📖

The book was unmistakable. “I Must Betray You”

Your phone buzzed instantly after.

landonorris: i thought i’d impress you.

you: i am impressed.

landonorris: do i get extra points if i finish it before tomorrow?

you: infinite points.

landonorris: cool. so i’ll skim and make up a fake review.

you: you’re hopeless.

landonorris: and yet you’re still having dinner with me.

That one you didn’t answer right away.

You stared at it, heart beating too fast.

Tomorrow. Dinner. With him.

It wasn’t just hypothetical anymore.

⸻

You had told yourself it was just dinner.

Not a date. Not an event. Not a headline. Just… dinner. Two people who talked too much online finally meeting in person.

But standing in front of your mirror, you felt a pang of panic that no amount of self-reassuring pep talk could fix. Your dress—simple, thrifted, the one that usually made you feel like yourself—suddenly seemed laughably insufficient. You tugged at the fabric around your waist. Too casual. Too… ordinary.

You glanced down at your shoes, low-heeled flats you’d chosen for comfort, not glamour. Maybe you should’ve worn heels. Maybe nothing would ever be enough.

Your phone buzzed.

landonorris: outside.

you: you’re early.

landonorris: nervous.

That made you pause. Nervous? Him? He always looked effortless, like stepping into a room didn’t cost him a second thought.

⸻

The car wasn’t a McLaren, not a flashy supercar—it was just a black sedan—but it looked far more expensive than anything you had ever even considered buying. The driver opened the door, and there he was, hoodie under a sharp jacket, hair still damp from a shower, looking casual and polished at once.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. That easy, infuriating smile that made you want to both melt and roll your eyes.

“Hi.” You slid into the seat beside him, suddenly aware of how plain your hands looked against the soft leather interior.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city lights streaked past the tinted window. Then he said, “So. Not a serial killer, then?”

You laughed too loudly. “Not tonight.”

“Good. Would’ve ruined the evening.”

His knee bounced nervously. Your chest tightened. He seemed… human. Vulnerable even. But you felt anything but. You felt small, underdressed, out of place.

You noticed the watch on his wrist, the sleek glint of gold against his skin. It wasn’t something you would ever dare to think about out loud—the kind of thing that made your stomach tighten, that reminded you how far outside this world you felt. You tried to focus on your own hands, your own outfit, anything to ground yourself, but the quiet shine of it kept pulling your eyes back.

⸻

The street was quiet as you and Lando stepped away from the car. The city lights spilled onto the pavement in muted streaks, reflecting off wet asphalt from the afternoon drizzle. Each step you took felt heavier than it should, not physically, but like every thought about the night and the price of the dinner was pressing down on your chest.

Lando, oblivious to the weight you carried, walked beside you with a lightness you almost envied. “You know,” he said, voice casual, “I read that this place has the best risotto in the city. And, apparently, the chef refuses to put more than three ingredients in it at a time, just to get it perfect.”

You smiled, though your mind had already wandered to the menu. “Perfect,” you said. “I’m… sure I’ll find something within… a reasonable range.”

He laughed. “Reasonable range? You sound like you’re budgeting a vacation, not ordering dinner.”

You shrugged, keeping your eyes on the restaurant’s entrance. “Some people like to… be careful.”

The hostess led you inside. Warmth hit you immediately, mingling with the scent of herbs and butter. The interior was soft, muted—dark wood, deep green accents, candlelight flickering across the walls. The tables were spaced comfortably, each with a small, understated floral arrangement. You felt out of place in your thrifted dress and flats, suddenly hyper-aware of the polished heels and designer bags surrounding you.

You sat, the chair making a faint scrape against the floor. Lando slid in opposite you, hands already brushing the table in casual confidence.

Menus were handed over, heavy and glossy, almost absurdly expensive-looking. Your stomach flipped as your eyes skimmed the prices. Half a month of your paycheck could barely cover one of the main course dishes. You laughed quietly to yourself, a sound tighter than intended.

“I’ll… just have this,” you murmured, pointing to the cheapest option.

“Just this?” Lando’s brow lifted, amused. “You sure you don’t want to try something fancier? It’s a special night, isn’t it?”

You shook your head, smiling tightly. “No, I’m fine. I mean… cautious. I don’t want to overdo it.”

He chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, but I’m getting more for you anyway.”

Conversation started easily, flowing around work, the week, and small everyday things. You joked lightly, answered his questions, and tried to anchor yourself in the normalcy of the interaction. But all the while, your mind flickered to the numbers. You calculated silently—your paycheck, your rent, groceries—and the impossible cost of one dish.

When dessert arrived, it was delicate, almost absurdly small, but perfect. You forced a laugh, commenting on the tiny portion, while internally calculating again. Then the check came.

You slid your hand across the table, pushing the entire share toward him. Each bill felt heavy, weighted with pride, memory, and a quiet defiance.

Lando looked at the money, then at you. He laughed softly at first, the sound light, playful. Then his eyes caught yours, and the amusement faltered. He realized you weren’t joking.

“You really want to do this?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, firm. “I… I always pay my part. I like things to be… even.”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling. “I asked you to meet me here, not to pay me. You came here to be with me tonight, not to hand me money.”

Shame crept up your neck, hot and sudden, your face flushing. Your eyes felt glossy, but you tucked your hands under the table, trying to hide it.

“I know,” you whispered.

He held the bills between you, lightly, teasing at first. “I can’t let you do this. Not tonight. I asked. You didn’t come here to pay me—you came here to share dinner with me.”

Something in you softened, melted just slightly. The past, the old insistence on paying, the years of avoiding awkward situations… it all lingered like smoke, but tonight it didn’t matter.

“Besides,” Lando added, mischief returning, “if I let you give me this, I’d have to chase you down afterward… just to hold your hand.”

A laugh escaped you, small and real. You let your hand slip into his. The tension, the numbers, the worry about the price—it all eased, just for tonight.

Conversation returned, slower, easier. Work, movies, memories. You joked, but underneath, a quiet anxiety lingered. Every glance at him, every tilt of his head, felt magnified.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, genuinely.

“I am,” you said. Not the whole truth—your pride masked it—but enough. You’d handled dinners like this before. You’d handled worse.

And when the car ride back came, quiet, holding hands, the world shrank down to just you two. The numbers, the worry, the past—they all softened. For tonight, being seen, being held, without strings or judgments, was enough.

And maybe you could let someone do that.

⸻

The ride back was quieter than the drive there, but not in an uncomfortable way. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, and the soft hum of the engine filled in the spaces where words might have been. Your hand still rested against his, the warmth seeping in like it belonged there.

Lando’s voice broke the silence. “You know… I’ve never been good at this, like… dates, I mean.” He chuckled, eyes flicking toward you. “I usually just wing it. But tonight… tonight felt right.”

You felt your chest tighten in a way that was almost familiar, the soft pinch of nerves and something else you couldn’t quite name. “You wing everything,” you teased lightly. “I’m impressed you got this far without chaos ensuing.”

“Chaos?” he asked, one brow quirked. “You mean… dinner, me, the city, the dress?” He nodded toward you, his eyes catching yours in the dim light. “Because honestly, I think you look perfect. You’ve got… this…” He paused, searching for a word, then shook his head with a sheepish grin. “Never mind, that sounded dumb.”

You laughed, a sound that felt unsteady at first, then easier, freer. “Try me,” you said.

“Okay,” he said, leaning slightly closer, careful in a way that made your heart lurch. “You’ve got this… thing where you make everything feel normal, even when it’s not supposed to be. Like, I don’t know… grounding, I guess. And it’s annoying, because I can’t stop noticing it.”

You blinked. Blinked again. Blinked a third time, because wow, did he just… say that?

“I… I do?” you stammered, laughing nervously, fingers tightening around his. “I thought I was just… trying not to trip over my own feet.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, shrugging, a playful smile tugging at his lips, “you do both. Trip over your feet, and make it… I don’t know… somehow impossible not to notice you.”

Your cheeks burned, and you turned your gaze to the window, the blur of neon signs reflecting in your eyes. The warmth in your chest spread, a slow, spreading glow. You wanted to say something clever, something casual, but all that came out was a soft, “Thanks.”

He tilted his head, just slightly, watching you like he was memorizing the curve of your jaw, the way your lips pressed together when you were nervous. “You’re welcome,” he said, quiet, but firm. “And… for what it’s worth? I don’t care about the money, or the dress, or any of it. I just… wanted tonight. With you.”

The car turned onto your street, the familiar rhythm of your neighborhood grounding you. When it stopped, neither of you moved to unlace your hands. The engine ticked softly as it cooled.

You swallowed, heart thundering, then said, “I’m glad you asked me tonight. I—” You faltered, words failing, so you just leaned in, resting your forehead lightly against his.

Lando’s breath hitched, a soft, surprised sound, and then he lowered his forehead to yours fully, eyes closing briefly. “Me too,” he murmured. “Me too.”

For a long moment, nothing else existed—no prices, no worries, no past disappointments. Just this quiet, steady presence, and the simple truth that you had finally… arrived.

And maybe, finally, you could let yourself stay.

⸻

The garage was alive with noise—the metallic clang of tools, the hiss of machinery cooling down, the murmur of engineers double-checking data—but it all pulsed in your ears like static. You’d been on your feet since sunrise, running through meetings, strategy briefings, and endless adjustments to the car.

Now, finally still, you sat on a stool tucked behind a stack of equipment, your tablet resting limply in your lap. You told yourself you were “reviewing numbers,” but really, you were just… breathing. Trying to gather yourself after a day that had stretched far too thin.

It wasn’t unusual for you to need a moment. What was unusual was how much harder it felt lately. Like you were carrying something heavier than just exhaustion, though you couldn’t quite put it into words.

And then, as if on cue, you felt a shift in the air around you.

“Found you,” came Lando’s voice, low and amused, from behind the crates.

You glanced up, forcing a small smile. He leaned casually against the wall, still in his fireproof undershirt, curls damp from pulling off his helmet not long ago. His grin was easy, but his eyes—sharp, searching—told you he’d seen right through your act.

“Don’t you have debrief?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Already finished. Besides, I had a feeling you’d sneak off.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, he stepped closer. His hand brushed over your shoulder in passing, the touch light, fleeting—yet grounding. For a moment, you felt the tightness in your chest ease.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice thinner than you intended. “Just tired.”

He didn’t push. Just let his thumb skim once over the fabric of your sleeve before withdrawing, as if he knew you’d noticed the absence the second it was gone.

That was the first touch.

⸻

After that, the touches kept finding their way into your days.

In the garage, when you handed him his helmet, his fingers always brushed yours just a little longer than necessary. During team briefings, when you got lost in thought, he’d nudge your knee with his beneath the table to bring you back. Once, when a crowd of media swarmed the garage doors, he’d rested a hand lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through until you were clear.

They were nothing anyone else would notice, but you did. Each small, deliberate touch—quiet, steady—seemed to unravel the edges of your stress.

And it wasn’t pity. That much you knew. It was… him. Lando had always been good at reading the people he cared about, even when they thought they were hiding it well.

⸻

Late one evening, when the garage had emptied out and most of the crew had gone for dinner, you stayed behind, sitting at a workbench with your laptop open but untouched. Your tea had gone cold at your elbow.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you knew it was him by the way the silence softened.

“Mind if I sit?”

You looked up to find Lando lingering by the bench, his hoodie pulled on over his race kit, curls messy. You nodded, and he slid onto the stool beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours. He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned on his elbows, quietly watching the dim lights flicker over the garage floor.

For a while, the two of you simply existed in the hush of the space. The world slowed, the noise finally dialed down. Then, without ceremony, his hand drifted over, his fingers brushing yours where they rested on the table. He didn’t lace them together, not yet—just let the warmth of his palm press against the back of your hand.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said softly. “Just… let me stay, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you turned your hand to squeeze his. That was enough.

Because it didn’t need to be grand gestures. Not when the quiet touches said more than words ever could.

And with Lando, you knew you’d never have to ask. He already understood.

⸻

Masterlist

The amusement park was alive in the way only a summer night could make it — neon lights flickering over crowds, the thrum of bass-heavy ride music in the background, the faint smell of popcorn, fried dough, and sweet syrup clinging to the air.

Kimi was walking just ahead, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his dark hair catching in the glow of the carousel lights as Ollie trailed beside him, holding two empty soda cups and wearing the smug expression of a man who thought he was about to impress someone.

“Alright,” Ollie announced as they stopped in front of a game stall, “stand back and prepare to be dazzled.”

Kimi raised an eyebrow, glancing at the ring toss table. “Uh-huh. I’m already dazzled.”

“That’s sarcasm,” Ollie accused, grinning. “You’ll eat your words when I win you that bear.”

Kimi followed his gaze to the huge white teddy hanging high above the counter. It was almost as tall as him. “You’re gonna get that one?”

Ollie scoffed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. Tall, talented, devastatingly handsome—what can’t I do?”

Kimi smirked. “Apparently… win carnival games.”

“That’s unfair. You haven’t seen me play yet.” Ollie handed a few crumpled bills to the bored-looking stall attendant and picked up the first ring.

Kimi leaned against the counter, eyes following the motion. “Your form’s already bad. Elbow’s too high.”

“Don’t coach me, Antonelli,” Ollie said, narrowing his eyes in mock concentration. “You’ll jinx it.”

He tossed the ring. It bounced once, twice, then fell uselessly to the floor.

Kimi covered his mouth to hide his laugh. “Wow. Such skill.”

“Beginner’s warm-up.” Ollie picked up the next ring and threw with more force — it clattered against the bottle neck and rolled away.

“That’s… two for two,” Kimi said innocently.

Ollie tried again. And again. Each attempt was a new creative failure. By the eight throw, Kimi was shaking with silent laughter.

“Alright,” Ollie muttered, stepping back and glaring at the stall like it had personally wronged him. “This game’s a scam.”

“Or you’re just—” Kimi paused for effect “—bad at it.”

“Okay, first of all, rude,” Ollie said, stepping closer until he was leaning over Kimi a little, the height difference impossible not to notice. “Second… I’m getting you that bear. One way or another.”

Kimi tilted his head. “How?”

Ollie didn’t answer — he just waited for the attendant to turn his back. Then, in one smooth, too-tall-for-his-own-good motion, he reached up, grabbed the bear straight off the hook, and shoved it into Kimi’s arms.

Kimi’s eyes went wide. “Ollie! You can’t just—”

“Run,” Ollie said simply, grabbing Kimi’s hand and tugging him into the crowd.

They darted between families and kids holding glow sticks, laughter spilling out of them in loud bursts. The bear’s oversized head bumped into strangers as they ran, Ollie shielding Kimi with his body whenever someone almost collided with them.

They finally ducked behind a cotton candy stand, chests heaving.

“You’re insane,” Kimi said, still catching his breath.

“You’re welcome,” Ollie replied, smug. “Now you have your bear and a thrilling story to tell.”

“You’re gonna get us banned for life,” Kimi muttered, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a smile.

“Worth it.” Ollie’s gaze lingered for a second, soft in a way that made Kimi’s stomach flip. “It suits you.”

Kimi looked away quickly, burying his face into the bear to hide the heat rushing to his cheeks.

When he looked up again, Ollie was gone — but a moment later, he reappeared holding two towering swirls of cotton candy, pink for himself and blue for Kimi.

Kimi accepted it cautiously. “This is a bribe.”

“This,” Ollie said, mock-offended, “is a peace offering. Eat.”

They tore off fluffy pieces, laughing when the sugar clung to their fingers. Every bite left Kimi’s lips faintly blue, Ollie’s mouth streaked with pink.

“You look ridiculous,” Kimi said, pointing at Ollie’s candy-stained lips.

“Oh yeah?” Ollie leaned down just enough to make Kimi have to tip his chin up. “You’ve got Smurf mouth.”

Before Kimi could fire back, Ollie kissed him.

It wasn’t slow or calculated — just warm, sweet, and slightly sticky from the sugar. Kimi froze for half a second, his brain catching up to the fact that Oliver Bearman was kissing him in the middle of a crowded amusement park.

When Ollie pulled back, grinning like he’d just won something, he murmured, “Had to. You looked too good not to.”

Kimi’s heartbeat was loud in his ears. Normally shy, normally tongue-tied — he surprised even himself when he stepped up on his toes and kissed Ollie back.

This one lasted longer. Enough to taste the spun sugar on Ollie’s tongue.

When they parted, Ollie let out a soft, almost dazed laugh. “You’re trouble, Antonelli.”

“Maybe,” Kimi said, hiding his smile behind another bite of cotton candy.

The rest of the walk back was quiet, comfortable, their fingers brushing until Ollie simply caught Kimi’s hand and didn’t let go. The bear was wedged between them, the night air cool on their flushed faces.

By the time they reached the hotel, they were still laughing — and that’s exactly how they crashed through the door together.

⸻

Ollie flopped back onto the bed dramatically, arms stretched out like he was claiming it all for himself. “This,” he declared, “is our victory bed. Reserved exclusively for bear-winners and their beautiful dates.”

Kimi stood frozen at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, trying not to laugh. “You literally stole the bear, Ollie.”

“Details,” Ollie said breezily. Then, with a sly grin, he reached out both hands toward Kimi. “C’mere.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because,” Ollie said, wiggling his fingers like a child demanding attention, “I want you here.”

Kimi hesitated, heat rising in his cheeks—but his lips twitched into a small smile. He sighed like he was giving in to something inevitable, then placed his hands in Ollie’s.

Ollie wasted no time. With a sudden tug, he yanked Kimi forward until he stumbled to the edge of the bed, knees bumping against the mattress. Before Kimi could react, Ollie sat up and wrapped his arms tight around his waist, burying his face right into Kimi’s chest.

Kimi gasped. “Ollie!”

“You smell good,” Ollie mumbled against him, voice muffled. “Like sugar and… I dunno. You.”

Kimi’s blush flared red-hot. He froze at first—until Ollie pressed a lazy kiss right against the soft spot of his chest, just above where his shirt collar dipped. Then another, lower, lingering longer.

“Ollie…” Kimi whispered, his voice caught somewhere between flustered and fond.

Ollie just hummed, lips brushing against him, arms holding him tighter like he was scared Kimi might vanish. “Your heartbeat’s so fast,” he teased softly, glancing up with a smirk. “Nervous?”

Kimi swallowed, his hands hovering awkwardly—then slowly, almost shyly, he threaded his fingers into Ollie’s messy hair. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, but the way he stroked Ollie’s hair was gentle. “And you’re making me ridiculous too.”

Ollie tilted his head into the touch like a cat, smiling against Kimi’s skin before planting another kiss, right between the faint dip of his pecs. “Good. I like you ridiculous.”

Kimi let out a shaky laugh, torn between hiding his face and leaning into the warmth. He ended up doing both—ducking his head until his forehead pressed lightly against the top of Ollie’s hair. “You’re insane,” he whispered.

“Insanely into you,” Ollie shot back without missing a beat, hugging tighter.

Kimi groaned, flustered, but instead of pulling away, he surprised himself—and Ollie—by tugging gently at his hair, making him tilt his head back. Then Kimi leaned down and kissed him, quick but deliberate.

Ollie blinked, stunned for a beat, then broke into the kind of grin that made Kimi’s knees weak. “See?” Kimi muttered, cheeks burning, “I can start things too.”

Ollie laughed, low and breathless, and tugged him down until Kimi was practically sitting on his lap at the edge of the bed. “Dangerous,” Ollie murmured, nuzzling against his chest again. “You’re dangerous when you do that.”

Kimi’s hands trembled slightly in Ollie’s hair, but he didn’t stop. “Guess you’ll just have to keep me close then,” he whispered back.

Ollie’s reply was immediate, muffled against his chest. “Gladly.”

And so they stayed—Ollie wrapped around him like he never planned to let go, Kimi carding slow, careful fingers through his hair while Ollie pressed lazy kisses against his chest. Sweet and teasing and clumsy and young, but somehow perfect.

Ollie shifted beneath him, his grin pressed into Kimi’s chest. “You don’t even realize, do you?”

Kimi blinked, tugging gently at his hair. “Realize what?”

“That you’re sitting on me,” Ollie teased, voice low but shaky with laughter, “and I’m not exactly complaining.” He tilted his head back, smirk tugging at his lips, cheeks flushed pink.

Kimi’s heart stuttered. He should’ve scrambled off, should’ve apologized—but instead, a crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Maybe I do realize,” he said softly, leaning down until their noses brushed. “And maybe I don’t mind either.”

Ollie groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the bed. “You’re killing me.”

Kimi laughed, and in a burst of daring, he rocked his hips just slightly—just enough to make Ollie’s breath catch. “Am I?”

The sound that left Ollie was somewhere between a laugh and a choke. His hands slipped down to Kimi’s hips instinctively, holding on like he didn’t trust his body not to melt right through the mattress. “Don’t—” he warned, eyes wide and sparkling, “unless you mean it.”

Kimi leaned down, bracing himself with a hand on either side of Ollie’s head. His hair fell into his eyes, his smile was nervous but steady, and his voice dropped into something almost daring. “Maybe I do.”

Ollie’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, lips parting. For once, he didn’t have a quick comeback, just a shaky laugh as his fingers flexed against Kimi’s waist. “God, you’re—” he cut himself off, pulling Kimi down the rest of the way until their mouths met.

It wasn’t smooth, wasn’t practiced. Their teeth bumped, they laughed into each other’s mouths, and Kimi’s nose squished awkwardly against Ollie’s cheek—but none of it mattered. Because Ollie kissed like he meant it, like he’d been waiting for this forever, and Kimi kissed back with all the clumsy intensity of someone finally realizing he could.

And when they broke apart, breathless and grinning, Ollie rested his forehead against Kimi’s. “Yeah,” he whispered, still laughing. “Dangerous.”

Kimi’s lips were still tingling when he pulled back, but Ollie didn’t let him get far. Big hands spread over Kimi’s hips, dragging him down flush against his lap, making Kimi gasp.

“See what you do to me?” Ollie murmured, voice rougher now, heat curling under his words. He ground up just enough to make the friction unmistakable.

Kimi’s eyes went wide, his breath catching—but instead of pulling away, he shifted deliberately, testing. The sharp sound Ollie made—half-groan, half-laugh—lit him up inside. “Oh,” Kimi whispered, almost smug. “So it’s like that.”

“Don’t—” Ollie warned, but it was ruined by the way his hips bucked helplessly under Kimi’s weight. “Don’t you dare look so pleased with yourself.”

Kimi leaned down, teeth catching Ollie’s bottom lip before releasing it with a shaky laugh. “Why not? You’re the one holding me here.”

“And I’m not letting go,” Ollie shot back instantly, dragging him down harder, enough to make them both groan this time. “God, you feel—” He broke off with a curse, head falling back against the pillows.

Kimi pressed closer, the confidence building with every sound Ollie made. His hands slipped up under Ollie’s shirt, palms flat against the warm stretch of his stomach, feeling the muscles tense under his touch. “I’ve never done this before,” he admitted, breathless, “but—fuck—you make it feel easy.”

Ollie’s laugh was shaky, his hands tightening almost desperately on Kimi’s waist. “Easy? You’re grinding on me like you’ve been doing this for years.”

Kimi rolled his hips again, slower this time, testing, enjoying the way Ollie’s jaw clenched. “Guess I’m just a fast learner.”

That dragged a raw groan out of Ollie’s throat, his fingers digging into Kimi’s skin. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re literally gonna kill me.”

Kimi smirked down at him, cheeks flushed, hair falling into his eyes as he rocked against him again, more deliberate now. “Then die happy,” he whispered, and kissed him deep enough to steal what little breath Ollie had left.

Kimi was already breathless, fingers curling in Ollie’s shirt as their mouths dragged against each other in sloppy, hungry kisses. Every grind of his hips made Ollie groan louder, made Kimi’s stomach twist and heat pool lower until he could barely think.

“Fuck, Kimi…” Ollie broke away with a gasp, forehead pressed to Kimi’s. “You’re—shit—you’re driving me insane.”

Kimi let out a shaky laugh, though it came out more like a whimper when Ollie rolled his hips up, grinding against him just right. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Bad for me, good for you,” Ollie muttered, tugging him down into another kiss—this one deeper, messier. His hands wandered lower, sliding under the hem of Kimi’s shirt until he could drag it up over his head. He cursed under his breath at the sight of Kimi flushed, bare-skinned, sitting astride his lap. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Kimi’s blush was fire-hot, but he didn’t look away. Instead, he shifted again, rubbing down against Ollie’s growing hardness with a soft, involuntary moan that made Ollie snap.

“Lie back,” Ollie rasped, voice low and rough, eyes dark with heat.

Kimi hesitated, heart hammering, but Ollie’s hands were gentle as he guided him onto the pillows. “Ollie…”

“Don’t worry,” Ollie murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then his throat, then lower. “I’ve got you. Just—trust me, yeah?”

Kimi nodded, swallowing hard, and Ollie’s grin was soft but hungry. His hands slid down, undoing Kimi’s waistband slowly, deliberately. When he tugged his pants down, Kimi gasped and covered his face with his hands.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” Ollie teased, pulling his wrists away so he could drink in the sight of him, flushed and spread out beneath him. “God, you’re perfect.”

Kimi whined, kicking lightly at Ollie’s hip. “Stop saying stuff like that…”

“Not a chance.” Ollie leaned down, kissing him again, deep and wet, while his hand slipped lower, wrapping around him. Kimi broke the kiss with a startled cry, hips bucking into Ollie’s fist.

“Ollie—fuck—”

“That good already?” Ollie grinned against his lips, stroking him slow. “Haven’t even gotten started.”

Kimi moaned again, head tipping back, throat bared as he writhed under Ollie’s touch. “You’re—ahh—teasing me.”

“Of course I am.” Ollie kissed his chest, sucking lightly at one peaked nipple until Kimi gasped and arched. “You make the best noises when I do.”

Kimi’s entire body shuddered. “I’ve never—never done this—”

Ollie’s hand slowed, soothing. “Hey. It’s okay. We’ll go slow. I’ll prep you properly. Just breathe, let me take care of you.”

Kimi bit his lip hard, nodding, his thighs trembling as Ollie reached for the lube in the bedside drawer. The sound of the cap clicking open made Kimi’s stomach flip, heat spiking all over again.

Ollie kissed him softly this time, grounding him. “Tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kimi whispered, voice wrecked already. “Please—just—do it.”

Ollie groaned at the desperation in his tone, slicking his fingers before sliding one gently between Kimi’s thighs. Kimi jolted, eyes flying open.

“Shh, relax,” Ollie murmured, kissing his temple. “Just my finger. You’re okay.”

Kimi whined, hips twitching, torn between the stretch and the dizzying wave of pleasure. “Fuck, Ollie—it’s—ahh—”

“Good?” Ollie asked, watching him carefully.

Kimi nodded frantically, clutching at the sheets. “Good—so fucking good—”

“Relax for me,” Ollie murmured, voice a low coax. “Just let me take care of you.”

Kimi swallowed, cheeks blazing. “I don’t know how—”

“You don’t have to,” Ollie interrupted softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Just trust me.”

He eased his fingers further down until they pressed against Kimi’s entrance. Kimi tensed instantly, thighs twitching.

“Shh, hey,” Ollie soothed, his free hand stroking lazy circles on Kimi’s hip. “It’s just me. Breathe.”

Kimi squeezed his eyes shut, a tiny whimper escaping. “You’re—this is—”

“Different?” Ollie finished for him, grinning faintly before kissing him full on the mouth. “Yeah. But you’re gonna like it.”

He pressed the pad of one finger gently against him, waiting. Kimi’s hips twitched at the pressure, his nails digging into Ollie’s shoulders.

“Oh, fuck—” Kimi gasped as Ollie finally slipped the tip of his finger inside, slow and careful. His whole body clenched around it, the sensation foreign and too much all at once.

Ollie didn’t move right away. He kissed along Kimi’s cheek, whispering, “Good boy… you’ve got it. Look at you.”

Kimi let out a shaky laugh, hiding his face in Ollie’s neck. “Don’t—don’t say that, I’ll die.”

“You’re not dying,” Ollie teased, curling his finger just a little, enough to make Kimi gasp again. “You’re doing so fucking good for me.”

Kimi whimpered, hips jerking, legs trying to clamp shut. Ollie stopped him with a firm hand on his thigh, keeping him open. “No, no hiding. Let me see you.”

He slid the finger deeper, then slowly out, then back in again. The burn started to fade, replaced by something that made Kimi squirm and moan into Ollie’s shoulder.

“That’s it,” Ollie whispered, voice ragged. “You’re loosening up already. You feel amazing.”

Kimi’s breath hitched when Ollie added a second finger, stretching him wider. “Oh, fuck—Ollie!” His voice cracked on the name, his thighs trembling hard.

“I know, I know,” Ollie murmured, kissing him again, messy and slow, swallowing every sound. “It’s big, yeah? But you can take it.”

Kimi’s hands fisted in the sheets, his hips moving without him meaning to, trying to find more. “It—it feels weird,” he panted. “But… good. Fuck, it’s good.”

Ollie grinned against his mouth. “Good weird. That’s the point.” He twisted his fingers, scissoring them carefully, and Kimi let out a strangled moan that made Ollie’s cock twitch hard against his thigh.

“Stop smirking,” Kimi tried to snap, but it came out breathless, desperate.

Ollie chuckled low. “Can’t help it when you sound like that.”

By the time Ollie eased in a third finger, Kimi was flushed to the roots of his hair, sweat beading on his forehead, his moans spilling freely now. He rocked against Ollie’s hand, the pleasure overwhelming, addictive.

“Fuck—Ollie, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Ollie coaxed, curling his fingers just right. Kimi’s back arched, a sharp cry tearing from his throat. “That’s it. You’re so ready for me.”

Kimi clutched at his shoulders, dizzy, his lips trembling. “I’ve never—never felt anything like this—”

“I know,” Ollie whispered, pressing their foreheads together. “And I promise, it only gets better.”

Ollie pulled his fingers out slowly, making Kimi whimper at the sudden emptiness. His thighs clenched, his chest heaving, lips parted like he wanted to complain but couldn’t find the words.

“You’re ready,” Ollie murmured, stroking his side. His voice was rough, almost reverent. “I can feel it. You’re perfect for me.”

Kimi’s eyes flicked up to him, uncertain, wide, but burning with something braver underneath. He swallowed hard. “Then… I want to.” His cheeks flamed red, but he kept going. “I want to ride you.”

Ollie froze for a second, cock twitching violently at the words alone. His hands gripped Kimi’s hips, tight enough to leave bruises. “Fuck, Kimi… you’re gonna kill me.”

Kimi let out a nervous laugh, but his body trembled as he straddled Ollie properly, thighs spread wide over his lap. His knees dug into the sheets, his fingers fumbling against Ollie’s chest as he positioned himself.

Ollie reached down, guiding himself to Kimi’s entrance, the thick head brushing against him. Both of them groaned at the contact.

“Easy,” Ollie whispered, eyes glued to Kimi’s face. “Take it slow. You control everything.”

Kimi nodded, biting down hard on his lip as he lowered himself, just barely. The blunt head pressed inside, stretching him wide in a way that made his whole body jolt. A strangled gasp ripped out of him, his hands flying to Ollie’s shoulders.

“Ollie—fuck—” His voice was cracked, desperate.

Ollie cupped the back of his neck, pulling him close, kissing his temple. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good, baby. Just breathe. Let it happen.”

Kimi whimpered but sank lower, inch by torturous inch. Every new stretch had him gasping, moaning, burying his face deeper against Ollie’s neck. His thighs shook with the effort, his chest pressed tight to Ollie’s, his body practically curling around him.

“Too much?” Ollie asked between gritted teeth, holding himself as still as possible even though every muscle in his body screamed to thrust up.

Kimi shook his head violently, muffled against his skin. “N-no. It’s—fuck, it’s a lot, but—don’t stop me.”

Ollie’s arms tightened around him, hugging him flush to his chest. “I’d never stop you. Take all the time you need.”

With Ollie rocking them gently, grounding him, Kimi pushed further down, groaning loudly as more of Ollie stretched him open. His nails raked down Ollie’s shoulders, his breath hot and shaky against his throat.

“God—you’re so big,” Kimi gasped. “I don’t—oh fuck—”

“Almost there,” Ollie soothed, kissing along his jaw, his cheek, anywhere he could reach. “You’re almost there, Kimi. You’ve got it. You’re so fucking beautiful right now.”

Finally, with a sharp cry muffled into Ollie’s neck, Kimi sank all the way down, bottoming out. His entire body shook, clinging desperately to Ollie, his face buried deep against his skin. His chest rose and fell fast, his moans spilling against Ollie’s collarbone.

Ollie let out a guttural groan, his head falling back, eyes squeezed shut. “Holy fuck—Kimi—fuck—” He hugged him tighter, like if he didn’t hold him, he’d fly apart. “You’re around me—you’re so fucking tight, I can’t—”

Kimi trembled, rocking them unconsciously in tiny movements, overwhelmed. “It’s so much—I feel so full—I can’t—” His voice broke into a whine.

“You can,” Ollie whispered fiercely, dragging soothing hands up and down his back. “And you are. You’re taking me so good, baby. Just—stay like this for a minute, let your body get used to it.”

Kimi nodded frantically, his breath coming in short bursts, his forehead pressed to Ollie’s jaw. They stayed locked together, Ollie’s arms wrapped tight around him, rocking them gently back and forth. The slight motion made Ollie rub impossibly deep inside him, and every time it happened, Kimi let out a muffled, broken moan into his neck.

“You feel me, don’t you?” Ollie whispered, his voice shaking with restraint. “Everywhere.”

Kimi whimpered, clinging harder. “I can’t think. It’s just—you—it’s only you.”

Ollie groaned at that, kissing him messily, swallowing the words. “Fuck, Kimi—don’t say that unless you want me to lose it.”

They rocked like that for long, torturous moments, Ollie hugging him close, Kimi trembling in his lap, adjusting to the fullness, to the heat, to the way his body molded around Ollie’s. Every little moan, every gasp, every squeeze made Ollie’s control fray thinner and thinner.

Finally, Kimi pulled back, his eyes blown wide, sweat dripping down his temple. His lips were parted, swollen, trembling.

Kimi’s voice was a broken whisper against Ollie’s lips. “I think… I want to move.”

Ollie’s eyes snapped open, dark and wild, his hands gripping Kimi’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Fuck, Kimi… yeah? You sure?”

Kimi bit his lip, cheeks flaming, but he nodded. “Yeah. I—I need to.” His thighs trembled around Ollie’s waist, but there was a flicker of determination in his eyes.

Ollie swallowed hard, kissing him quick, messy, desperate. “Okay. Then move. Do it however feels good for you. I’m right here.”

Kimi’s fingers clutched at Ollie’s shoulders as he lifted himself slowly, a strangled moan tearing out of his throat as Ollie dragged against every inch of him on the way up. His whole body shuddered, breath hitching like he couldn’t handle the stretch and the pleasure at once.

“Holy shit,” Kimi gasped, dropping back down too fast, the full weight of him sinking Ollie deep inside again. His cry echoed off the walls, raw and needy, his nails digging red marks into Ollie’s skin.

Ollie groaned loud, his head falling back, voice low and broken. “Kimi—fuck—you feel unreal. So fucking tight—fuck.”

Kimi buried his face in Ollie’s neck again, muffling his moans against hot skin. He tried lifting himself again, slower this time, his thighs burning from the effort. When he sank back down, the angle made him sob out loud.

“Ollie—oh my God—it’s too much—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Ollie whispered harshly, his arms wrapping around him, holding him close, rocking them just slightly to help. “You’re taking me so good, baby. Look at you. You’re perfect.”

Kimi whimpered, clutching him tighter. His hips started to move shakily, bouncing in small, desperate motions, grinding down when the angle made him see stars. Each movement pulled broken moans from his lips, his body melting against Ollie’s chest.

“F-fuck, it keeps hitting—oh my God—” Kimi’s voice cracked into a high, needy whine, his legs shaking.

Ollie’s grip tightened on his waist, guiding him. “There—right there, huh? You like that? God, I can feel you clench every time—” He groaned deep, almost animal. “You’re gonna ruin me, Kimi.”

Kimi’s face was a mess of sweat and red cheeks, his lips swollen from biting them raw. “Ollie, I—I can’t stop—it feels—fuck, it feels so good—” He rocked down hard again, his moan breaking into something almost sob-like.

Ollie kissed him through it, swallowing the sounds, whispering against his mouth. “Don’t stop. Ride me. Take what you want, baby, I’ll give you everything.”

Kimi let out a strangled cry as his rhythm grew wilder, bouncing harder on Ollie’s lap. Each time he sank down, his moans grew louder, less controlled. His thighs quivered with the effort, but his body kept chasing it, chasing the heat curling tight in his stomach.

“Ollie—fuck—oh fuck—I can feel you—everywhere—” His voice cracked into a desperate whimper.

Ollie’s teeth scraped along his jaw, his own voice rough and shaking. “And I can feel you—gripping me so tight—Kimi, you’re perfect, you’re mine—fuck—”

Kimi’s head fell back, a raw moan tearing out of him as he rode Ollie harder, faster, every sound echoing. Sweat dripped down his temple, his body trembling as pleasure threatened to swallow him whole.

“Ollie, I’m—I can’t—oh God—”

“Yes you can,” Ollie growled, thrusting up to meet him now, their bodies slamming together in a messy rhythm. His arms crushed Kimi tight against him, holding him like he’d never let go. “Take it—take all of me—fuck, you’re incredible.”

Kimi cried out, voice breaking, his body clinging desperately to Ollie’s. His thighs burned, his breath came in sobs, his moans raw and loud as he rode Ollie through every dizzying wave of pleasure.

Kimi’s movements became erratic, frantic almost, his riding turning sporadic as the coil in his stomach tightened unbearably. He clutched Ollie’s shoulders like a lifeline, nails biting into skin as he leaned forward, gasping out broken words.

“Ollie… I—oh fuck—I can’t hold it—” Kimi whimpered, body trembling from the heat curling through him, every nerve ending screaming.

Ollie’s hands shot under Kimi’s thighs, lifting him just enough to press deeper, rocking into him with a force that left them both gasping. “That’s it, baby… just like that,” he growled, voice low and rough, each syllable vibrating through Kimi. “Take me… ride me, fuck, Kimi…”

Kimi’s head fell back, mouth open, a strangled moan escaping as the pleasure clawed up his spine. “Ollie… oh—oh God, I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—” His hips stuttered, jerking as if the orgasm had already claimed him, waves building so fast he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop.

Ollie leaned forward, holding him up with a grip tight around his thighs, thrusting up with deliberate, punishing rhythm. “Yes… yes, baby, just like that—feel it? Feel yourself… fuck!” His own body tensed, groaning as Kimi clenched around him, the pressure and warmth pushing Ollie closer to his own release.

Kimi’s breath hitched in ragged, uneven gasps, tears slipping down his cheeks as the orgasm hit him full force. He trembled violently, his whole body quivering against Ollie, shuddering as waves of release rolled over him. “Oh fuck… Ollie… oh God… I’m—ohhh—” His moans broke into desperate cries, raw and wet, every nerve on fire.

Ollie’s eyes widened at the sight, a mix of awe and lust overtaking him. “Kimi… you’re—fuck—you’re insane,” he hissed, thrusting harder as Kimi’s body clenched so tight around him that he lost himself instantly. “I can’t—fuck—right there!”

The sound of their moans echoed in the room, a messy, chaotic symphony of sweat, shivering, and desperate need. Kimi’s legs shook uncontrollably around Ollie, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping him tethered. Each tight, pulsing contraction sent Ollie spiraling, until he too tipped over the edge, gasping and groaning as he released, heat and tension crashing through him in an overwhelming tide.

Kimi’s cries became incoherent, a mixture of sobs and moans as his body rode out wave after wave, shaking and trembling uncontrollably, tears still streaking his face. “Ollie… oh God… don’t stop… don’t fucking stop…” he begged between ragged breaths, voice cracking, body writhing on top of Ollie.

Ollie caught him, breathing heavy and raw, lips brushing Kimi’s temple as he whispered, almost lost in disbelief. “You’re incredible, baby… so fucking incredible… God, I can’t get enough of you.”

Kimi’s body quivered, still trembling with aftershocks, clinging to Ollie like he was drowning and Ollie was the only solid ground. He tried to speak, to apologize for the mess, for the desperate, unrestrained cries—but it came out only as a broken, half-laughing sob.

Ollie’s hands roamed over Kimi’s back and thighs, steadying him, savoring every tremble, every shudder. “Shhh… it’s fine,” he murmured. “All of it… you… me… this… it’s perfect. You feel perfect.”

Kimi’s chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven breaths, tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes, face flushed and shiny. “I—fuck… Ollie… I didn’t think it could feel… like this…” His voice was raw, desperate, completely undone.

Ollie leaned close, capturing his lips in a soft, needy kiss, grounding him as the final tremors rolled through his body. “I know, baby… I know. And I’m right here. Always.”

Kimi shivered again, leaning into Ollie, letting himself melt into the aftershocks, utterly spent and trembling, the taste of himself and Ollie lingering in the air, their bodies entwined in sweaty, chaotic warmth.

Kimi sagged against Ollie, still trembling, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. His voice was a shaky, breathy whisper. “I… I’m such a mess… sorry… God, I’m sorry…”

Ollie snorted, nudging him gently with a grin. “Mess? Baby, that wasn’t a mess—that was… wow.” He laughed, low and playful, and Kimi’s lips twitched into a half-smile despite himself.

“I… I don’t even… look right… or sound right…” Kimi muttered, voice breaking into a nervous giggle, still clinging to Ollie’s chest.

Ollie shook his head, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, you’re perfect. Hot, loud, messy… all of it. Honestly, it’s kinda… cute.”

Kimi’s nervous laugh turned into a full, shaky giggle. “Cute? You think me crying and gasping like a… a wet noodle is cute?”

“Yes!” Ollie exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “Absolutely! Look at you—totally wrecked, all over me… and I love it. You’re like… like… a firework that explodes everywhere at once.”

Kimi buried his face in Ollie’s shoulder, muffling another laugh. “You’re ridiculous…”

“And you love it,” Ollie shot back immediately, laughing too, fingers brushing through Kimi’s damp hair.

“I… maybe,” Kimi admitted, peeking at him with watery eyes, lips tugging into a shy grin. “Maybe a little…”

Ollie leaned down and pressed a soft, playful kiss to Kimi’s temple. “See? Told you. You don’t have to apologize for… anything. We’re both messy, we’re both loud… we’re both…” He grinned, catching Kimi’s eye. “…just young and stupid and having way too much fun.”

Kimi’s laugh cracked again, louder this time, and he squirmed just enough to bump into Ollie. “Yeah… young and stupid. That’s… exactly what we are.”

“Exactly,” Ollie agreed, holding him close as their giggles faded into soft, happy breaths. “And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Kimi let out a content sigh, nuzzling into Ollie’s chest. “Okay… fine. But only because… you’re ridiculous too.”

“And you love that about me,” Ollie whispered, grinning, making Kimi’s lips twitch into a grin of his own.

They stayed tangled together, laughing quietly, whispering teasing little comments at each other, still shaky and breathless, but completely giddy in the aftermath of everything—the pleasure, the mess, the thrill of it all.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t heavy. It was just them—young, silly, and utterly infatuated.

Ollie shifted a little under Kimi, still buried deep inside him, the both of them sticky, messy, overheated. He smoothed a hand down Kimi’s spine, grinning faintly at the way Kimi clung like he never wanted to move.

“Bath?” Ollie murmured, his voice low and rough.

Kimi made a sleepy, half-whining sound against his shoulder. “Mhm… but… don’t wanna move…”

Ollie’s lips curved into a smirk. “Good thing I’ve got you, then.” His hands slid under Kimi’s thighs, lifting him easily. Kimi gasped, arms flying around Ollie’s neck as he realized Ollie was carrying him—still inside him, their bodies joined, sticky heat pressed together.

“Ollie!” Kimi squeaked, his face flaming as his hips shifted just from the movement. “You can’t—oh my God—”

“Yes, I can,” Ollie teased, voice warm against his ear. He adjusted his grip, careful but firm, making sure Kimi was snug against him. Every step sent a subtle jolt through them both, a deep grind that made Kimi shiver and whimper into Ollie’s neck.

They made it into the bathroom, Ollie kicking the door shut with his foot. He set Kimi carefully on the edge of the tub, never pulling out, their hips still locked together. With one hand, he reached to twist the tap, hot water rushing out, steam filling the room quickly.

Kimi’s cheeks burned crimson, eyes wide and shy as Ollie kissed his temple. “We’re really… still like this?” he asked, voice breaking into a nervous laugh.

“Why would I pull out now?” Ollie murmured, rocking his hips just a little, enough to make Kimi bite down on a gasp. “Feels too good.”

Kimi’s legs twitched around Ollie’s waist, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he buried his face against Ollie’s throat, letting out a soft, desperate sound.

When the water was high enough, Ollie climbed in carefully with Kimi still wrapped around him, both of them sinking into the warmth. The water lapped against their skin, soothing the ache in their muscles, but the closeness—the stretch, the constant press—was enough to keep heat curling low in Kimi’s belly again.

Ollie leaned back against the edge of the tub, keeping Kimi perched on his lap, snug and filled. He tilted Kimi’s chin up, kissing him slow, soft, the opposite of the frantic need they’d shared before. Their lips brushed lazily, tongues sliding together in messy, tender kisses that stretched into forever.

Kimi’s hips shifted unconsciously, grinding down just enough to draw a moan from them both. “Ollie…” he whispered, voice hazy, lips kiss-swollen. “It feels… different like this…”

Ollie kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, down to the damp curve of his neck. “Slower,” he murmured. “Sweeter. Just us.”

Kimi nodded faintly, his head dropping to Ollie’s shoulder again, hips rolling gently, chasing sparks that flickered but didn’t overwhelm. His breaths grew slower, softer, peppering Ollie’s neck with small pecks, each kiss lazier than the last until his eyelids began to flutter.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Ollie teased softly, though his lips curved into a smile as he felt Kimi’s body grow heavier in his arms.

“Mmm… can’t help it,” Kimi mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion, nuzzling into Ollie’s chest. “Warm… full… you’re… too much…”

Ollie’s chest tightened at that, something tender wrapping around his heart. He kissed Kimi’s damp hair, then his temple, then the softest press to his cheek. “Sleep, baby,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Kimi hummed faintly, already drifting, his breathing evening out, lips parted in the faintest of smiles.

Ollie leaned back fully, the hot water lapping around them, one arm wrapped firmly around Kimi, the other brushing through his damp hair. He pressed another kiss to Kimi’s cheek, lingering there, admiring the flushed, softened lines of his face as he slept.

Still joined, still connected, Ollie closed his eyes too—content, protective, completely gone for the boy dozing in his arms.

⸻

The hotel is too quiet after a race weekend. That kind of silence where the adrenaline hasn’t faded yet, where every nerve in Ollie’s body is still crackling, begging for something to burn it off.

He doesn’t bother knocking hard when he slips into Kimi’s room—just a soft rap of knuckles before the door opens, because he knows Kimi’s expecting him.

Kimi is already stretched out on the bed, hair damp from a late shower, wearing nothing but loose shorts and that guarded expression Ollie always wants to break through. The bedside lamp casts him in gold, skin glowing, chest rising and falling in that measured, controlled way that makes Ollie ache.

“You’re late,” Kimi murmurs, voice low, almost teasing but not quite.

“Got caught with media shit,” Ollie answers, shrugging off his hoodie. He doesn’t miss the way Kimi’s eyes flick down his chest, then away again, pretending not to look. “But I’m here now.”

Kimi’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Lucky me.”

Ollie climbs onto the bed without hesitation, bracketing Kimi’s hips with his knees. “Yeah, lucky you.” His mouth finds Kimi’s almost immediately, urgent and hungry, like he’s been starving all week. Their kisses are always this way—messy, teeth clashing, a little too desperate. Like both of them know they shouldn’t, but neither can stop.

Kimi melts under him fast, one hand fisting in Ollie’s shirt, the other sliding into his hair. He sighs into Ollie’s mouth, a sound so quiet and broken that Ollie swears it shoots straight through his body.

He pulls back, lips swollen, breathing hard. “Fuck, you’re—” he can’t even finish. Instead, his hand slides down, palming Kimi through his shorts. “Already hard for me?”

Kimi huffs, embarrassed, cheeks pink. “Shut up.”

But Ollie only grins, kissing his jaw, his throat, down to the sharp line of his collarbone. “Not gonna. Not when you’re like this for me.”

His fingers tug the shorts down, slow enough to make Kimi squirm. His cock is flushed, already leaking, and Ollie’s chest tightens at the sight.

“God, look at you,” he whispers, stroking him once, then again, slow and deliberate. Kimi gasps softly, eyes fluttering shut.

That’s when Ollie notices it—the way Kimi’s lashes are damp already. Not crying, not really, just… shining. Like his body can’t hold all of it in.

Ollie swallows, cock twitching. He leans closer, murmuring against Kimi’s ear. “Gonna let me open you up? Take care of you?”

Kimi nods, silent. He never begs, never asks—but the way he spreads his thighs wider says everything.

Ollie slides a slick finger inside him, slow, careful, watching Kimi’s face as he does. Kimi’s lips part, a small, stifled sound escaping. His hand fists in the sheets, knuckles white.

“Good boy,” Ollie breathes, curling his finger just right. Kimi gasps again, louder this time. His eyes squeeze shut, and that’s when the first tear slips free—tiny, barely there, tracking down his cheek.

Ollie freezes for half a second, stunned. Then, almost without thinking, he leans down and licks it away.

The taste of it—salty, warm, real—makes something dark snap inside him. His cock throbs, his whole body going tense.

“Fuck,” he whispers, against Kimi’s skin. “You’re crying for me?”

Kimi shudders, embarrassed, trying to turn his face away. “I—don’t—”

“No, no, look at me,” Ollie says, adding a second finger, stretching him wider. Kimi gasps, a quiet moan slipping out, and another tear slides free. Ollie chases it with his tongue, groaning at the taste. “God, that’s so fucking hot.”

Kimi whimpers—soft, broken, almost silent. The sound makes Ollie’s cock leak into his boxers.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” Ollie mutters, fucking his fingers deeper, faster. “You’re killing me, Kimi.”

Kimi arches off the bed, face twisted in something between pleasure and shame, another tiny sound spilling from his lips. His thighs tremble, his chest rising in sharp bursts.

Ollie is undone. He’s never wanted anyone like this. Never wanted to wreck and worship someone in the same breath.

Ollie’s fingers are moving steadily inside him now, scissoring, stretching, his other hand never leaving Kimi’s hip. He can feel how tight he still is, how his body clenches around him, but also how pliant he’s becoming, how every careful push drags another soft gasp out of his throat.

Kimi turns his face toward the pillow, embarrassed by the way his breathing is coming out in uneven stutters. But Ollie won’t let him hide—he leans down, kisses the corner of his mouth, gentle where everything else feels raw and urgent.

“Hey,” Ollie whispers, voice rough with want but tender at the edges. “Talk to me.” His fingers still inside him, holding him open. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Kimi’s lashes flutter. He swallows hard, throat working, and Ollie can see him hesitate, can feel the tension in the muscles beneath his skin. For a moment, there’s only the sound of both of them breathing. Then Kimi forces himself to meet Ollie’s eyes—damp, dark, but steady.

“Yes,” he says softly. The word is shaky, but there’s no mistaking it.

Ollie exhales, forehead dropping against Kimi’s with relief. He presses another kiss to his lips, whispering against them, “God, you don’t know what that does to me.”

Kimi lets out a tiny huff of a laugh, almost bitter. “You’ll ruin me.”

Ollie smiles, teeth scraping gently over his lower lip. “That’s the point.” He twists his fingers, and Kimi gasps, another tear slipping free. Ollie kisses it from his cheek this time instead of licking it, murmuring, “So fucking perfect like this.”

Kimi’s thighs twitch, and his hips lift ever so slightly, like he’s silently begging for more. Ollie groans, withdrawing his fingers slowly, watching Kimi wince at the loss. He strokes himself once, hard, precum smearing over his hand, and lines himself up against Kimi’s entrance.

But he doesn’t push in yet. He holds still, cock pressing hot against him, and forces himself to breathe.

“Tell me,” Ollie whispers, voice ragged. “Tell me you want this. Say it so I know.”

Kimi’s eyes flutter open, glassy and wet, his chest rising and falling like he’s run a race. He grips Ollie’s shoulders, nails biting into his skin, and for a second he looks like he might not say it. But then—

“I want you,” he breathes, words trembling but certain. “Inside me. Please, Ollie.”

The please nearly wrecks him. Ollie groans like the sound has been punched out of him, his hips jerking forward on instinct before he steadies himself again. He cups Kimi’s face with one hand, kissing him fiercely, swallowing the soft sound Kimi makes against his lips.

“Okay,” Ollie whispers, forehead pressed to his. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

And then, slowly, he pushes in. The heat, the tightness, the way Kimi’s body clenches around him—it’s almost unbearable. Ollie’s vision blurs for a second, his cock throbbing painfully as he sinks deeper, inch by inch.

Kimi’s breath catches, a choked sound slipping free, and his nails dig harder into Ollie’s skin. Another tear streaks down his cheeks.

Ollie freezes, panting hard. “Fuck—are you okay?”

Kimi nods frantically, eyes still shut, voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Ollie groans, hips pressing forward until he’s buried to the hilt. His head drops into the crook of Kimi’s neck, every muscle in his body trembling with restraint. “Jesus Christ. You feel—” He can’t even finish, just lets out a strangled sound and kisses Kimi’s damp skin again and again.

He holds still for a long moment, letting Kimi breathe through it, letting his body adjust. Then, when Kimi’s hips shift ever so slightly beneath him, Ollie pulls back and thrusts in again, slow and deep.

Kimi moans—soft, broken, almost a whimper—and another tear spills free. His thighs tremble around Ollie’s hips, his hands clutching at his back.

Ollie kisses his jaw, his cheeks, murmuring against his skin with every slow thrust, “So good. Taking me so well. You’re perfect, Kimi.”

Ollie moves inside him slow at first, dragging his cock deep, every push making Kimi’s thighs twitch around his hips. The silence in the room is broken only by the creak of the mattress and Kimi’s breathing—until his breath catches and spills out in a shaky, unsteady moan.

“God,” Ollie groans, forehead pressing to Kimi’s. “That sound—fuck, don’t hold it back. Give me that.”

Kimi’s lips part again when Ollie thrusts, this time a louder gasp slipping out, almost a whimper. “Ollie—” His voice cracks, and the sound of it makes Ollie’s cock twitch inside him.

“Yeah,” Ollie whispers, hips grinding down deeper, angling to hit that spot. “Say my name again.”

Kimi shudders, nails digging into Ollie’s shoulders. Another moan tears out of him, rough and breathless. “Ollie—fuck—”

Ollie’s head tips back with a groan, chest heaving. “That’s it. Don’t stop. I want all of it.”

When he pushes deeper, Kimi chokes on the sound that escapes him, a high, desperate noise he’d never let slip anywhere else. His back arches off the bed, eyes wide and wet, tears threatening at the corners.

“Fuck, you feel—” Kimi cuts himself off with another moan, his thighs clamping around Ollie’s hips. “So—so good—”

The words hit Ollie like a punch to the gut. He grips Kimi’s jaw, forcing him to look at him even as another broken whimper escapes. “Say it again.”

Kimi shakes, voice trembling. “Good—fuck, Ollie, it feels so good.”

Ollie’s hips snap harder, driven by the sound, and Kimi cries out, head falling back against the pillow. Not silent this time—not hiding. The noise echoes low and sharp in the quiet hotel room, every syllable of his unraveling branded into Ollie’s brain.

“That’s it, baby,” Ollie pants, kissing him hard, swallowing his moans even as more spill out against his tongue. “So fucking perfect for me. You’re mine.”

Kimi breaks on another sobbed-out moan, tears slipping free, his body tightening around Ollie. His voice, raw and pleading now, pushes Ollie over the edge of control.

“Don’t stop,” Kimi gasps, nails scratching down Ollie’s back. “Please, Ollie—don’t stop—”

Ollie groans like he’s about to come undone, hips snapping with desperate precision, every thrust dragging another sharp, needy sound from Kimi’s lips. He’s louder now, messier, and Ollie can’t get enough—every gasp, every cry, every broken syllable feeding the fire until he’s shaking with restraint.

“You sound so fucking good,” Ollie growls against his neck, teeth scraping his skin. “Keep moaning for me. Don’t you dare hold it in.”

And Kimi doesn’t—can’t—every thrust wrecking another moan out of him, raw and unfiltered, his body trembling under Ollie’s.

Ollie’s rhythm grows rougher, harder to hold back, every thrust driving another sharp sound out of Kimi’s throat. He’s losing himself—because Kimi is no longer quiet, no longer hiding. His voice breaks free with every push, moans spilling unrestrained, his body trembling and clinging to Ollie like he’s the only anchor in the room.

“Fuck, listen to you,” Ollie pants, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his temple. His cock throbs deep inside Kimi, so tight, so warm, every squeeze threatening to undo him. “You’re fucking singing for me.”

Kimi gasps on the next thrust, voice cracking. “I can’t—ah—Ollie, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Ollie kisses the sound from his mouth, lips crushed against his as he rolls his hips just right, grinding deep. Kimi moans into the kiss, high and broken, another tear sliding down his cheek. Ollie swallows the sound, groaning at how sweet, how wrecked he is.

Kimi’s thighs lock tighter around his waist, dragging him in deeper. His cock is pressed between them, slick and leaking against Ollie’s stomach, twitching with every thrust.

Ollie feels it, feels him trembling on the edge, and his hand slides down between their bodies. He wraps around him tight, stroking in time with his thrusts, dragging moans out of Kimi that echo sharp in the quiet hotel room.

“Fuck—fuck, Ollie—” Kimi cries out, hips bucking helplessly into his hand. His voice is raw now, pleading, his body arching into every touch like he can’t get enough.

“That’s it,” Ollie groans, forehead pressed to his, voice rough and desperate. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back. I want it all.”

Kimi’s eyes flutter shut, lashes wet, mouth falling open on another cry. His cock twitches in Ollie’s grip, spilling precum down his hand. He’s shaking apart, gasping his name over and over.

“Ollie—fuck—Ollie—”

The sound nearly kills him. Ollie’s hips snap faster, rougher, his cock driving deep and relentless. His hand works Kimi harder, tighter, pumping him with the same rhythm until Kimi’s voice breaks completely, shattering into sobbed-out moans.

“I’m—I’m gonna—fuck—” Kimi gasps, words tumbling out between cries. His nails claw down Ollie’s back, dragging sharp lines into his skin.

“Yeah, baby, yeah,” Ollie pants against his mouth, every thrust brutal with want. “Come for me. Make a mess, I’ve got you.”

And Kimi breaks. His whole body seizes, a sharp, choked cry spilling from his lips as he comes hard against Ollie’s stomach, hot and messy between them. His thighs shake around Ollie’s hips, his chest heaving, every tremor wracking him as he sobs out Ollie’s name.

The sight, the sound, the feel of Kimi breaking apart beneath him—Ollie loses it. His cock throbs inside him, the tight clutch of Kimi’s body dragging him over the edge.

“Fuck—fuck, Kimi—” Ollie groans, hips slamming forward one last time before he’s coming hard inside him, spilling deep with a ragged cry. His whole body shakes with it, forehead pressed to Kimi’s, teeth gritted as he rides it out, buried to the hilt.

They cling to each other through it—Kimi trembling and moaning softly, Ollie groaning low and broken as his release pulses inside him. The bed creaks with the force of it, their bodies slick with sweat and come, every nerve alight.

When it finally ebbs, Ollie collapses forward, chest pressed to Kimi’s, both of them gasping for breath. He kisses him blindly—his jaw, his damp cheek, the corner of his swollen mouth—murmuring between every press of lips.

“So good. So fucking good. You killed me, Kimi.”

Kimi shudders, eyes still wet, voice quiet and raw. “You’re insane.”

Ollie chuckles weakly, pressing his lips to his temple. “Insane for you.”

They lie there tangled, sweat cooling on their skin, the silence of the hotel no longer heavy but full—thick with the sound of their breathing, their heartbeats still racing in sync.

Ollie doesn’t pull out yet, doesn’t move, just holds Kimi close, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

Kimi hums faintly, half-exhausted, half-ruined, his voice muffled against Ollie’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispers. “You did.”

Ollie doesn’t pull away. He stays right where he is, chest pressed to Kimi’s, their legs tangled under the sheets. Every little shift makes Kimi whine softly, not in pain, not even from too much—just from the sheer feeling of Ollie still filling him.

Kimi’s lips twitch into a smile, small at first, then blooming into something brighter, freer than Ollie’s ever seen on him. He lifts a shaky hand, tracing the curve of Ollie’s jaw. “You’re… heavy,” he teases, voice quiet, raspy.

Ollie chuckles, dropping a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah? Want me to move?”

“No.” The answer is immediate, sharp around the edges, but softened with a grin. “Stay. Don’t go anywhere.”

That pulls a laugh from Ollie, warm and surprised, and he kisses Kimi properly—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like it stretches on forever. When they part, they’re both laughing quietly, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling.

“You’re smiling too much,” Ollie murmurs, brushing his thumb along Kimi’s cheekbone, collecting the last faint trace of dampness there.

“Not my fault,” Kimi says, still grinning. His eyes are half-lidded, dreamy. “You make me.”

Ollie swears his chest might burst. He kisses him again, softer this time, lips barely grazing. “Good. I like you like this.”

Kimi snorts, shifting under him just enough to make them both gasp. “Careful,” he whispers, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll make me blush.”

“Too late,” Ollie shoots back, laughing as Kimi tries to bury his face in his shoulder. “You’re already red.”

“Shut up,” Kimi mumbles, but he’s giggling, the sound muffled against Ollie’s skin.

Ollie holds him tighter, one hand stroking slowly through his damp hair, the other resting on his waist to keep him close. Every time Kimi squirms, every little movement inside, it drags another low moan from Ollie’s throat. “Fuck, Kimi,” he groans softly. “I could stay like this forever.”

“Forever,” Kimi echoes, sleepy but smiling, pressing a soft kiss against Ollie’s collarbone. “I’d let you.”

The room is filled with the sound of their soft laughter, gentle kisses, and the steady rhythm of their breathing as they slowly sink into the warmth of each other. No rush. No pressure. Just closeness. Just them.

Ollie stays buried deep, refusing to move away, and Kimi stays wrapped around him, smiling like he’s never smiled before.

Ollie shifts just enough to tuck the blankets higher around them, his hand never leaving Kimi’s waist. He presses a line of lazy kisses across his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—like he can’t help himself.

Kimi hums at the attention, tilting his head to follow Ollie’s lips. His eyes are half-closed, heavy with exhaustion but still glittering with that smile. “You’re clingy,” he mumbles, voice already soft with sleep.

“Clingy?” Ollie repeats, grinning against his skin. “Mate, you’re literally holding me hostage right now.”

Kimi giggles, the sound light and muffled, his arms tightening around Ollie’s shoulders. “Maybe I like it,” he admits, cheeks pink even in the dim light.

“Maybe?” Ollie teases, brushing his nose against Kimi’s. “That’s all I get?”

Kimi rolls his eyes but keeps smiling, tugging him down for another slow kiss. “Fine. I like it. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Ollie says with a laugh, kissing him again and again until Kimi breaks into soft laughter, swatting at his chest.

Their giggles fade into silence, but it’s the good kind—the safe kind. Kimi buries his face in Ollie’s neck, warm breath ghosting over his skin. He shifts just slightly, a sleepy whine slipping out when the movement reminds him Ollie is still deep inside.

“You’re not moving, are you?” he whispers, half-plea, half-drowsy question.

“No chance,” Ollie answers instantly, voice low and certain. He strokes his fingers lazily through Kimi’s hair, keeping him close. “Not when you’re this perfect around me.”

Kimi sighs, the smile still tugging at his lips even as his eyes finally flutter shut. “Good. Stay.”

“I’ll stay,” Ollie promises, kissing his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

The room grows quieter with each passing second, the faint city sounds outside muted by the thick hotel walls. Inside, it’s only the rhythm of their breathing, their bodies fitted together like they’ve been built for this exact moment.

Kimi drifts first, his grip loosening only enough to grow comfortable, his face slackening against Ollie’s neck. Just before he fully slips under, he murmurs, voice barely audible, “You make me happy, Ollie.”

The words knock the air from Ollie’s lungs. His heart pounds, a stupid grin spreading across his face even though Kimi can’t see it. He presses one last kiss into Kimi’s hair and whispers back, “You make me happier, sunshine.”

Kimi doesn’t answer—already gone, soft and safe in his arms. Ollie stays awake a little longer, just holding him, savoring the weight of him, the warmth of him, the unbelievable fact that he gets to be the one Kimi smiles like that for.

Still joined, still wrapped up together, they drift into sleep, the night folding gently around them.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The knock comes soft, almost guilty, but Oscar is already awake. He doesn’t need to look through the peephole to know who it is.

He opens the door anyway.

Lando stands barefoot in the hallway, hoodie slouched over his frame, curls messy like he’s been dragging his hands through them all night. His eyes lift, glassy in the dim light, and Oscar feels the floor tilt.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Oscar says. His voice is quiet, steadier than he feels.

“I know.” Lando steps inside before Oscar can move. The door clicks shut behind him. He smells faintly of hotel soap and adrenaline. “But I couldn’t… not tonight.”

Oscar swallows hard. “And you think this fixes it?”

“No,” Lando admits, stepping closer, breath catching. “I just—fuck, I can’t stop thinking about you. About this.”

The air between them is charged, dangerous. Oscar feels his resolve slipping with every inch Lando steals.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” Oscar whispers.

“Then stop me,” Lando breathes, lips ghosting Oscar’s cheek. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Oscar’s hands clench at his sides. His heart slams against his ribs. He tries—God, he tries—to push the words out, but they stick like glue in his throat.

And then Lando kisses him.

It’s brutal at first, teeth clashing, mouths open, both of them gasping against each other like drowning men. Oscar stumbles back, hitting the wall with a soft thud, and Lando presses in harder, hands gripping his waist like he’ll disappear if he lets go.

“Fuck—” Oscar moans into the kiss, pulling at Lando’s hoodie until it bunches at his fists.

“You taste—God—” Lando’s voice breaks between kisses, every word wet and hungry. He pushes his knee between Oscar’s legs, earning a sharp gasp. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?”

Oscar’s head falls back against the wall, Lando’s mouth tracing down his jaw. His voice is ragged. “You’re insane.”

“You make me insane,” Lando groans, biting lightly at his throat, grinning when it pulls another sound from Oscar’s lips. “Say it. Say you want me.”

Oscar grabs his face, kissing him so hard their teeth knock. Between kisses he whispers, breathless: “I want you.”

That’s all it takes.

Clothes fall fast—hoodie yanked over curls, Oscar’s shirt tugged over his head, sweatpants kicked away. Their mouths barely part for air, the kiss messy and gasping, spit-slick and bruising.

Lando guides Oscar onto the bed, pressing him down against the sheets. Hovering over him, curls damp with sweat, lips swollen, he stares like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Laid out for me.”

Oscar flushes, shifting restlessly under the weight of his gaze. “Then stop staring and do something.”

Lando smirks, but it’s shaky with restraint. He kisses him slow and deep, hands sliding down his sides until they hook under his thighs, pushing them apart. Oscar’s breath stutters.

Lando trails kisses down his chest, his stomach, until he’s kneeling between his legs. He meets Oscar’s eyes, almost reverent. “I’ll take care of you.”

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

The first press of Lando’s slick finger has Oscar tensing, a gasp spilling out before he can stop it. Lando murmurs against his skin, low and steady, “Shh, I’ve got you. Breathe, love.”

Oscar forces himself to relax, clutching the sheets. The stretch burns, sharp and intimate, but Lando’s mouth is on his thigh, kissing gently, grounding him.

“Good boy,” Lando praises, pushing in slow, careful. “You’re doing so good for me.”

Oscar’s cheeks burn, breath shaky. “Don’t—say it like that.”

“Why not?” Lando grins, curling his finger until Oscar shudders. “You like it.”

Oscar’s moan betrays him, high and broken. He bites his lip hard, trying to muffle the sounds, but Lando only works him more, sliding a second finger in, twisting, scissoring.

The stretch makes his back arch off the bed. “Fuck—Lando—”

“That’s it.” Lando kisses up his thigh, watching his face as he pushes deeper, brushing that spot that makes Oscar choke on a moan. “You’re opening up so perfectly for me. Can you feel it?”

Oscar nods desperately, eyes glassy. “Feels—so much—”

“Yeah?” Lando croons, voice ragged with his own arousal. He adds a third finger, stretching him wider, fucking into him slow and deliberate. Oscar gasps, nails raking down the sheets. “God, you’re so tight. Can’t wait to be inside you.”

Oscar whimpers, covering his face with his arm, too undone to hold himself together.

Lando pulls it away gently, pinning his wrist to the mattress. “Don’t hide from me. Let me see you.”

When Oscar finally meets his eyes, Lando’s chest aches—he looks ruined already, flushed and trembling, mouth swollen from kissing. And he’s beautiful.

“Please,” Oscar breathes, voice cracking. “I need you.”

Lando groans, pulling his fingers free, slick and shaking with want. He lines himself up, kissing Oscar hard, almost desperate. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Oscar wraps his legs around him, pulling him closer, voice fierce despite the tremble: “Just—fuck me, Lando.”

And when Lando pushes in, slow and steady, Oscar gasps loud, nails clawing at his back, body clenching around him.

“Fuck, you feel—” Lando groans, burying his face against Oscar’s neck as he sinks deeper, inch by inch. “God, you’re perfect.”

Oscar moans helplessly, head falling back, legs tightening around his waist. “Oh my God—Lando—”

Lando kisses him through it, every thrust drawing more broken sounds from his lips. He doesn’t stop praising him, doesn’t stop holding him open, fucking him deep until Oscar is trembling, gasping, begging without words.

Lando buries himself slowly, hips pressing flush to Oscar’s, and the tight heat around him nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

“Jesus Christ—” Lando’s voice cracks against his neck, breath hot and shaking. “You’re so fucking tight. You’re gonna kill me.”

Oscar clutches at his shoulders, nails leaving shallow crescents in his skin. His voice is ragged, high with the stretch: “God, Lando—too much—”

Lando stills immediately, fighting for control, kissing along his jaw. “Shh, I’ve got you. Just breathe, love. I’m here.” He rubs circles on Oscar’s hip, grounding him, forcing his own body to stay still even though every muscle screams to move.

Oscar pants, thighs trembling around his waist. Then, slowly, his grip softens, head falling back against the pillow. “Move,” he whispers. “Please—just move.”

Lando groans, pulling out an inch and sliding back in, slow and deliberate. The drag makes Oscar choke out a moan, head tossing side to side.

“Fuck—that’s it,” Lando whispers, voice low and filthy. “Taking me so good. My perfect boy.”

Oscar whimpers, wrapping his legs tighter around him. “Harder.”

The request shatters Lando’s restraint. He pulls back, thrusts deeper, hips snapping against Oscar’s ass. Oscar cries out, nails digging into his back, every thrust brushing the spot that makes his whole body jerk.

“Right there—fuck, Lando, right there—”

Lando’s eyes nearly roll back at the sound, his rhythm messy, desperate. He grips Oscar’s thighs, fucking into him harder, groaning into his neck. “You feel so good, Os. So fucking good around me. Gonna make you come just like this.”

Oscar’s voice is wrecked, breathless between moans: “Don’t—don’t stop—”

Lando never could. He pounds into him, the slap of skin against skin filling the room, Oscar’s broken cries spilling out with every thrust. Sweat drips down his temple, curls sticking, but he can’t stop, won’t stop.

Oscar arches under him, face flushed, lips parted. “God—Lando—feels so good—”

Lando grips his jaw, forcing him to look at him. His thrusts slow, deep, grinding against his prostate until Oscar’s whole body trembles. “Look at me when you fall apart,” Lando growls. “Want to see your face when I make you come.”

Oscar moans loud, eyes wide and wet, unable to hold it back. His cock leaks between them, smearing slick against their stomachs.

“Touch yourself,” Lando orders, voice rough. “Come for me.”

Oscar’s hand wraps around his cock, stroking fast, in rhythm with Lando’s thrusts. His voice is wrecked, breaking apart: “Fuck, fuck—I’m—”

And then he’s gone, spilling hot between them, clenching so tight around Lando that it drags a guttural moan from his throat.

“Jesus—fuck, Oscar—” Lando’s hips stutter, pace collapsing as he thrusts erratically, chasing it, needing it. The tight heat pulsing around him rips him apart. With one final thrust, he comes deep inside him, shuddering hard, teeth sinking into Oscar’s shoulder as he gasps out his name.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of their ragged breathing, the heavy press of their bodies, the sweat and mess and heat between them.

Lando stays buried, forehead against Oscar’s chest, still trembling. “Holy fuck.”

Oscar’s hand finds his hair, tugging weakly, voice still shaking. “You’re insane.”

Lando grins against his skin, pressing a lazy kiss just above his racing heart. “You love it.”

Oscar chuckles breathlessly, kissing the top of his curls. “Yeah. I do.”

It should feel wrong. It should feel dangerous. It should feel like something to bury.

But it doesn’t. It feels like oxygen.

Oscar stares up at the ceiling, blinking back the sting in his eyes. Because he knows what morning will bring. The cameras. The press. The pretending.

For now, though, he lets himself picture it: a world where Lando doesn’t have to slip into his room at 2 a.m., where “miss you” isn’t sent at 3 in the morning, where this—warmth, closeness, safety—doesn’t have to be hidden.

For now, he lets himself believe.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The end-of-season party was more performance than celebration.

Every driver knew it. The sponsors knew it. Hell, even the bar staff knew it.

It was the yearly illusion: all the rivalries melted away, everyone smiling in one big family photo while the alcohol blurred the edges enough to make it seem real.

George was thriving.

He’d claimed one of the high tables near the center of the room like it was his own personal stage, leaning back on his elbows while he scanned the crowd with that infuriatingly knowing look — the one that made people wonder if he’d just thought something dirty about them. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly messy from the humidity and the amount of times he’d run his fingers through it.

Max had been watching him for… longer than he’d admit.

At first it was just in that “keep tabs on the loud one” kind of way — George had a tendency to stir up trouble, and Max wasn’t exactly in the mood to deal with it tonight. But then George caught him looking.

And smirked.

Max immediately looked away, pretending to study the drink menu. The effort lasted about thirty seconds before he felt a shift in the air, a presence too close, and George’s voice, warm with amusement, slid into his ear.

“You’ve been staring for a while, Verstappen. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Max didn’t flinch — he’d had just enough champagne to be braver than usual. “I was just making sure you weren’t about to spill someone’s drink.”

“Mhm.” George leaned against the bar beside him, unreasonably close, the heat of him pressing through the thin fabric of Max’s shirt. “You were watching my hands then.”

Max turned his head slowly, meeting George’s eyes — that irritating mix of innocence and provocation. “You’re annoying.”

George grinned, and Max was pretty sure it was because he didn’t deny staring.

⸻

The night blurred into rounds of champagne, PR photos, half-sincere toasts. George seemed to orbit Max without ever officially sticking to his side — one moment he’d be across the room making a group laugh, the next he’d be at Max’s shoulder again, stealing a sip from his glass without asking.

“You’re going to get lipstick on that,” Max muttered when George leaned in for another sip, despite not wearing any.

George just licked his bottom lip slowly, eyes holding Max’s for a beat too long. “Not unless you put it there.”

Max choked on his drink. “You’re—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

⸻

At some point, the music turned up, the lights dimmed, and the crowd shifted toward the dance floor. Max wasn’t much of a dancer — everyone knew that — but George was. Not in a technical, polished way. No, George danced like someone who knew eyes were on him, who liked it, who leaned into it.

Max had no idea when he ended up out there too, maybe dragged or maybe lured, but suddenly George was there in front of him, moving to the beat, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

The crowd pressed in. Max could smell the cologne on George’s collar, the faintest hint of sweat from the heat of the room.

George leaned in, lips brushing close to Max’s ear to be heard over the music. “Not much of a dancer, huh?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Max shot back, his voice lower than he expected.

George’s grin widened. “True. For someone who doesn’t dance, you’re doing a decent job of keeping up with me.”

They weren’t quite touching — just enough space for plausible deniability. But every sway, every subtle shift forward, closed that space for a heartbeat before it opened again. It was deliberate. Max could tell.

It wasn’t lost on George either how close Max’s hand hovered when he gestured, or how Max’s gaze dipped to his mouth mid-conversation. He noticed everything. And Max, just tipsy enough to stop overthinking, didn’t bother hiding it anymore.

⸻

When the song changed, George leaned back slightly, eyes glinting. “You want to get out of here?”

Max should’ve hesitated. Should’ve remembered that half the paddock was still watching, that this party was for show. But instead, his answer came quicker than he meant it to.

“Yeah.”

George didn’t smirk this time. Didn’t tease. Just gave a sharp nod, like he’d been waiting for the invitation all night.

And Max followed him out.

⸻

The cool night air hit like a shock after the heavy warmth of the party.

Max shoved his hands into his pockets, breathing deeper now that the music was muffled behind the closing doors. George was a few steps ahead, glancing back with that same deliberate, measuring look — the one that seemed to check if Max was keeping up, both literally and in whatever unspoken game they were playing.

They didn’t speak for a block. The sound of their shoes on the pavement was strangely loud in the empty street. Finally, George glanced sideways, voice casual but laced with something that wasn’t casual at all.

“So, Verstappen…” he dragged out the name like he was tasting it, “…what exactly made you say yes back there?”

Max kept his eyes forward. “Maybe I didn’t want to watch you flirt with the rest of the grid all night.”

George laughed, low and genuine. “Jealous?”

“No.” Max’s answer was instant, maybe too quick. “Just… tired of watching.”

That made George slow down, the corner of his mouth curling. “So you’d rather… what? Do something else with me?”

Max met his eyes now, the streetlight catching in the amber. “I didn’t follow you out here to talk about the weather.”

George’s eyebrows lifted in mock surprise, but his grin betrayed him. “And here I thought you were the sensible one.”

⸻

They cut down a quieter street, the hotel looming at the end like a promise neither of them wanted to say out loud. George’s steps were lazy, almost strolling, but his hand brushed against Max’s twice — not an accident either time.

“You’ve been drinking,” George said finally, though there wasn’t judgment in it. “Not a lot, but enough.”

Max’s lips twitched. “So have you.”

George tilted his head in concession. “True. Makes things more interesting though, doesn’t it?”

Max didn’t answer, but his silence wasn’t dismissal. It was focused, the kind of silence that came with deciding.

⸻

At the hotel doors, George held them open with exaggerated politeness, bowing slightly. “After you, champion.”

Max rolled his eyes but stepped through, catching the way George’s gaze lingered — not on his face.

They didn’t head for the elevator immediately. Instead, George slowed in the lobby, glancing at the plush chairs in the corner. “We could sit for a bit,” he said, tone light. “Or—” His gaze flicked toward the lifts. “We could not.”

Max looked at him for a long moment. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

George leaned closer, enough for Max to feel the warmth off him. “Good. I wasn’t trying to be.”

⸻

The elevator was quiet except for the low hum of machinery. George leaned back against the mirrored wall, watching Max like a cat watches a moving hand. Max stood straight, hands still in his pockets, but his shoulders were tense.

“You keep looking at me like that,” George said softly, “and people will talk.”

“They already do,” Max replied, just as soft.

George’s mouth twitched, almost into a smirk, but not quite. “Guess we should give them something worth talking about, then.”

The bell dinged. The doors opened.

⸻

Max didn’t remember much of the walk down the carpeted hallway — only the warm blur of adrenaline and the faint scent of George’s cologne trailing just ahead.

The door had barely slammed shut behind them before George’s back hit it with a dull thud.

It was clumsy, unplanned — Max half-tripped on the carpeted threshold, his hand catching the wall beside George’s head, but it didn’t matter. The momentum of it shoved them close, close enough that George could feel the heat of his breath fan across his lips.

“You—” George started, voice already rough, “—couldn’t wait two bloody seconds, could you?”

Max’s grin was a crooked, drunken thing, his pupils blown wide.

“Not when you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, and then he leaned in and swallowed whatever George was going to say with a kiss.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t careful. It was all teeth and tongue and the faint, sharp tang of the gin Max had been nursing at the bar. George let out a startled sound into his mouth — something between a laugh and a moan — before his own hands came up, curling in the fabric of Max’s shirt to drag him closer.

Max pressed forward until there was no space left between them, the firm, full line of his body flush against George’s. He could feel the subtle shift of muscle in Max’s shoulders as he pinned him there, and then — oh — the slow roll of Max’s hips forward, grinding their clothed fronts together just enough to make George’s breath catch.

“Christ—” George muttered against his mouth, fingers sliding into Max’s hair. “You’re—” another involuntary noise slipped out of him when Max did it again, “—you’re drunk.”

“Mm,” Max hummed, like he didn’t care, like that was part of the fun. “So are you.”

George huffed a laugh that broke off into a sharp inhale when Max’s hand slid down from the wall to grip his hip, thumb pressing into the waistband of his trousers. The pressure sent a little shock straight to his stomach, and he gave an involuntary thrust back into Max’s hips, their groins grinding together again.

The sound Max made — a low, surprised groan — hit George square in the chest. It was raw and pleased and made him want to pull that sound out of him again and again.

“Bed,” George breathed, shoving at his chest lightly.

“Mm, no,” Max murmured against his jaw, nipping once before kissing down the side of his neck. “Not yet.”

They stumbled toward the bed anyway, mouths finding each other in between uneven steps. Max’s hands roamed now — over George’s back, around to his sides, brushing the soft skin just above his waistband, lingering there like he was testing how far he could go before George stopped him.

By the time the backs of George’s knees hit the mattress, both of them were panting. Max nudged him down, and George sat, pulling Max into the space between his thighs.

The kiss broke for the first time in minutes, both of them staring at each other like they’d been caught doing something forbidden. Max’s lips were already swollen, his hair a mess from George’s hands.

George smirked faintly, but there was a flicker of something else there — a flash of hesitation, as Max’s fingers caught in the hem of his shirt and started to push it up. For just a second, George’s shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be seen. His gaze darted away, jaw tightening.

Max didn’t give him time to retreat.

“Hey,” he said quietly, drawing George’s eyes back to him, “you’re gorgeous. Stop thinking.”

And then the shirt was gone and Max’s mouth was on him again — but lower this time, dragging slow, wet kisses down over the warm skin of his chest, across the soft curve of his stomach, until George felt the heat of his breath right at the waistband of his trousers.

George swore softly, his hand dropping into Max’s hair on instinct.

“Fuck’s sake, Max…” he muttered, but there was no conviction in it, just anticipation.

“Mm,” Max hummed again, sounding positively smug as he pressed one more kiss just above the button of George’s pants.

“Gonna show you something,” he said, voice dropping into something husky, “even if I’m shit at it.”

George laughed — short, breathless — and tugged lightly at his hair.

“Better not be.”

Max’s fingers grazed the waistband of George’s trousers, slow and deliberate, ready to pull them down. But just as his hand curled under the fabric, George tensed, suddenly pulling back with a nervous flicker in his eyes.

“Wait.” His voice was low, almost breathless.

Max blinked, caught mid-movement. “What?”

George swallowed, cheeks flushing a little. “You… you do realize I have a vagina, right?”

The words hit Max like a splash of cold water.

For a second, his brain short-circuited.

Then a strangled groan escaped him, low and ragged — like he almost came just hearing it.

His face burned crimson, eyes wide as if he’d just been caught daydreaming in the worst way.

George burst out laughing, that wicked, breathless laugh that made Max’s pulse thud harder.

“Relax,” George teased, reaching up to ruffle Max’s hair. “I’m not gonna bite. Unless you want me to.”

Max chuckled, shaking his head as the flush spread from his cheeks down to his neck.

Without thinking, he lunged forward and kissed George hard, desperate to cover up his sudden embarrassment. His hips pressed forward, grinding roughly against George’s own crotch.

“Feel that?” Max murmured against his lips, breath hot and ragged. “That’s how hard you’re making me.”

George smirked, hands tangling in Max’s messy hair, tugging lightly as if to keep him exactly where he was. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

Max’s lips pressed fiercely to George’s again, a fierce, frantic kiss full of hunger and hesitation. The taste of George, salty and sweet, flooded Max’s senses until all rational thought fell away. Their breaths mingled, uneven and ragged, and Max’s hands moved with a trembling urgency—sliding under George’s shirt, fingers grazing hot skin, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

Breaking the kiss, Max’s mouth dipped lower, lips brushing along the sensitive curve of George’s jaw, trailing slow, teasing kisses down to the hollow of his throat. George’s breath hitched, a soft, needy moan vibrating against Max’s lips. “Max… please…”

Max pulled back just enough to look up into George’s eyes, wide and shining with a mix of desperation and trust. “I want to taste you,” Max whispered, voice rough, breath shaky.

George’s fingers tangled in Max’s hair, tugging gently. “Do it,” he urged, voice raw, low. “Don’t stop.”

Max’s heart hammered as his hands slid down to the waistband of George’s trousers, fingers trembling with excitement and nerves. He carefully, almost reverently, pulled the fabric just enough to expose the damp heat beneath. The scent of George — musky, intimate, intoxicating — hit Max like a wave.

He pressed his lips to the fabric of George’s underwear, soft and warm, and then—hesitant but growing bolder—Max dragged his tongue carefully along the damp cotton, swirling just over George’s clit through the thin barrier. George gasped sharply, hips pressing forward.

“More,” George whispered, voice a ragged plea.

Max’s confidence wavered for a moment, then with a shaky inhale, he dove in, pulling the fabric aside and pressing his mouth fully to George’s slick skin. His tongue flicked clumsily at first, unsure but desperate to give pleasure. George’s hands tangled fiercely in Max’s hair, tugging and guiding, his hips rocking urgently, pushing into Max’s mouth.

“Fuck, Max…” George moaned, voice breaking. “Just like that… yes…”

Max’s mouth was a mess — wet, messy, warm, suffocating, overwhelmed by the taste and the desperate sounds George was making. But he didn’t stop. He sucked on George’s clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud with reckless eagerness, tongue swirling with growing confidence and hunger.

George’s moans grew louder, desperate and raw, filling the room with sound. His hips jerked, pushing harder against Max’s face, grinding with need. “More, Max… don’t stop… please…”

Max kept going, lips and tongue working in sloppy rhythm, lost in the sound of George’s cries, the trembling of his body beneath him. He added fingers, slipping two inside slowly, scissoring gently, teasing, wanting to give everything he could. George shuddered, overwhelmed, whines turning to breathless sobs.

“Oh god, Max…” George gasped, body shaking. “I’m gonna—fuck—”

George’s hips convulsed violently, shuddering in waves of release as he squirted warm and wet all over Max’s hands and face. The mess was undeniable — slick and sticky — but Max stayed, swallowing every desperate moan, every broken cry, his own breath ragged and wild.

George collapsed against him, trembling, eyes squeezed shut, tears mixing with sweat. “Max… I’m—”

Max kissed the tears away, soft despite the chaos. “Shhh, I’m here.”

When Max finally pulled back, his own chest heaving, he was soaked with George’s release, lips swollen, senses overwhelmed. He slid his own trousers down, feeling every nerve sing, every touch amplified. The sensitivity was unbearable, but beneath it all burned a desperate craving for more.

He looked up at George, who was watching him with eyes dark and hooded with need, trembling still from the overstimulation.

Max swallowed hard, a drunken thought flickering through his mind—could he really get George pregnant? The idea was wild and absurd, but the heat pooling in his gut made it feel possible. His fingers trembled as they trailed over George’s slick folds, warm and inviting, the slickness soaking his fingertips.

George’s breath hitched, eyes dark with need as Max’s cock pressed softly against him, sliding slowly between those sensitive folds. Max paused, heart hammering, feeling every inch of skin, every shudder that ran through George’s body at the teasing touch.

“Max,” George gasped, voice shaky but urgent, fingers tangling deeper in Max’s hair. “Don’t tease me.”

Max’s lips curled into a lazy, messy smile as he pressed a kiss to George’s temple. “Not teasing. Just… savoring.”

With one slow, deliberate movement, Max pushed forward, sliding inside George’s heat inch by inch. The warmth swallowed him whole, tight and slick and perfect. George’s back arched, a strangled moan ripping free as Max settled deeper, hips rolling instinctively to find the right angle.

“Fuck,” George breathed, hands clutching at Max’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop.”

Max’s mouth found George’s again, kiss sloppy and desperate, matching the frantic rhythm building between them. Every moan, every shiver, every whispered plea drove Max wild—his own cock pulsing with need, his hands roaming over George’s trembling skin.

When George whimpered, arching up into him, Max pushed further, lost in the messy, beautiful chaos of it all—overstimulated, trembling, crying out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over them.

Max wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold back, but when George cried out, wet and shaking, fingers tangling fiercely in his hair, begging for more, Max lost all restraint. He dove in deeper, kissing, sucking, and thrusting with reckless abandon.

His hips drove hard inside George’s tight heat, each slam pushing deeper, filling him with wild urgency. One hand gripped George’s hip to steady himself; the other found its way to George’s clit, rubbing firm, slow circles that made George’s whole body quake. The slick, slick friction sent shockwaves rippling through both of them.

“Fuck, Max—right there—don’t stop,” George moaned, voice ragged, breath trembling. His hips bucked violently against Max’s hand, pressing back with desperate need.

Max’s pace sped up, slamming in harder, rubbing, fucking, worshipping every inch of George’s trembling body. Then George’s hips jerked uncontrollably as a hot, wild gush spilled out over Max’s cock and hand, soaking them both.

“Shit—George, you’re—fuck—” Max groaned, breath hitching, mouth opening in a messy gasp as he swallowed the slick warmth, the taste overwhelming and raw.

George was trembling, tears streaking down flushed cheeks, voice breaking as he whispered, “Max… if you come inside me… promise me… promise me you’ll put a baby in me…”

The raw need in George’s voice sent a feral growl rumbling deep in Max’s chest. He slammed his hips harder, chasing his own release, “I swear it, George. I’m gonna put a baby in you. You and me—we’re gonna make that happen.”

Their bodies moved together in a frantic, messy rhythm—George’s moans mixing with Max’s guttural growls, hands clutching, pulling, needing. Max’s breath broke free in ragged pants as he came deep inside George, hips jerking, grip tightening on George’s hip and his own cock slick with release.

George cried out again, squirting anew, soaking Max’s thighs and stomach, trembling beneath him. Max leaned down, biting and kissing fiercely, voice raw and low. “You’re mine. All mine. And I’m gonna make you a father.”

George smiled through tears, chest heaving, voice a shaky whisper, “I want that… I want you, Max.”

The rush of their climax slowly softened, waves of trembling pleasure giving way to warm, languid aftershocks. Max collapsed beside George, his breath heavy, chest rising and falling as the tension drained from his body. George lay beneath him, slick and spent, eyes glistening but glowing with a fierce kind of joy.

They lay tangled, limbs entwined like a knot no one could untie, and the silence between them was thick with meaning.

Max brushed damp strands of hair from George’s forehead, lips brushing softly against the skin, leaving a trail of featherlight kisses. George’s eyes fluttered closed, a small, contented sigh escaping him.

“That was…” George’s voice cracked, breathless and awed, “the best… the best I’ve ever had.”

Max chuckled low, a warm rumble vibrating through his chest. “Me too. I didn’t know it could be like that—like this.”

Their gazes locked, sharing a moment so intimate it felt almost sacred. Max leaned down, lips capturing George’s in a slow, tender kiss that deepened with every second. The messiness of sweat and slick skin, the echoes of their wild cries—none of it mattered now. All that existed was this: the softness of their mouths moving together, the steady beat of their hearts matching in quiet harmony.

George’s hands found Max’s face, fingertips tracing his jaw, pulling him closer as their kiss grew sweeter, slower, filled with unspoken promises.

When they finally parted, breath mingling, Max whispered, “We’re young. We’ve got time. But… whatever happens next, I want it to be with you.”

George smiled through a shaky breath, eyes bright and warm. “Me too. No rush. Just… this.”

Max curled around George, holding him close as their bodies settled into a comfortable, peaceful embrace. George’s head rested against Max’s chest, heartbeat steady beneath his ear, and for the first time in a long while, everything felt exactly right.

“I could stay like this forever,” George murmured.

“Me too,” Max agreed, kissing the top of his head.

⸻

The soft light of morning spilled through the curtains, painting gentle stripes across the bed where George was nestled against Max’s chest. His cheek rested just above the steady thump of Max’s heart, warm and comforting beneath his skin. The slow, even rise and fall of Max’s breathing was the only sound filling the quiet room.

George’s eyes fluttered open, taking in the peaceful expression on Max’s face—the slight crease of his brow, the way his lips parted ever so slightly as he slept. A soft chuckle escaped George’s lips, low and amused, as he traced a finger gently over Max’s temple. “You look ridiculous when you sleep,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Max shifted slightly but didn’t wake, still holding George close as if to keep him safe. George smiled, heart swelling with affection at the sight of someone so completely relaxed and vulnerable in his arms.

Leaning in, George pressed a tender kiss just above Max’s heart—the spot where his pulse was strongest—and lingered there, feeling the warmth radiate beneath his lips. The moment was intimate and slow, a quiet celebration of the connection that bound them.

He let his cheek rest once more against Max’s skin, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest soothe him. George’s smile deepened as he imagined all the mornings yet to come, each one filled with this simple, perfect peace.

Outside, the world began to stir, but here—wrapped in the calm embrace of Max’s arms—George felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

⸻

The next time they were on camera, it was supposed to be safer. No innuendo, no sugar-coated proposals — just decorating Belgian waffles like good little brand ambassadors. Easy.

Lando still found a way to get his tongue dyed neon green.

The culprit? Some food-coloring gel in a squeeze pen. He’d licked it off his hand off-camera with zero shame, then pulled his tongue out and wiggled it like a kid at recess. Oscar had blinked, caught off guard by how green it was — had even said so aloud, a clipped little “your whole tongue is green, by the way,” while side-eyeing him like he wasn’t about to combust in public.

And Lando, cheeky as ever, had only giggled. “So are my hands! Hehehe!”

The crew moved on. The segment wrapped. The green faded from the conversation — but not from memory.

Or, well. Not from Oscar’s, at least.

⸻

Back in their driver room, away from the waffle-sticky chaos of media duties, the air was different. Dense. Laced with anticipation. It wasn’t silent, but it was loud in a different way — in the way their breathing subtly changed when the door clicked shut, in the heavy drag of Oscar’s eyes across Lando’s body, in the electricity that vibrated in the space between them like something just waiting to detonate.

Lando had sprawled on Oscar’s bed like he owned it, hoodie bunched up just enough to show skin — that unfair sliver of lower stomach, smooth and golden, the elastic waistband of his sweats dipping just slightly too low. His legs were lazily spread, foot bouncing, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t notice what it was doing to Oscar. But he noticed.

God, he always noticed.

Oscar stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded tight across his chest like if he didn’t hold onto something, he’d fucking lose it. His jaw was tense, teeth clenched, eyes raking down the line of Lando’s body like it personally offended him.

“You’ve still got green on your tongue,” he said, voice low and sharp.

Lando didn’t even blink. He licked across his teeth slowly, the tip of his tongue poking out — yes, still stained faintly from the green gel. “Yeah? Gonna do something about it?”

Oscar’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Like he was trying not to snap. But restraint only lasted so long.

He was on the bed in the next breath, climbing over Lando like gravity pulled him there. His thighs straddled Lando’s hips, the weight of him solid, hot, and unmistakable. His fingers gripped the hem of the hoodie and pushed it up without ceremony — revealing more skin, more heat.

“You’re such a little shit,” he muttered, voice fraying.

Lando’s grin was lazy, but his eyes had darkened. “Still here though.”

Oscar didn’t waste another second. He dragged him into a kiss like it was overdue — like he’d been holding back for hours. Rough, open-mouthed, no teasing, no warm-up. Their teeth clacked once, but neither of them cared. If anything, it just lit the fuse.

Lando gasped, and Oscar used it — tongue licking into his mouth, searching for something he already knew, something familiar. There was still a faint echo of artificial apple sweetness, but underneath it was all Lando — warm, slick, messy. Addictive.

Oscar groaned, deep and guttural, as he sucked on his tongue with slow, deliberate pressure.

Lando whimpered, hips jerking up involuntarily, friction sparking as they pressed together. “Fuck,” he gasped, voice cracking. “You’re—Jesus, Oscar—”

“Still sweet,” Oscar mumbled against his mouth, before trailing kisses down his jaw. He bit gently at the skin there, tongue chasing the sting. “And loud. As usual.”

Lando let his head fall back into the pillow, chest rising in quick little bursts. “You literally climbed on top of me.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was gonna offer.”

“Didn’t need to.” Oscar’s hand slid beneath the hoodie, splaying across warm, twitching skin. His palm dragged up over ribs, fingers curling at his side. “You always offer.”

Lando bit his lip, brows furrowing. His voice shook when he spoke. “You gonna keep talking or actually do something?”

Oscar’s grin was sharp. “Oh, I’m doing something.”

He kissed him again, slower now — deliberate and filthy. He sucked on Lando’s bottom lip like he wanted to ruin it, wanted to wear the imprint of it all night. Lando moaned into it, soft and breathless, arching his back slightly.

Then Lando’s hands found the front of Oscar’s hoodie, fisting the fabric to yank him closer, their bodies flush now. Hips ground up against him and the friction made them both curse.

Oscar groaned into his mouth. “You’re hard.”

“You’re heavy.”

“You love it.”

Lando’s voice caught. “I—fuck—yeah, I do.”

Oscar shifted his weight, pressing down deliberately, and Lando’s eyes fluttered shut at the pressure. His breath hitched, stuttering in his chest.

“Tell me,” Oscar murmured, mouth at his cheek, nose brushing his skin. “You want me to stop?”

Lando opened his eyes slowly, pupils blown wide. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

Oscar chuckled, low and wrecked. “Say please.”

“You’re such a fucking—”

He rolled his hips again.

Lando gasped, choking on a moan. “Please. Jesus. Fucking please.”

That was all it took.

Oscar surged forward, kissing him like he couldn’t help it anymore. His hands roamed without direction — up under the hoodie, over Lando’s chest, thumbs brushing over nipples and dragging soft, desperate sounds from him.

“Shit—Oscar—” Lando panted, arching into his touch, grabbing at his arms, at his hair. “God, you—your hands—”

Oscar’s mouth moved downward, greedy now. He licked a stripe across Lando’s throat before sucking a bruise into the dip of it, his teeth dragging against flushed skin. “You taste like sugar and sweat,” he muttered.

Lando’s hands threaded into his hair, tugging. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am,” Oscar growled, biting down on the edge of his collarbone.

Lando cried out, legs shifting under him, thighs tense. “Fuck—harder—don’t stop—”

Oscar obliged. His fingers found the waistband of Lando’s sweats, teasing just under it, fingertips ghosting along the crease of his hip.

“You want more?” he asked, voice low and dark.

“More,” Lando begged, completely undone. “Oscar, please, please—”

Oscar kissed down to the hem of his hoodie and pushed it up even further, finally exposing the full length of his torso. “Can lock the door,” Lando gasped.

Oscar looked up through his lashes, pupils blown wide, lips pink and swollen. “I already did.”

Lando’s laugh cracked in the middle. “You’re dangerous.”

“Only for you.”

Oscar’s mouth was everywhere now — over his chest, down his stomach, dragging his tongue along the faint trail of hair leading lower, biting just above the waistband until Lando squirmed and cursed and moaned his name like it was the only word he remembered.

And then Oscar looked up at him again, voice ruined, eyes glazed with lust.

“Lift your hips,” he said, and Lando obeyed immediately, the trust in the motion making Oscar’s chest twist.

Because there wasn’t any pretending now.

This wasn’t about teasing. This wasn’t even about payback anymore.

This was them — frantic and filthy and honest — letting it all fall apart just to put each other back together again.

Lando’s hips lifted easily, pliant under Oscar’s touch, breath hitching as Oscar dragged the sweats down inch by inch. Not fast. Not greedy. Just slow, like he wanted to memorize every reveal, every twitch, every sound.

And fuck, there were sounds.

Lando’s breath caught, a broken gasp falling from his lips when the cold air hit him. His thighs tensed beneath Oscar’s hands, already shaking with anticipation, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

Oscar dropped the sweats to the floor without looking away from him — eyes raking down his body, slow and reverent and so full of hunger it made Lando’s toes curl.

“Look at you,” Oscar breathed, almost like it hurt. “Fucking wrecked already.”

Lando swallowed hard, cheeks flushed, voice raw. “Because of you.”

Oscar leaned in again, pressing open-mouthed kisses down his hip, across his inner thigh — tongue dragging across skin so sensitive Lando jolted like he’d been shocked.

“Jesus, Oscar—”

“Mhm.” Oscar licked a stripe back up, meeting his eyes. “I’m right here.”

Lando’s hands shot to the sheets, gripping them tight, like he needed to hold onto something or he’d float right off the bed. “Don’t tease—please—”

But Oscar was already leaning in, already mouthing at the crease of his thigh, already humming against his skin like he wanted Lando to fall apart. He was slow — methodical — lips brushing everywhere but where Lando ached.

And Lando was fucking shaking.

He bucked his hips once, a soft, helpless noise leaving him. “Oscar—come on—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” Oscar whispered, breath hot and damp and right there. “You always say that. Then you fall apart for me anyway.”

Lando choked on a moan. “I hate you.”

Oscar finally licked a stripe right up where he’d been avoiding.

Lando yelled.

“No, you don’t,” Oscar murmured, tongue circling once — maddeningly slow. “You love me.”

Lando’s head hit the pillow hard, one arm flinging out like he could swat the intensity away. “Shut the fuck up—”

Oscar sucked.

Hard.

Lando gasped — loud, hoarse, desperate. “FUCK—”

Oscar pulled back just long enough to say, voice shredded and hungry, “I could spend all fucking night down here.”

Lando looked down at him, glassy-eyed and trembling. “Then do it.”

Oscar did.

He made a mess of him. Used his mouth like he was starved. Sucked and licked and moaned into him like he was the one getting wrecked, like every noise Lando made fed something feral inside him.

Lando was gone.

One hand buried in Oscar’s curls, the other fisting the sheets, head thrown back, thighs trembling around Oscar’s shoulders. He couldn’t keep quiet — breathless, ruined whimpers tumbling out between curses and Oscar’s name like a prayer he didn’t know he was saying.

“Oscar—Oscar—oh my God, I—shit—I’m gonna—”

Oscar didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even slow down.

He wanted it — the sound, the shake, the complete, involuntary unraveling of Lando beneath him.

Lando’s hips jerked once, twice—then he froze, fingers gripping Oscar’s hair like a lifeline, mouth falling open with a silent cry that only turned audible when the wave hit full-force.

“Fuckfuckfuck, Oscar—”

Oscar groaned against him, swallowed, and didn’t move for a second too long.

Lando collapsed back against the bed in the aftermath, chest heaving, hand sliding bonelessly from Oscar’s hair.

It took a full thirty seconds before he could speak.

When he did, it was wrecked.

“You’re… insane.”

Oscar crawled back up his body, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his ribs, his chest, his throat, then finally his mouth. “You love it.”

Lando blinked up at him, still dizzy. “I do,” he admitted, almost laugh-drunk. “I love you. And I hate how good you are at that.”

Oscar grinned, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Guess I’m just naturally gifted.”

Lando snorted weakly. “Shut the fuck up.”

Oscar kissed him again — slow this time. Tender. Not demanding anything. Just anchoring them.

Lando tugged him close, hands sliding up under Oscar’s shirt now, breath still shaky.

“You’re not getting out of this, you know,” he murmured.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Out of what?”

“Your turn.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

And Lando — still dazed, still undone, still flushed from the high — smiled like a threat.

“Lie down.”

Lando’s breath hitched as his fingers slid hesitantly between his thighs, eyes locked on Oscar’s dark, steady gaze. His skin was warm and slick with sweat, every nerve ending buzzing with anticipation.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice trembling but determined. “I want to open myself first. Make sure… everything’s ready.”

Oscar’s smile was slow, full of heat and encouragement. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando’s fingers pressed gently at first, teasing the tight, sensitive place inside him. A sharp shiver ran up his spine, and his lips parted on a soft, shaky gasp. He swallowed hard, letting a slow, deep finger slip in, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” Lando murmured, cheeks flushing deep pink. “God, that feels… intense.”

Oscar’s hands cupped Lando’s hips, thumbs stroking soothing circles that grounded him, whispered assurance in every touch. “You’re doing so well. So good.”

Encouraged, Lando slid a second finger inside, curling them slowly with delicate, controlled movements. His breath hitched again, louder this time, a broken moan escaping past his lips.

“Shit, Oscar,” he gasped, voice trembling. “I didn’t know it’d feel this—”

“Good?” Oscar prompted softly, eyes glinting with desire.

“Yeah,” Lando breathed, biting his bottom lip to hold back a cry. “So good.”

After a moment more of that delicious stretching, Lando withdrew his fingers, slick and trembling. His chest rose and fell rapidly, body aching with need.

“I’m ready,” he said, voice low and thick.

With surprising strength and determination, Lando pushed off the bed with his hands, shifting to roll Oscar beneath him.

“Time for you to watch,” Lando said, a wicked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m in control now.”

Oscar’s breath hitched, eyes darkening with want, as Lando settled his weight on top. Their skin brushed, every nerve on fire.

Lando aligned himself carefully, slow and deliberate. When he finally sank down, a gasp tore from his throat—deep, raw, and trembling. The feeling of fullness was overwhelming, thrilling.

Oscar’s hands gripped Lando’s hips like an anchor, fingers digging in gently, his voice rough as he moaned, “God, you feel incredible.”

Lando’s hands braced on Oscar’s chest, fingers splaying as he began to move. His hips rolled forward and back, slow at first, savoring every inch, every delicious burn.

“Oh—fuck—Oscar, listen,” Lando whispered, voice thick with need, “I want to do all the work. Let me show you.”

Oscar’s breath caught, a low moan vibrating in his chest. “Show me, Lan.”

Lando pushed down harder, a deep groan rumbling from his throat, hips picking up a steady rhythm—powerful, possessive, hungry.

“Yeah,” Lando moaned, head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built, “just like that.”

Oscar’s fingers slid up to tangle in Lando’s hair, tugging gently as he whispered, “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Lando’s breath came faster, moans spilling out uncontrolled. “I’m yours, Oscar. I’m yours, I’m yours—”

Oscar kissed him deeply, pulling him closer, matching his pace, their bodies moving in perfect, heated sync.

“Ride me,” Oscar gasped, voice cracked, “Ride me all night.”

Lando’s hips moved faster, harder, every muscle flexing, sweat pearling on his skin, moans and whispered curses filling the room like a storm. His body arched, riding every thrust as if trying to reach some impossible edge.

“Oh fuck—Oscar, I’m so close—can’t—”

Oscar’s hands gripped his waist, pulling him down harder, groaning into his neck, “Come for me, baby. Let go.”

And with a shuddering cry, Lando shattered, riding the wave of pleasure crashing through him, every sound raw and beautiful—moans, curses, breathless gasps—filling the quiet room as he collapsed, trembling, utterly undone.

Lando’s body trembled against Oscar’s, chest heaving as the aftershocks rolled through him. His skin was flushed, every nerve still humming with heat and pleasure. He stayed sunk down for a long moment, letting himself feel utterly spent and completely held.

Oscar’s hands didn’t leave him—slow, steady, grounding—tracing lazy circles over his hips, down his back. “You okay?” His voice was soft, low, almost a whisper.

Lando nodded, breath shaky. “Yeah… yeah, I’m good. Better than good.” He gave a tired, shaky laugh that turned into a breathless sigh. “Fuck, that was… insane.”

Oscar smiled against his temple, lips ghosting over the skin there. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Lando said, voice rough, eyes fluttering open to meet Oscar’s. “But I’m yours.”

Oscar’s grin deepened. “Always.”

Slowly, Lando shifted, sliding off Oscar’s body with care, still trembling but wanting to hold onto the closeness. He curled back against Oscar’s side, their legs tangling naturally.

Oscar wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. “You rode me like a goddamn menace,” he murmured, breath warm against Lando’s hair.

Lando snorted softly, nuzzling into the crook of Oscar’s neck. “Had to. Someone’s gotta show off.”

Oscar laughed quietly, tugging Lando’s arm around him tighter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” Lando’s voice was thick with contentment, his fingers tracing patterns on Oscar’s chest.

Oscar’s fingers found Lando’s curls again, threading through them gently. “More than anything.”

They lay there for a long time, breaths slowing, hearts still racing but tethered tightly to each other. The quiet between them was warm, full of unspoken promises and lingering desire.

Lando’s eyes fluttered closed, a sleepy smile on his lips. “Next time… I might let you do some of the work.”

Oscar chuckled softly, voice a tender whisper. “I’m holding you to that.”

And in the soft dark, with only the steady rhythm of their breathing, they fell into a peaceful, tangled sleep — together.

⸻

The next morning, Oscar showed up to media duties with a faint green tinge still clinging to the corner of his mouth — subtle, but there.

Lando? Lando didn’t stop smiling once.

And the internet?

The internet lost its mind.

⸻

Top Comments:

@/wafflewifebehavior: WHY IS HIS MOUTH GREEN. EXPLAIN. RIGHT. NOW.

@/landosgreenass: so what I’m hearing is oscar made out with his waffle wife after hours

@/oscarstopthat: not him SUCKING THE GREEN OFF HIS TONGUE BYE??? this is actually so illegal

@/papayawag: at this point the Ring Pop was the ceremony and the food dye was the honeymoon

@/landowecanbeworldchampions: imagine kissing your crush so hard you absorb the evidence

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

The room was warm and quiet, the only sounds coming from the wet slap of skin and George’s broken, desperate moans.

Max had George sprawled on his back, one long leg hooked over his shoulder. The angle let Max slam in deep—so deep that George’s back arched clean off the mattress with every thrust.

“Fuck—Max—ah—deeper—” George’s voice cracked, his nails clawing at Max’s arms as if trying to anchor himself.

Max’s eyes were dark, focused, lips parted in a ragged grin. “You’re taking me so well—look at you—such a good boy for me.”

George whimpered, face flushed, his cock twitching untouched against his stomach. “I—oh god—please—”

Max pushed George’s leg even higher, folding him almost in half, pounding into him harder, deeper. “Yeah—right there—feel me? You’re so fucking tight around me—so perfect—”

George’s head lolled back, eyes rolling. “Fuck—fuck—yes—harder—”

And then— BANG.

Both of them froze for half a second.

The minibar fridge door had popped open, and a single tiny bottle of prosecco rolled out, spinning dramatically before coming to a slow, pathetic stop in the middle of the room.

George blinked at it, chest heaving.

Max didn’t move, still buried to the hilt inside him.

George’s lip twitched.

Then he snorted.

Max shot him a look. “Don’t.”

George broke. His body shook as he started laughing uncontrollably, tears forming in his eyes. “I—holy fuck—it just rolled out like it was escaping—”

Max ran a hand down his thigh, grinning despite himself. “Unbelievable.”

But instead of pulling out—Max just thrust in hard.

George’s laugh caught in his throat, turning into a breathless moan.

“Still think it’s funny?” Max teased, slamming into him again, deep and rough.

George’s laugh came out broken, each giggle turning into a sharp gasp as Max kept up his relentless pace. “M-Max—fuck—ah—”

Max leaned forward, letting George’s bent leg press against his chest, giving himself leverage to fuck him even deeper. “Laugh for me—yeah, like that—so fucking tight every time—god—”

George’s giggles became incoherent moans, his hands scrambling for purchase on Max’s shoulders. “F-fuck—Max—please—harder—”

“Beg for it,” Max growled, his thrusts brutal and precise.

“Please—please—don’t stop—fuck—I need you—”

Max kissed him hard, tongues sliding together as he ruined him. George felt like he was coming apart completely, every deep thrust pushing him closer to the edge.

George’s orgasm hit hard, his body clenching tight around Max, milking every drop from him—

But Max didn’t stop.

“Max—fuck—I—too much—” George gasped, squirming, overstimulated and wrecked.

Max’s grin was dark, unrelenting. “Not done with you yet.” He shifted slightly, his thrusts deeper, sharper, making George cry out helplessly.

“P-please—” George’s voice was raw, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes as pleasure and sensitivity tangled.

“Look at you—so perfect like this—” Max groaned, hips snapping faster. “Can’t get enough of you—gonna make you come again.”

George’s body trembled, overwhelmed but desperate, moans spilling freely as Max pounded into him until his cock twitched again, spilling weakly against his stomach.

Max buried himself deep, groaning as he finally came too, filling George completely before collapsing over him, both of them shaking.

George was still breathless, sweaty, flushed to the tips of his ears.

Max kissed along his jaw, smug and soft. “Better than a bottle of prosecco, yeah?”

George let out a wrecked laugh. “Fucking hell… remind me to lock that fridge next time.”

Max smirked, kissing him again. “No chance. I like the way you laugh when I’m inside you.”

⸻