Loser Girl

It’s one of Oscar’s favourite Lando modes, if he had to be seriously honest with himself. Needy, keen to cling and remind him that just because that George fella with about a 20-pack keeps hauling himself out of the pool and dripping everywhere, it’s Oscar Lando wants to wipe his sweat all over.

“Which guys?” There’s like. It’s not all guys. It’s not even officially a gay resort, there’s at least a few mildly confused groups of little old ladies who think all the young men are so polite and charming. Oscar’s pretty sure there’s no actual Hilton Homo or whatever. 

But the photos hadn’t been subtle. Lot of gleaming, oiled up twunks that might have been mistaken for a Love Island aesthetic if there hadn’t been an equal number of bearded, heavy men with ample chest hair. 

Perfect, really, for them. It’s not that they’re self-conscious about being a couple but sometimes it’s nice not to have to explain. For Lando to be able to do his current, ridiculous limpet routine without anyone even asking if they’re just close friends or whatever. Somewhere they can just be ignored in a crowd of other gay people. 

The problem, Oscar concedes, is that they’re not used to being in a crowd of other gay people. 

And, more specifically, that Lando doesn’t like people in general. 

“Those guys,” Lando fails to clarify, smushing his face into Oscar’s shoulder. “The, like, I dunno, frickin’ American guy or whatever and he’s like, loud as fuck and keeps talking to me every time I get up for a friggin’ pee and he’s with this guy who’s, like, I don’t know, Italian or Greek or something and he asked me for ‘a leetle ffeeeeedback’ about the fucking pina colada. I don’t know, mate, it’s a fucking drink isn’t it? Gets me hammered after about four, your mate might need a few more I reckon.”

Oscar can’t stop himself snorting, bundling Lando a little closer so he’s under the shade of the parasol. “The older couple? I think they’re just friendly.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying to have a break here aren’t I? Don’t need to speak to anyone.”

Lando seems to be placated by having a rant, turning sleepy against Oscar’s chest. He smells like nowhere near enough suncream and some future aloe vera that Oscar’s secretly kind of looking forward to revealing from the suitcase when Lando’s complaining later.

It gives him a chance to look out across the pool, see American-and-Italian-or-whatever-guys over at the bar. 

“Hmm,” Oscar muses, smoothing Lando’s hair down. “I dunno, think they might have moved on to speaking to whoever that George guy is.”

"Oscarrrr," Lando's being particularly whiny today, Jon told him earlier and then even Zak rolled his eyes at him in the warm-up to a sponsor call, so he knows he's being really intolerable and is almost surprised he's been allowed near Oscar.

Except at this point probably everyone's hoping she does something to make him shut up. Not least Lando himself.

"Hmm?" She doesn't really look up from her set of printouts. "Fornaroli's really not being kind to your gearbox, you should moan about it to someone."

"What?" Absolutely no one, ever, has suggested Lando get more whiny.

"Just suggesting things you could do constructively if you're like this." Oscar still isn't looking at him, although she has a vaguely smug expression that says she's actually been lining that one up for ages and probably rehearsed it in her head several times.

"Oi," Lando pokes her. "You're supposed to be nice to me."

"Aren't you supposed to be nice to me?" She's arching an eyebrow at him, amused.

"Well. Ok." He's sort of forgotten what he was whining about, until she goes back to the papers and stops paying attention to him. "What did you said he's doing to my gearbox?"

"Look at these shifts - ugly." Oscar is very possessive about their cars, always finds something to criticise in whatever IndyCar or F2 driver has been given an FP1 but in her defence that really does look quite grim, in a way that has Lando a bit nervous for his own turn in second practice.

"Erm." Oh no, now he's worrying about the car. "Oh."

"You're just being whiny because you haven't had the chance to drive yet." She flicks her foot at him, on the other end of the sofa. "You're always like this and then you'll be fucking fastest by the end of the session because you're annoyingly good."

He huffs a bit about that, wriggling around. He's definitely annoying but no one's saying he's good. Can't even defend his fucking title can he? Not that he can really whine at Oscar about that because of how he beat her to it, which was a bit misogynist of him according to certain corners of the internet currently calling him gay for not having a decent car this year.

"Stop thinking." She pokes him with her foot again, gets it right in his lap. She's wearing gross, rolled athletic socks that have definitely been in her team trainers, soles dirty with whatever gets on their feet over a race weekend.

They come up just above her ankle, bit like his golf socks and there's a mole just by where the elastic curls against her skin. The milkiest tan line, like one of the rings her hot chocolates somehow leave on all their mugs, no matter what Lando puts in the dishwasher.

"Are you getting horny about my feet?" She sounds incredulous, at the same time as she's rubbing her toes right on where she knows his dick is.

"Erm." He's not, really. Was just thinking about their dishwasher and the laundry and how they're going home together. How he'll try and put Oscar's socks in the white wash and she'll somehow get them in with the bright colours and then complain they're a bit orange, as though that's going to stop them going with their team gear. Or it'd bother her if it even did.

"Jesus christ." She sounds more Australian than she has in awhile suddenly, curling her toes around his dick gently, fondly. "Alright but we don't have long."

Lando shifts a bit, lets her get both feet in his lap and twists round in a way that will probably come back to get him later in the weekend, half-lying-down on the sofa so he can hug one of her thighs. "Tell me about the brake trace."

"Hmm," Oscar shuffles the papers around a bit. "Well, he's going harder than I am into 2, no idea why. There's a lot of mucking around in sector 2, which to be fair might be the wind - it's properly annoying out there, can't work out what's happening half the time even before the ghosts take over."

Her feet are curling against his dick, letting Lando grind a bit as he tilts his hips towards her heels, trying to nudge against the stiff bit that she always likes when he gives her a massage.

"What about 16?" Oscar's put her hand in his curls, messing them up before the helmet even has a chance and it's so nice, having his scalp scritched and his dick rubbed.

"I mean I think you'd do it differently." That means she knows he'd do it differently, given Oscar's digested every single one of his brake traces for every session of every track ever. "But it's hard to say with these cars, isn't it?"

"Mmm," he's a bit too far gone now, for any technical feedback. "Ghosts."

She smiles down at him, indulgent. "Yeah. All haunted, mate."

It's their word for when the cars just won't behave, no matter what they do. Lando's like 80% sure the team know but it's not like they use it as feedback in a debrief or whatever, just easier to explain it to each other sometimes than get frustrated trying to work out which bit of software screwed them over this time.

And sometimes Lando likes thinking about them, in the car. Not so lonely. Maybe he could set them on Antonelli, if he works them out well enough.

He curls more onto her leg, wrapping his arm round her hips. Oscar's more slight than she was a few years back, closer to his own size now she's not training like she might get sent to Formula E any second. But she's still a little bit plush round her thighs, softer on her tummy than he is and it's so nice to rub his face against, burrowing into her while her toes press almost viciously hard onto his dick.

It, inevitably, doesn't take long to have him hiccuping a gasp into her team shirt and jerking his hips a few times up into the arches of her feet, chasing the orgasm even though it's a shallow one. Nothing earth-shattering, just a nice snuggle on the sofa.

Once he's done she gives him a few more pets on his head. "Dunno about 6 and 7, something weird going on there definitely. Think that's where he's really putting the gearbox through the ringer."