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1. Australia 2025
When Lando stepped into the media zone, his eyes immediately started scanning the corridor, searching for Oscar. It wasn’t until he reached the journalist waiting for him that he finally caught sight of him in the far corner — orange polo, shoulders hunched, answering questions from the Australian media, his own countrymen.
The conversation with the journalist barely registered. Lando answered automatically, smiled when he was supposed to, thanked the team, but the celebration never reached him. It couldn’t — not when his teammate hadn’t even made it onto the podium at his own home race. He knew the feeling all too well — his childhood dream had always been winning at Silverstone, lifting a trophy high above a crowd of English fans, praising him.
As the journalist said goodbye, Lando’s gaze flicked to Oscar again. He was still talking, still laughing politely with the Australian media. Lando felt a surge of boldness: today he was the winner, he could do whatever he wanted. Without hesitation, he strode toward Oscar, ignoring the few people calling his name.
“Nice race, mate,” Lando said warmly, a wide smile spreading across his face, left hand settling on Oscar’s shoulder while his right extended for a handshake. “Sorry about the lost chance to fight for the win.”
“Oh, thanks,” Oscar replied, momentarily caught off guard, shaking Lando’s hand before leaning in for a proper hug. He hadn’t had a chance to congratulate him yet, so he made up for it now, arms wrapping around Lando’s torso. “Congratulations.”
They lingered in the hug a second longer than they should have, both acutely aware of the cameras and journalists still around them. Oscar coughed into his fist, annoyed at the abrupt break in contact.
Lando felt it too. He pressed against Oscar’s side, draped an arm over his shoulder, and turned to the Australian journalist, still patiently waiting. “Don’t you want to do a double interview?” he asked, his arm resting comfortably across Oscar’s back.
Oscar tilted his head, confused.
“Of course I do, Mr. Norris,” the journalist said eagerly before Oscar could answer, a grin lighting up his face at the thought of the footage he was about to get. “First of all, congrats on the win, really strong pace today.”
“Thanks,” Lando replied simply, tightening his grip on Oscar’s shoulder just slightly.
The questions kept coming — team strategies, Papaya rules, how their relationship had changed since last year. Oscar caught himself thinking he could keep answering questions for hours if it meant staying close to Lando.
As the journalist reached the last question, Lando’s hand slid from Oscar’s shoulder down his back, tracing shoulder blades, spine, finally resting at the lower back. Oscar fought to keep his voice steady, trying not to notice the shivers crawling over his skin, shivers that Lando would surely feel through the thin polo.
Once the Australian media were done, Oscar turned to Lando. “I’m done for today, heading back to the garage.”
“Alright,” Lando nodded, giving his waist a brief squeeze before letting go. “See you later.”
Oscar nodded quickly and walked away. Lando watched the tension in his shoulders and couldn’t stop smiling. How was he supposed to handle the rest of the interviews alone, after just minutes ago holding Oscar in his arms? He had no fucking idea.
2. Monaco 2025
The thumping bass rattled Lando’s ears, neon lights stabbed at his eyes, and strong alcohol burned down his throat. Tonight, he was ready to let himself have absolutely everything: he had just won the Monaco Grand Prix and was prepared to bask in the glow of his victory all night at the party celebrating it — an event as grand as an Oscars afterparty.
Lando sat at the bar, and beside him was Charles, clinging to his shoulders to stay upright, shouting something in his ear that vaguely sounded like a question about whether Lando had invited Verstappen. Lando nodded a few times, barely able to control his head, and leaned over the counter to call the bartender, pointing at the empty stack of tequila shots and asking for another round.
“I’ll go find him,” Charles shouted into Lando’s ear before wandering off, leaving him alone in the revelry. Whenever Charles got drunk, the first thing he wanted was Max.
Lando wasn’t upset in the slightest that his friend had abandoned him. A new shot of tequila had already burned its way down his throat, and he waved to Fewtrell at the DJ booth, letting him know he’d be joining soon. Tonight was for letting go — dancing, pressing against strangers, shouting with joy, and letting the energy of the night swallow him whole.
Lando flinched and nearly dropped the empty shot glass he was twirling when Oscar’s hands slapped onto his shoulders. He knew immediately it was him — no one else could be mistaken for Oscar, not by scent or touch.
He was about to turn and face him, to speak eye to eye, but at that moment Oscar pressed his chest to Lando’s back, leaning in close enough to heat his ear with his alcohol-warmed breath, his plump lips almost grazing him. “Hey,” Oscar murmured lazily.
“Hi,” Lando replied, tilting his head so his nose nearly brushed Oscar’s cheek. The heat of Oscar against him made him grin, a small surge of thrill mixing with his buzz. “How’s the night going?”
“Fine,” Oscar whispered back, deliberate and teasing, not meeting Lando’s eyes just yet. “But I came here to make it even better.”
Lando could hear the smile in Oscar’s voice and couldn’t help smiling in return, even though Oscar barely had a view of his face. “How so?” he asked, voice shaky from alcohol and anticipation.
“Do you wanna dance with me?” Oscar’s whisper threaded into the music, carrying a lazy, sultry weight that made Lando’s pulse spike. The crowd, the noise, the lights—all of it melted away. It was just Oscar, pressed against him, speaking directly into his ear.
Lando raised an eyebrow in surprise, about to ask what had come over him — sober Oscar would never suggest dancing like this. But instead, he simply took Oscar’s hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, stood up, and finally met the flushed, sparkling eyes of Oscar. Lando forgot all about his plans to join the DJ; he couldn’t have cared less about that. “Of course,” he said, pulling Oscar onto the dance floor with him.
The dance floor swallowed them in neon and heat, bodies pressing together from all sides. Lando moved instinctively, hands roaming his own chest, tossing his head back when the music slowed, offering his neck, his collarbones, his heat to Oscar while sneaking glances to see if Oscar was watching. He always was—eyes locked on him, absorbed, fascinated, just as drunk on the moment as he was.
Standing still just watching felt weird, so Oscar leaned toward Lando’s ear again. “Wanna climb onto my shoulders? You are the champion tonight, after all.”
He stepped back to see Lando’s stunned expression — the dancing frozen, hands hanging midair. Slowly, Lando lowered them, and Oscar caught a glimpse of his pink tongue flicking past his lips before he nodded in approval. “Yeah,” he whispered, almost inaudibly.
Oscar crouched, letting Lando clumsily clamber onto his shoulders. When he straightened, Lando nearly toppled, forcing Oscar to grip his thighs firmly. Thank God no one could hear the startled moan that escaped Lando, drowned out by the roaring crowd as he rose above them.
Lando’s lips curved into a wide grin as Max hit an especially pounding track at the DJ booth. People beneath him screamed his name, reached up, but the only one allowed to touch him tonight was Oscar.
Oscar, who held him steady on his shoulders. Oscar, whose hands stayed on Lando’s thighs, fingers daringly sliding under the edges of his shorts, teasing close to him. Oscar, whose hair Lando gripped with both hands, while Oscar’s fingers dug harder into his legs in response.
The mix of Oscar’s touch, the alcohol flooding his veins, the booming music, and the crowd’s roar made Lando tilt his head back, eyes rolling, drinking it all in. Moments later, he straightened and looked down at Oscar, who met his gaze with a grin.
Fuck, Lando thought, he never wanted to forget the sight of Oscar’s smiling drunk face, trapped between his thighs.
3. Zandvoort 2025
Lando angrily shoved his things into his travel bag, the zipper catching on his jacket as he muttered under his breath, just wanting to get to the hotel as fast as possible. The motorhome felt stifling, cramped, and littered with reminders of the day’s failures. He slammed the bag shut and took a deep, frustrated breath when suddenly there was a soft knock at the door.
“I said don’t bother me,” he snapped, his voice sharp and tired. He had repeated it to the team several times that afternoon: after the press, he would just pack up and leave. He had already done everything he could for the engineers, and staying here, surrounded by the echoes of his own mistakes, was the last thing he wanted.
“…It’s me,” came a quiet voice from the other side of the door after a moment. “Oscar.”
Lando froze, a pang of guilt stabbing through his chest. “Come in,” he said immediately, his tone softening despite himself. He sank slowly onto the couch, the cushions sagging under his weight, and hunched over, covering his face with his hands. “Sorry… didn’t mean to be rude to you.”
Oscar stepped in, closing the door softly behind him, his footsteps muted against the worn carpet. He paused a few feet away, watching Lando slump into himself, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. “It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice careful. “I understand.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock and the uneven rhythm of Lando’s breathing. Sunlight slanted through the small motorhome window, dust motes floating lazily in the golden beam, highlighting the disarray around them. Oscar shifted from foot to foot, raising a hand to rest on Lando’s shoulder a couple of times before thinking better of it, letting it drop gently to his side.
“I just—” Lando broke the quiet suddenly, his voice hoarse and raw. “I hate feeling like there was nothing I could do.”
“Hey, Lando,” Oscar said, crouching down in front of him, resting a hand lightly on Lando’s knee. “You know that’s not true. You can’t always deliver perfect results. These things happen, and it’s definitely not the end of your career.”
Lando buried his face deeper into his hands. “I know… it’s just… it’s so much easier when I know I’m at fault, like back in Canada with you. But this time… the car just…” His voice faltered, swallowed by frustration and helplessness.
“Lando, Lando, stop,” Oscar said gently but firmly, grabbing Lando’s wrists and pulling them away from his face so he could meet his gaze. “You’re overthinking again.”
“I know, but maybe I overdid something, or… why it just smoked like that, I don’t know and I—” Lando’s words tumbled out, frantic, desperate.
“Stop it,” Oscar cut in, raising a hand to the back of Lando’s neck, feeling the tension coil there. “You really couldn’t have done anything. All you can do now is accept that it happened. You’re still fighting me for the title; it hasn’t thrown you out of contention. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Lando stared at him for a few seconds, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe evenly. Then, almost in a whisper, he asked, “Can I… hug you?”
“Come here,” Oscar murmured, opening his arms. Lando slid off the couch, collapsing to the floor beside him, burying himself fully in the warmth of Oscar’s embrace. He pressed his head to Oscar’s chest, inhaling the familiar scent, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though holding on to stability itself.
Oscar wrapped his arms around Lando, feeling the wetness of tears soak through his shirt. One hand moved to cradle the back of Lando’s head, tangling in the dark curls, while the other rested lightly on his back, rubbing in small, soothing circles. Lando sobbed shakily, clinging tighter with each shudder, and Oscar let him, holding him as long as he needed, whispering soft reassurances into the quiet, cluttered motorhome.
4. Marina Bay 2025
It was somewhere around three in the morning when Lando cut through the smooth, cool surface of the pool atop Marina Bay Sands. The city below still glowed — Singapore stubbornly refusing to sleep — and the circuit lay illuminated beneath him, pristine and untouched for now, as if the race had never ended.
Tonight, he had absolutely no desire to join the party George was throwing at one of the clubs downtown. The noise, the questions, the congratulations shouted over music—none of it appealed to him. What he wanted instead was the cool water cradling his body, the night air against his skin, the quiet hum of the city far below. A reset.
The pleasant, lingering thrill of today’s podium and a solid, controlled race still pulsed warmly in his chest. It should’ve been enough. And yet, it wasn’t. Ever since Oscar had come to congratulate him in parc fermé he hadn’t seen him again. Oscar had vanished somewhere between interviews and the paddock exit, and even Zak hadn’t been able to tell him where he’d gone.
Lando rolled onto his back and let himself drift toward the opposite side of the pool, away from the famous edge. He reached out blindly for the Aperol glass waiting there, leaned his wet lips against the rim, and took a slow sip. The bitterness and sweetness lingered pleasantly on his tongue. A light breeze tugged at his damp hair, cooling his skin as he pressed his back against the pool wall and let his gaze wander across the vast, empty expanse of water. The pool felt like it existed just for him.
Unhurried footsteps echoed suddenly behind him, coming from the elevator area. Lando was already bracing himself to sigh — some late-night tourist, some interruption — when he turned his head and saw Oscar walking toward him.
He looked just as surprised, slowing his steps as soon as he spotted Lando in the water.
“Lando?” Oscar asked, stopping near the edge. In one hand, he held an open bottle of expensive wine and a glass. His robe was tied loosely at the waist, hanging open just enough to hint at the toned body beneath. “What are you doing up here?”
Lando blinked, then laughed quietly, the sound carrying oddly in the open air. “Trying to take advantage of team glamorous hotel choice”
Oscar stepped closer and bent down, placing his bottle and glass beside Lando’s Aperol.
“Well,” Oscar said, straightening up, a grin tugging at his mouth, “then I hope you don’t mind the company.”
“Not at all,” Lando breathed.
He watched as Oscar reached for the belt of his robe and untied it with deliberate slowness. When the fabric slipped from his shoulders, Lando’s gaze betrayed him completely, tracing the lines of Oscar’s stomach, the subtle definition of muscle, the curve of his hips just visible above his swim too short trunks. Oscar’s smile widened, as he noticed Lando’s gaze teeth flashing, pleased and a little smug.
“Good,” Oscar said lightly, tossing the robe onto a nearby lounger before turning and diving into the pool. The splash sent cool water over Lando’s chest.
“Hey!” Lando protested, laughing as he set his glass aside and pushed off the wall toward where Oscar was about to surface.
They dissolved into motion — splashing, grabbing, ducking under the water and reemerging somewhere else entirely. Oscar climbed briefly onto Lando’s shoulders before losing balance; Lando retaliated by dragging him under by the thigh. They chased each other through the pool, laughter echoing across the water, surfacing only long enough to steal quick breaths before disappearing again.
Eventually, breathless and spent, Oscar swam toward the edge and grabbed his wine bottle. He moved to stand beside Lando at the panoramic glass, both of them leaning forward, forearms resting on the edge as the city sprawled beneath them in a mosaic of lights.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lando said quietly, the earlier energy melting into something calmer, heavier with exhaustion and wine.
Oscar pressed his bare shoulder against Lando’s and took a long drink straight from the bottle before handing it over. When Lando took it, their fingers brushed — just barely, but enough. Oscar’s eyes lingered on the contrast of his pale fingers against Lando’s sun-warmed skin. “Yeah,” Oscar murmured.
They stayed there, shoulder to shoulder, passing the bottle back and forth. The alcohol seeped slowly into Lando’s limbs, loosening him, making the night feel softer around the edges. After a while, he turned slightly, rested his palm on Oscar’s bicep, and gave it an absent-minded squeeze.
“Where did you disappear to after the race?” he asked, voice low. “I couldn’t find you.”
Oscar huffed softly and lifted the bottle again. As he drank, a drop of red wine slipped from the corner of his mouth. Without thinking and without any time to stop himself Lando leaned in and caught it from Oscar’s chin with his fingertip.
Lando licked the wine from his finger, eyes never leaving Oscar’s face.
Oscar looked away sharply, back toward the city lights, cheeks warm from awkwardness. “I was upset about my result,” he said after a moment. “I just wanted to get through the interviews and go home. I’m sorry I didn’t properly congratulate you.”
“Come on,” Lando said, waving it off gently. “I get it.”
Oscar turned back — and found Lando already watching him. He held the bottle out without looking away. Lando took a sip from the exact spot Oscar’s lips had touched earlier, still holding his gaze.
When the bottle finally ran dry, Oscar swam it back to the edge and returned to Lando. They leaned against the glass again, closer this time. Lando was almost draped over him now, relaxed and heavy, and Oscar kept a steady hand at his lower back to keep him from slipping.
A sudden noise behind them shattered the moment. Three men in swim trunks stepped out of the elevator.
Lando let out an annoyed hum against Oscar’s neck. Oscar agreed silently.
They moved quickly, swimming toward the steps. Lando hung off Oscar’s shoulders, arms loose around his neck as Oscar guided them out of the pool. Just before climbing out, Oscar felt warm and soft kiss pressing briefly against the back of his neck.
He turned sharply, heart jumping. Lando was already climbing the ladder, smiling shyly, eyes fixed anywhere but Oscar. Water traced slow paths down his body as he stepped onto the tiles. Oscar smiled to himself and followed Lando.
5. Las Vegas 2025
Oscar lay naked on the cold hotel bed, arms spread wide, staring blankly at the ceiling. The sheets were too crisp, too impersonal, sticking unpleasantly to his skin whenever he shifted. Somewhere near the door, his open suitcase lay abandoned on the floor, clothes half-folded, already packed for tomorrow’s flight.
His phone rested beside him, screen lighting up again and again as he reopened the championship standings. Disqualified. Both of them. Because of that fucking worn plank. Every time he counted the points, recalculated the gaps, imagined the races left on the calendar, his jaw tightened harder. He’d close the tab, drag his hands down his face, press his palms into his eyes until little sparks danced behind his lids, then open it again anyway. Like maybe the numbers would change if he looked hard enough.
They didn’t.
Sleep refused to come. His body buzzed with leftover adrenaline and frustration, his mind spiraling endlessly — upcoming Lusail, strategies, what-ifs, a thousand alternate versions of the race playing on repeat. The silence of the room felt oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside. At some point, he rolled onto his side and stared at the dark window, seriously considering getting dressed, heading into the city center, finding a bar that didn’t care who he was, and drinking until the disappointment dulled into something manageable.
He’d just decided to do it — pushed himself upright, already reaching for the hoodie draped over a chair — when his phone started ringing from the far side of the bed.
Lando.
Oscar grabbed it immediately, answering before the second ring finished.
“What are you doing?” Lando asked, abrupt, breathy, no greeting at all. In the background, fabric rustled, like he was getting dressed while talking.
“Nothing special,” Oscar said honestly, voice tired as he sat back down on the edge of the bed. “You?”
“Same,” Lando replied. There was a brief clatter, then his voice grew clearer. “Actually… I’m calling to offer you something.”
Oscar hummed softly as he stood again, already smiling despite himself. “Go on.”
“Do you wanna come up to my room?” Lando asked, slower now, nerves slipping through the casual tone. “I’ve got McDonald’s and my laptop. We could eat and watch something.”
The tension in Oscar’s chest loosened instantly. The idea of not being alone — of not sitting with his thoughts in this sterile room — felt like a lifeline. “Of course I do.”
“Yeah?” Lando said a little too loud, relief obvious. “I’m in 410.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Oscar replied, already pulling on a hoodie and a pair of shorts. He hung up before Lando could overthink it.
Lando opened the door almost immediately when Oscar knocked, like he’d been standing there waiting. He was wearing a soft T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, hair messy, eyes tired but bright. He didn’t say anything — just grabbed Oscar’s hand and tugged him inside, shutting the door behind them.
The room was dim and warm, lit only by a small bedside lamp and the bluish glow of a laptop perched on the floor. Takeout bags were scattered nearby, the smell of fries and grease oddly comforting.
They settled on the floor with their backs against the bed, sharing one blanket over their legs. A superhero movie played quietly as they leaned into each other, shoulders touching, thighs pressed close, eating fries that had long since gone cold.
Oscar felt calmer almost immediately. Lando’s presence had that familiar grounding effect. He kept catching Lando glancing at him from the corner of his eye, studying him like he was trying to memorize the moment. Every time Oscar turned to meet his gaze, though, Lando would snap his attention back to the screen, suddenly far too focused on the movie.
As the film neared its climax, Oscar figured there was maybe half an hour left. Half an hour before he’d need to gently disentangle himself and go back to his own room. The thought made something twist in his chest.
Then Lando’s head dropped onto his shoulder.
Oscar looked down, surprised, only now realizing how quiet Lando had gone. His eyes were closed, lashes resting against his cheeks, lips parted slightly as he breathed slow and even. Completely out.
Oscar smiled without thinking. He leaned his head back until it lightly bumped the mattress, then carefully slid his arm around Lando’s waist, pulling him closer. Lando made a soft sound in his sleep and shifted, pressing himself more firmly into Oscar’s shoulder, one hand fisting the fabric of Oscar’s hoodie.
Oscar’s chest tightened. He pressed a feather-light kiss into Lando’s curls, rested his cheek against his head, and let his own eyes close. The movie kept playing in the background, explosions and dramatic music completely forgotten.
He didn’t plan to fall asleep. He told himself he’d stay awake a few more minutes, then wake Lando gently and move him onto the bed.
Instead, the next thing he knew, pale morning light was creeping through the curtains.
Oscar woke stiff and disoriented, sprawled across the floor. Somehow, a pillow had found its way beneath his head. Lando was draped over him now, face buried in Oscar’s chest, arms wrapped tight around him. One of Oscar’s hands was tangled in Lando’s curls, the other rested on his bare back where his T-shirt had ridden up during the night.
Oscar exhaled slowly, squeezing his eyes shut as he registered the ache already forming in his back. He didn’t care.
A moment later, Lando stirred. His sleepy face lifted just enough for his eyes to find Oscar’s, hazy and unfocused — before he dropped back down again, burrowing closer and mumbling something that sounded a lot like five more minutes.
Oscar smiled, tightening his hold just slightly, and stayed exactly where he was.
+1. Abu Dhabi 2025
The roar of the crowd was still ringing in Lando’s ears long after he’d climbed out of the car. It echoed through him — vibrating in his chest, in his bones — as he raised a single finger to the stands. Number one. The world champion.
The word felt unreal, too big to settle properly. His heart had been hammering all day, relentless, his hands trembling through every press conference, every forced smile in the cool-down room, even as he stood on the podium beneath the fireworks. He’d cried already — earlier, when it had finally sunk in — but now there was nothing left. He’d given everything he had out there, every ounce of himself, and what remained was this buzzing, electric emptiness.
Congratulations came from everywhere: his family, friends, mechanics, people he barely remembered speaking to during the season. Faces blurred together, voices overlapping.
But the words that stayed with him — the ones that replayed in his head on a loop — were Oscar’s. Back on the track, while Lando was pulling off his helmet, heart still racing, vision swimming, Oscar had reached him first. He hadn’t said anything at first. Just pulled him in close, forehead brushing Lando’s temple, and whispered into his ear congratulations, my champion.
And that single sentence outweighed everything else.
Later, when Lando finally left Yas Marina, headed for the hotel to shower and change before what he knew would be a night-long celebration, one thought pulsed louder than the rest.
He doubted Oscar would show up at the club. He’d probably be with family, with friends, drained from losing the title fight after pushing it to the very end. Even if he’d said those words on the track — even if he’d meant them — Lando didn’t expect him to celebrate someone else’s victory tonight.
Lost in thought, Lando swiped his keycard and stepped into his hotel room without registering that the lights were already on. He kicked off his shoes, dropped his backpack by the door and froze.
Someone was sitting in the chair by the window. The figure rose slowly, and only then did Lando’s brain catch up.
“Oscar?” he breathed, stunned. “What are you doing here?”
Oscar stepped closer, calm, almost impossibly so, a soft smile on his face. “I wanted to give you my gift in person.”
“My—” Lando blinked. “What gift?”
Oscar didn’t answer with words. He lifted his hands, warm and steady, and cupped Lando’s face, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw before pulling him closer.
“This one,” he murmured.
Then he kissed him.
It was gentle at first, unhurried but certain, as if Oscar had made this decision a long time ago. His lips tasted faintly of champagne, and he chased the remnants of it from Lando’s mouth as his hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his curls.
For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move. His mind stalled, overwhelmed — champion, podium, fireworks, this — all crashing together. But then he leaned in, gripping Oscar’s back, nails digging in lightly as he pressed their bodies together, needing the contact, grounding himself in it. Oscar groaned softly at the response and pulled back just enough to breathe — only to lean in again a second later, deeper now, more intent. Lando’s hand slid lower, settling at Oscar’s waist, holding him there like he might disappear if he didn’t.
The sharp ring of Lando’s phone cut through the moment.
He broke the kiss with a wet sound, breathless, barely coherent. “Wait, Osc, just a sec,” he whispered against Oscar’s lips as he fumbled the phone from his back pocket.
Max’s voice came through immediately, loud and amused, telling him everyone was already at the club, waiting.
Oscar smiled and didn’t stop. He threaded his fingers into Lando’s curls and tilted his head back, exposing his neck. Lando tried to push him away weakly, knowing he wouldn’t be able to keep quiet much longer, but Oscar ignored it, grip tightening just enough to keep him still.
“Yeah,” Lando managed into the phone, voice low and shaky. “I’ll be there soon. Just give me ten minutes.”
Oscar bit down on Lando’s sun-kissed skin, leaving a large, dark hickey with a wet smack.
“What’s that sound?” Fewtrell asked suspiciously.
“Uh—nothing,” Lando muttered, biting his lip hard. He clutched Oscar’s shoulders as another hickey appeared on his collarbone. “Something’s bubbling in the sink.”
Max chuckled, along with Oscar, and hung up. Lando finally let himself moan, the teeth and lips on his skin sending shivers through him.
“Aren’t you coming with me?” he asked softly, pulling Oscar closer again, lips brushing his.
Oscar shook his head, licking his own lips, brushing his tongue teasingly against Lando’s. “No.”
Lando pulled back just enough to look at him, overwhelmed, eyes dark and questioning.
“That’s why,” Oscar whispered, gaze flicking meaningfully to Lando’s neck, “I left this on you.”
He leaned in one last time, voice low, certain.
“I want the whole world to know you’re already mine.”