Chapter Text
Lando wasn’t proud of it.
Actually—no. That was a lie. He was insanely proud of it. In the most fucked-up, deranged, chronically online way imaginable. The detective work. The obsessive pattern recognition. The way he’d pieced it all together like some horny Sherlock Holmes with a penchant for femboys and an encyclopedic knowledge of hotel room layouts.
It had started innocently enough. Well—relatively innocent. As innocent as scrolling Twitter’s cursed 2AM algorithm could be.
He was bored. Restless after Austria. Another weekend that should’ve been a win, thrown away with eight laps to go. His phone had lit up with the usual: debrief reminders, press obligations, Daniel sending him the same meme for the fourth time. But instead of dealing with any of that, he did what any emotionally stable adult with impulse control issues would do.
He opened his burner. Switched to his horny alt. Let the algorithm spoon-feed his lizard brain exactly what it wanted.
Pretty boys in pretty things.
It wasn’t a problem. Not really. Just a coping mechanism. A post-race decompression routine. Harmless, anonymous, nobody’s business but his own.
Until he showed up.
@papayaprince69.
Another faceless torso in expensive lingerie, another carefully cropped thirst trap in black mesh tights with decent lighting and better angles. The kind of post Lando usually bookmarked and forgot five minutes later.
But then he looked again.
And started really looking.
It was the hands that caught him first.
Callused in a way that looked too familiar. The little scar across one knuckle—Silverstone, a pit lane mishap years ago. Even the nails, always kept neat but just slightly outgrown, like whoever this was never had time for proper upkeep between flights and briefings.
Then it was the way he moved. Even in still photos, there was something—posture, maybe. The tilt of his hips. The set of his shoulders. Confident, but not cocky. Controlled, but never stiff.
Like someone who was used to being watched.
Used to performing.
The moles had been the next clue. Tiny constellations scattered across pale skin. One just below his left collarbone. Another on his hip. A cluster on the inside of his thigh that Lando had clocked once—exactly once—in the MTC gym and never managed to forget.
And the one on his neck. The big one. The one he sometimes forgot to crop out. Always edited out of official team portraits, always softened in media shots—but here, it slipped through.
Because Lando knew that mole. Knew it the way you knew your own reflection.
But it was the hotel rooms that sealed it.
Because Lando knew those rooms. Intimately. The beige headboards and the ugly lamps. The sad little framed prints. The polyester blackout curtains and the smell of overbleached sheets. The angle of light through those floor-to-ceiling windows in Monaco. The view from the Montreal Hilton. The exact fucking marble in the bathroom at Suzuka.
Every background was familiar. Every skyline recognizable.
Every single shot had been taken in a hotel room Lando had stayed in himself.
The realization hit him like a brick to the skull.
Sharp. Brutal. Undeniable.
@papayaprince69 wasn’t just some random pretty boy with good taste in lingerie.
He was Oscar fucking Piastri.
His teammate. His friend. The guy who sat next to him in every briefing. Who shared his data. Who smiled at him across the garage like it meant nothing. Who Lando had been harboring the world’s most pathetic crush on for the better part of two years.
The smart thing would’ve been to close the app. Delete the alt. Pretend he’d never seen a thing. Maybe book a session with a therapist and unpack whatever sick part of his brain had learned to recognize his teammate’s hands from a cropped Twitter thirst trap.
Instead, Lando had done the exact opposite of smart.
He’d followed the account.
And then—because apparently he had zero self-preservation instincts—he started looking. Again.
Scrolled back months. Digging through every post like a man possessed. Oscar in mesh. Oscar in satin. Oscar in lace and thigh-highs and shit that barely counted as clothing. Bent over hotel beds, silhouetted in window light, arched and posed like he was trying to break the internet one sinful photo at a time.
This wasn’t a one-off. This wasn’t some drunk little experiment.
It was a whole fucking operation.
And Lando devoured it.
He knew Oscar’s body better than his own now. Had jerked off to him so many times he’d lost count. Had spent hours staring at those legs—his legs—while the real thing sat not ten feet away, completely oblivious in the garage, sipping coffee and talking about tyre degradation like he wasn’t singlehandedly ruining Lando’s life.
It was fucked. Deeply, irreparably fucked.
And the worst part? The part that made him want to scream into a pillow or launch himself directly into the fucking sun?
He was pretty sure Oscar had no idea.
Not about the account. Not about Lando’s feelings. Not about the way Lando’s heart did humiliating little backflips every time Oscar smiled at him, said his name, stood too close. Every time he existed in Lando’s general vicinity.
Oscar treated him exactly the same as always. Friendly. Professional. Completely fucking platonic.
Like he wasn’t secretly running the world’s most devastating femboy Twitter account that made Lando’s brain short-circuit and his dick do unspeakable things.
Like he wasn’t the most beautiful person Lando had ever seen.
Like he wasn’t slowly, methodically, driving Lando absolutely out of his fucking mind.
Which is why, when Lando’s phone lit up with a fresh notification from @papayaprince69, he stared at the screen like he could will it into not existing.
Another post. Another thirst trap. Another test of his already compromised sanity.
He shouldn’t open it. He’d promised himself—again—that he was done. Done with this account. Done jerking off to his teammate. Done being a complete fucking creep about the whole thing.
He opened it anyway.
And then there it was.
Oscar. In nothing but briefs. Backlit by Shanghai’s skyline, gold and blurred and dreamlike behind him. Head tilted just enough to keep the illusion alive. Legs parted. Torso tense. Body arched like he was built for it.
Lando’s mouth went dry. His brain flatlined.
Fuck.
Almost nine months of this, and it still hit him like the first time. Still made his chest ache and his pulse hammer.
Almost nine months of lurking in the shadows—liking posts from his carefully anonymous alt, never commenting, never interacting. Just… watching.
He should close the app. Go to sleep. Pretend tomorrow’s race wasn’t going to be torture. Pretend he wasn’t going to spend the whole day sitting three feet from Oscar, pretending not to remember this photo.
Instead, Lando opened the DMs.
Because of course he fucking did.
He’d never messaged before. Not once. That was a line he hadn’t dared to cross—lurking was pathetic, sure, but at least it wasn’t psychotic. Messaging meant intent. Meant fantasy crashing headfirst into reality.
But something about tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the post-quali adrenaline still fizzing under his skin. Maybe it was the way Oscar had looked at him earlier in the garage—just for a second, barely long enough to mean anything, but sharp enough to linger.
Maybe Lando was just tired.
Tired of pretending this wasn’t eating him alive.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard, useless. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Hey, love your work. Also, we’re teammates and I’ve been jerking off to your photos for almost nine months.
Yeah. No. Absolutely not.
If he was going to do this—and apparently, his dumbass traitor fingers had already made that decision—he had to be careful. Smart. Someone else entirely.
@mc1r0nlegend.
The alt he’d been lurking with. No banner, no name. Just a profile pic of the McLaren F1—the McLaren F1, 1992, V12, dream machine. Obvious, in hindsight. But at the time it felt like camouflage.
Oscar wouldn’t clock it. Couldn’t. Just another faceless fan with a hard-on for cars and femboys.
Lando exhaled. Fingers finally moving.
He started typing.
@mc1r0nlegend
do you like f1
A loaded question. He already knew the answer—had recognized every hotel room, every skyline. But he wanted to see how Oscar would play it.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
Last chance to be normal. Last chance to back out, delete the app, go to bed, and not spiral headfirst into the biggest mistake of his life.
He hit send anyway.
This was insane. This was so far beyond stupid he didn’t even have a word for it.
His phone buzzed.
@papayaprince69
yeah. why?
Lando stared at the message like it might explode in his hands.
Oscar had responded.
He responded.
Not with a block. Not with a snarky reply. Not with eerie silence and a future HR complaint.
A real reply. Curious. Casual. Open.
Lando’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.
He had no plan. No script. Nothing to fall back on except the raw, stupid hope that he could pull this off without outing himself as a complete fucking lunatic.
He started typing.
@mc1r0nlegend
just saw some of ur pics
looked like u’d been to a race
thought that was cool
True enough. If you ignored the part where he’d been to those exact races, stayed in those exact rooms. Where he’d probably walked past Oscar’s door without knowing what was happening behind it—that the guy he’d been dreaming about was on the other side taking photos that made Lando want to scream into a pillow.
He watched the typing indicator appear. Then vanish. Then flicker back.
Lando forgot how to breathe.
Just two people. Chatting about racing. Totally normal.
Except Oscar was basically naked in that photo. And Lando was already half-hard. And nothing about this was normal or innocent or even remotely okay.
@papayaprince69
you a fan?
hell yeah Lando typed, then immediately backspaced. Too eager.
He retyped, slower this time.
@mc1r0nlegend
hell yeah
whats ur team?
@papayaprince69
mclaren all the way of course
Lando’s chest went tight.
He knew Oscar drove for them. But seeing it typed out like that—here, in this secret space where they weren’t teammates but strangers—felt like something else. Like a shared secret.
Even if Oscar had no idea he was sharing it.
@mc1r0nlegend
nice
i figured ur handle was a reference
ur taste is immaculate
not just in teams either
That last line was definitely flirting. Definitely edging into dangerous territory.
But at this point, he was already drowning.
@mc1r0nlegend
been following you for a while
never thought id find someone here who likes f1 too
@papayaprince69
you say that like we’re in a secret society
And Lando didn’t even think. Just started typing, grinning like an idiot.
@mc1r0nlegend
we kind of are
horny twinks who can tell the difference between softs and mediums
The reply came so fast it must’ve been typed in real time.
@papayaprince69
how long have you been following me?
Direct. Sharp. Dangerous.
Lando swallowed. Thought about lying. Then said fuck it.
@mc1r0nlegend
long enough to know u have a favourite mirror
and that ur left leg always pops when u pose
True. Painfully, embarrassingly true.
He’d noticed the way Oscar always shifted his weight, the subtle asymmetry. The way his hip curved, always slightly to the left, like he knew that was his best angle.
Longer pause this time.
Maybe he’d said too much. Been too specific. Too familiar.
@papayaprince69
so you’re a fan of my legs?
And just like that—they were flirting.
Actually flirting.
@mc1r0nlegend
im a fan of the whole thing
legs
lingerie
the whole orange motif u got going on
its giving personality
The orange was a risk. Too on-the-nose. Too close to the bone.
But he’d clocked it months ago—the way Oscar gravitated toward that shade. Papaya. McLaren. Like some part of him couldn’t help but carry the team with him, even here.
And Lando—stupid, doomed Lando—was in love with every pixel of it.
@papayaprince69
you always flirt like this or am i special
Lando’s breath caught.
There was something different now. Less guarded. More curious . Like maybe Oscar was leaning in.
@mc1r0nlegend
only for u
x
The x was calculated. Strategic. Lando never texted like that—he wasn’t a Tesco mum or someone’s flirty aunt. But here, it felt British enough to mislead. Just a soft little decoy to keep Oscar from thinking of anyone too close to home.
@papayaprince69
alright. prove it.
what’s my best post
Too easy.
@mc1r0nlegend
hotel window. black tights. skyline behind you
the one where u said nothing and let the lighting do the work
hot
classy
a little devastating
And it had been devastating. Lando had stared at that photo until it burned itself into his vision. Just Oscar in soft shadow, legs crossed, body curved, expression hidden. A silhouette in silk and silence.
It had lived in his head for weeks. Still did.
@papayaprince69
you’re trouble
@mc1r0nlegend
not yet
but im working on it
do u have a discord
Bold as hell. Stupid as hell.
But the truth was—this conversation, this lie, this stupid, sacred little masquerade—was the most honest he’d been with Oscar in two years.
Even if Oscar had no idea it was him.
@papayaprince69
yeah my discord tag is the same as my handle
you want me to be your discord kitten or something lol
Lando stared at the message, heart hammering against his ribs.
Discord kitten. Oscar had actually said discord kitten.
This was the point where any rational person would back out.
Lando opened Discord instead.
Fingers moving before his brain could catch up.
@mc1r0nlegend
oh fuck all the way off
maybe
He made the account without thinking. Same photo. Same handle. Just another ghost in the machine.
He sent the friend request.
Didn’t give himself time to hesitate.
And then—pop.
papayaprince69 accepted your friend request.
Lando’s stomach dropped straight through the floor.
mc1r0nlegend
oh shit you actually accepted it
now i gotta be charming for real
papayaprince69
nah i prefer emotional damage
keeps me grounded
Lando let out a strangled laugh. Of course Oscar would say that. Funny and self-deprecating even here, like he wasn’t slowly dismantling Lando’s brain cell by cell.
mc1r0nlegend
fuck i can do that too
but only if you promise to keep bullying me with your thighs
Too honest. But the reply hit instantly.
papayaprince69
u really like my thighs huh
mc1r0nlegend
dude
they haunt me
i saw one pic where ur garter strap was just barely showing and i genuinely had to take a walk
He remembered that night—staring at that photo until the details branded themselves into his vision. The flash of skin. The edge of the strap.
He’d had to get up. Walk the hotel hallway. Twice.
papayaprince69
bit dramatic
mc1r0nlegend
im british
we live for drama
papayaprince69
i could tell
nobody else punctuates their sentences with x
mc1r0nlegend
cant help it x
u british too?
Perfect. Oscar had noticed exactly what Lando wanted him to notice. Keep it light. Keep it stupid.
Then—
papayaprince69
no
i’m american
rah eagles and what the fuck is a kilometer shit
Lando blinked at his phone.
Oscar was lying. Obviously lying. Lando had heard his accent every day for three years.
And yet—here he was. Pretending to be someone else, just like Lando.
It should have been comforting. They were both playing roles.
Instead, it stung. Because for a second, he’d let himself pretend they were being honest.
mc1r0nlegend
thats cool
surprised theres so many f1 fans in the states
anyway not to be dramatic again
you should surprise me with other pic
a new one
He was pushing. He knew he was pushing.
But Oscar was flirting back, playing along, and Lando felt drunk on the possibility.
papayaprince69
you’re bold
any requests
Lando’s mouth went dry.
mc1r0nlegend
a leotard
nylon spandex latex whatever
u can do some real damage with that
A pause.
papayaprince69
like the sight of my thighs doesn’t already make u lose it
no promises
listen i gotta go
Lando scrambled.
mc1r0nlegend
maybe i just like to live life on edge
also was gonna say the same
see u whenever my sweet price
He hit send—and immediately wanted to launch his phone into the sea.
My sweet prince? What the fuck was wrong with him?
Then Oscar was offline.
Lando stared at the screen, hands shaking.
He’d done it. Actually done it.
Slid into Oscar’s DMs and somehow hadn’t completely fucked it up. Oscar had flirted back. Had asked what Lando wanted. Had lied about being American.
Which meant he was just as invested in keeping this anonymous.
Lando dropped the phone and scrubbed his hands over his face.
He was going to hell for this. No question. Straight shot. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.
But Oscar had called him trouble.
And promised to think about the leotard.
Lando was so fucked.