Work Text:
Lando smells it as soon as he returns to the McLaren motorhome, the bitter resignation of getting a P5 right at the first race of his title defending season instantly smothered by what he can only dub as astonishment. The scent floats thinly in the air, sweet and dry and unbearably sad, all chocolate and boiling sugar, almost burnt. Around him, people still roam about busily, just like how it usually is after a race, and no one spares him a glance as he makes a beeline toward Oscar’s driver room.
The door isn’t locked when he gets there. Oscar gives him a lazy look when he spots Lando in the doorway, head barely moving from where he rests against the couch, seemingly very unimpressed that Lando’s sneaked up on him. Briefly, Lando wonders if he doesn’t want to move, or doesn’t have the strength to.
“A knock would be nice.”
Lando says easily, “The door was open,” which is technically the truth, because it was definitely not fully closed.
“Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Oscar snaps back. Still, he scoots over on the couch to make room for Lando, because he is hospitable like that. “Congrats on P5, by the way. Very fun race to watch.”
That pulls a snort out of Lando. “Fuck you,” he says, chuckling, and Oscar grins back, that soft, tired smile that matches his soft, tired eyes, as if he didn’t just call Lando a loser for finishing fifth despite not even starting the race himself. For a moment, it feels like one of those times when they joke and fuck around with each other during filmings and fanstages, light-hearted, easy, and if Lando was stupid enough he’d be fooled into thinking Oscar was just fine, that he wasn’t affected at all by what had happened to the point of going into a stress heat.
The lingering scent in the room says otherwise. It smells like Oscar, like heat, which it’s the two things Lando rarely finds in the same thought after the few but long years they spend together as teammates. The scent is dimming rapidly for some reason, but Oscar’s face is still flushed with a feverish pink, all the while somehow looking deadly pale. He has lost his lining shirt but still has enough decency to put on his Nomex, and the collar is not fully done up, showing just enough for Lando to see the white edges of scent-blockers on his reddened skin, hardly doing its job of concealing the scent of an omega in distress.
There is a crumbled, silvery thing on the ground when Lando makes his way to the couch, and Oscar’s wet brown eyes move with him as he bends down to pick it up. Emergency suppressant pills, he notes, a pack of ten, all gone and empty.
That explains a few things, really. “How are you feeling?” He asks in lieu of anything, and Oscar just shrugs, picture-perfectly unbothered.
“Could be better, but not bad.”
Lando doesn’t know if he means to be sarcastic, but he just sounds hoarse, frail even. The emergency pills seem to be working, slowly and surely, but whatever effects they have they are making Oscar quite miserable before the heat can be completely shut down. It kind of sends Lando all sorts of mixed signals. He has been with omegas in heat before, and he has also been with omegas who are in pain. The instinctive reaction in both cases has always been an intense urge to fix it, to give comfort and make sure everything feels good and right, be it with his knot or a few soft touches and reassuring words, and that urge increases tenfold with Oscar being like this, half way between heat and pain.
But Lando bites it down with clenched fists and teeth to the inside of his cheeks, because Oscar has made himself clear, hasn’t he, with the layers of patches on the sides of his neck and the ten pills or so he has shoved down his throat. Contrary to popular belief, Lando’s not always a thoughtless, blissfully ignorant alpha, and he’s smart enough to understand what the hell being given a polite cue to leave is.
So he heads toward the door again, light in his steps, and Oscar watches him through it with glassy eyes, all squished to one side of the couch. The place he’s made for Lando is still there, cold and untouched.
“Um,” Lando makes a noise at the threshold, one foot already outside the room. The instinct to react to an omega in distress doesn’t let him leave without a further word, so he decides on something safe and polite, noncommittal. “Call me if you need anything?”
“Of course,” Oscar says to him. “Bye, Lando.”
He makes sure that the door is firmly closed on his way out.
_
In the very average length of his career, Lando has his share of stress ruts. What can he say, he is a pretty emotional guy, he wears his heart on a sleeve, he is easily affected and not afraid to show it because what the fuck is alpha stoicism anyway, and sometimes he shows it a little too much. The most recent was at last season’s finale, and only with a needle to his neck and the emergency suppressant burning through his system that Lando could make it in time to the podium, to his crowning as the new world champion.
Oscar had been there, too, freshly out of the car with helmet lines still pink on his face, rushed to Lando’s driver room because Lando was so excited to win the championship that he went into a stress rut about it. Lando didn’t remember much at the time, his memory gapping with rut hormones and adrenaline and then some more, but the needle had always been the obvious choice – no matter how mean and cruel and childish Lando could be, he wasn’t going to make his teammate help him through his rut, not when he had just done snatching the championship out of said teammate’s soft, pale hands mere moments ago.
Lando hasn’t paid it too much thought at all, not until it’s him who stands in Oscar’s driver room, sent away by Oscar’s tactful gestures and curt words. He wonders if Oscar had felt like this too, the sullenness of what can only be best described as being rejected, when he watched a barely lucid Lando stabbed himself in the neck with parenteral suppressant.
But it’s not important anyway. Being expected to help the other driver through stress heats and ruts doesn’t mean they have to do it. Lando’s pretty sure he’s so hung up on it only because it’s Oscar that they are talking about. Oscar, who is different from Lando in many ways, who is open and earnest but all the same private, to the point it took Lando until mid 2024 to really confirm that Oscar’s omega status wasn’t just some kind of sick, cruel joke floating around the paddock. They have been through many stressful ups and downs together, and while Lando has lost himself one time or two to a stress rut, Oscar’s resolve has been firm and steady, unaffected even in hellish circumstances like the end of the last year.
So, it’s a little foreign for Lando to be reminded that under all that careful controls, Oscar is still human after all, and turns out he falls victim to a stress heat sometimes.
China is a big disappointment, to say the least. Lando’d like to think he’s taking it better than he should, and Oscar seems so, too. Contrary to the utter wreck of flushed pink skin and tired wet eyes in Australia, this time Oscar just looks impatient, almost frustrated, an expression on his face like if he stared at the screen hard enough he would be on track instead of watching from the motorhome. Which, fair, Lando yearns for the exact same thing.
He can smell it in the air, Oscar’s scent getting out despite all the thick blockers on his neck, the testament of just how much Oscar is feeling under that quiet frown. Thing is, Oscar often smells nothing more than a beta with a chocolatey sweet tooth to Lando, with the way he covers himself with patches to smother away his omega scent. But now that Lando has known the scent of Oscar’s heat, he feels like he has been noticing it ever since. Hot and sweet, barely there yet undeniable to Lando’s keen alpha senses, evident even now.
If there is anything Lando’s learned from the incident in Australia, it’s that just because Oscar’s better at concealing his issues doesn’t mean he isn’t going through it. The last thing Lando wants is for a stress heat to sneak up on Oscar again and make an already tense situation even worse for him. Two DNSes right at the start of the season, one at his home race – if it were Lando, he’d have already been in ten stress ruts or something.
So he tries to check up on Oscar, like any good teammate would. “Hey mate,” he calls. “How are you feeling?” He wants to add, Why do you smell like heat, but that’s not really appropriate, innit.
Oscar blinks at him, slow like a cat. Then, he gives a lop-sided smile when the question finally registers.
“Less lonely now that I have someone to watch the race with?”
“Sure,” Lando rolls his eyes. “Here with you through thick and thin, yadda yadda.”
And that should be it. Oscar seems fine, they are joking like they usually do, and Lando should let it be. Except the scent is still there, clinging to Oscar’s fireproof, the soft curls of his hair, in Lando’s fucking nose. It makes Lando confused, makes him want to pry. Oscar doesn’t look like he’s in heat, all firm and prim and proper with set jaw and crossed arms, but he smells it. Lando is just an alpha, so he’s susceptible to the teaching of always believing his nose over his eyes, because scents don’t lie.
A rather insane thought occurs to Lando in the back of his mind. What if Australia wasn’t even Oscar’s first stress heat in McLaren, what if he had had plenty and just hid them brilliantly. What if, he is hiding one right now.
Lando’s not sure what to do with that thought, so he abandons it and tries to find another way to explain the situation. If he looks close enough, and believe him that he does, one of Oscar’s scent-blockers is curling, almost peeling off from where it’s sticking haphazardly against Oscar’s skin. Logically, that must be the source of all Lando’s grievances, and he reaches out to smoothes it down, manners and politeness all forgotten from the impatience to test his theory.
Oscar notices right before Lando’s fingers touch him. He doesn’t jerk away; instead he tilts toward Lando, trusting despite the slight confusion on his face.
“What?”
“Uh,” Lando stammers eloquently. “Your patches.”
He lets his hand do the work, pushing the cotton flush against Oscar’s neck so it sticks again. Oscar’s skin feels warm under his fingertips, his pulse rabbit fast, evidently even through all the layers of patches.
“Jeez, thanks,” Oscar says. There is a hint of pink on his cheeks, which is rapidly deepening. “I must have stinked up the whole place, huh.”
“Oh you sure did, mate,” Lando goes with the flow. “Have you ever fathomed the concept of a shower?”
In any other cases, making suggestions about the intensity of an omega’s scent would probably result in a whole compulsory training about microaggressions in the workplace, but it’s Oscar, and this kind of banter is familiar to them. So Oscar just grins back at him, no offense taken at all, and somehow watching the race from the motorhome feels more bearable, with Oscar beside him like this, whistling when the two Ferraris overtake each other on track.
In the air, the scent of heat still floats around.
_
Japan’s mediocre for Lando, great for Oscar. It’d definitely be greater if it was a win, but considering they were fearing for their life that the car wouldn’t even start, P2 is huge.
Lando watches as Oscar raises high his trophy, as he sprays his champagne and gets sprayed back, eyes crinkling from the bubbles. Happiness and glory look good on him, as they do on anybody, but there’s a special quality in the way Oscar carries about it, like he’s more honest and open than he’s ever been, one of the few moments his emotions are shown blatantly.
They meet again after the post-race interview, showered and all packed up, ready to leave. Oscar looks like he’s in a good mood, because of course he is, and it makes him more relaxed than usual. He does a big stretch, long and lazy like a cat. It makes the hem of his shirt ride up a little, and Lando’s very careful not to look at the pale sliver of skin there.
There are patches on his neck, but Lando can still smell him, or at least a lighter concentration of him. Clean and pleased, chocolate and sugar, heat.
At this point, he has conditioned himself into treating the heat-like note in Oscar’s scent as background. It has been there, persistent through the free practices, to qualifying and the race, even until now. He’d very much love to acknowledge it, to ask and scratch his curiosity, but no one else seems to share the same observation so he keeps his mouth shut.
“Any plans for next month?” He asks instead, small little talk. “Ample time to cool off, am I right?”
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Have a good rest, mate.”
And that’s that. Lando watches him go, gentle trails of scent floating in his wake. They won’t be seeing each other for work for roughly a month, and Lando can only hope whatever issue Oscar’s having with his scent will end in the meantime, so he can stop fixating on it and focus on driving the damn car.
Is Oscar even aware of the issue to bother doing something about it, is a question to have.
Lando has absolutely no idea.
_
On the constructor’s level, Miami is great with their double podium. It’s still just the beginning of the season, so nothing is set in stone yet and anything can happen.
In hindsight, the signs are many but subtle. The scent of heat still clings to Oscar even after one month of wait, always there for the whole weekend, but Lando ignores it for he thinks it must mean nothing by now, and lets the concoction of happy hormones take the better of him. He does notice that Oscar’s flushed and sweaty when they are in the cool-down room, but those seem like the usual bodily reactions after a long race. So they get their trophies, spray their champagne, and Lando watches with a grin as Oscar tips his head back and laughs out loud, confetti strips all over him like wrapping a present.
Only when they are back at the motorhome, high emotions dying down, that Lando has half a mind to notice it all. They are both in Oscar’s driver room, because somehow it’s a shorter walk from the podium and Lando can be a sloth if he wants to. Any place to change will do. If Lando was more proper and righteous, he would give a fuck that he is an alpha and Oscar is an omega and all that, but Oscar’s Oscar, and they have been in each other’a driver room before, changing together before, basically naked in two ice baths inches apart before, why fret now. And Oscar lets him into the room, because of course he does. There are only few, few things that Oscar’d have the heart to deny from Lando, championship not included.
Getting sprayed on the podium for the first time in the season has been good, but now he just feels sticky and clammy, and he makes quick work of taking off his race suit, yanking off his soaked, useless patches. Next to him, Oscar doesn’t share the same hurry. He stills, and his head turns to Lando, almost sluggish in its motion, eyes dragging to Lando’s bare neck.
“Oh, sorry,” Lando says. “My patches are ruined, mate. Can I borrow you some?”
Oscar blinks, “Of course.” It’s clipped and curt, like he’s struggling to force his voice out. There’s a waver in it that rings a metaphorical alarm inside Lando’s head, enough to make him suck in a deep breath, his own and Oscar’s scents filling his lungs full.
There it is again, never absent anyway, that hot, sugary note of Oscar’s heat. This time, Lando can no longer force it to fade into the background – it’s in the forefront, undeniable and all-consuming, rapidly kicking his instincts into overdrive.
He turns to Oscar, and Oscar looks right back at him, eyes all wide and glassy.
It’s endearing, really. Oscar being so happy about the double podium that he goes into another stress heat, the very second one in his career.
The first time it happened in Australia, the circumstances had been a disaster for Oscar, and Lando had found him all heart-broken with his heat already half weaned by a pack of suppressants. This time, though, he has the chance to watch it from the start, and he does so intently, taking in Oscar’s flushed pink cheeks and molten wet eyes. In the baser parts of his alpha instincts, Lando can’t help but feel gleeful at the timing of this second chance – both of them were on the podium, it will be a celebration, it’s perfect.
“Lando, I–” Oscar says, and Lando shushes him up, practically crooning.
That must have been the cue for Oscar to realize that Lando knows, because he grows redder somehow. His scent turns sweeter, delectable, and his mouth drops open but no words come out. He’s avoiding Lando’s gaze, like he’s overwhelmed, clueless in this situation his body has put himself in. Soft, vulnerable. It’s so unlike the sure and certain image he always puts out for the world to see, and Lando’s chest tightens painfully with the urge to protect, to soothe and tell Oscar that everything will be okay, that don’t worry, Lando will take care of him.
And Lando will. He’s Oscar’s teammate, his senior; it’s unwritten law that he’s supposed to help Oscar through this, remember? Fuck. He blinks. Oscar’s scent is fucking heavy with his head. It’s enticing, almost like it’s beckoning Lando to take the lead, to make first move, to finally do something about about Oscar’s heat, and Lando is just an alpha, he’s susceptible to believing his nose over–
“Osc,” he calls, draping his hand over Oscar’s shoulder, creeping near the column of his neck. He wants to peel off the patches there. “I will–”
Oscar jerks away.
One moment he’s looking at Lando with soft, open eyes, the next he is already walking toward the couch with unsteady steps, almost collapsing onto the thick cushions. There’s a backpack, the one Oscar always brings with him to race weekends, and Lando can only watch as Oscar fumbles with it to find a simple package, his small, pale hands shaking with the effort.
Injection suppressant, Lando notes.
Oscar must have noticed Lando’s stare, because he offers an attempt of a shrug, still vying for nonchalance even now. “Just to keep it at bay,” he croaks, voice forced into an even tone.
“Right,” is all Lando can say.
It takes no more than a few seconds for Oscar to tear open the matte plastic wrap and plunge the needle into his neck, no finesse or whatsoever. He’s panting through it, open-mouthed, his eyebrows all scrunched up like he is in pain, heat and hurt mixing all together, and that urge is tearing itself through Lando’s instincts again–to help, to fix, to touch and scent and soothe and lead. Lando does none of that; instead he swallows it down and stands rooted in his spot, heart palpitating in his chest.
The thing with injection suppressants is that they are potent, fast-acting. In no time the room is void of the scent of omega in heat, and for the first time in weeks, that sugary note is no longer clinging to Oscar. He’s back to that neutral scent again, beta-like in its blandness. It makes Lando wonder if Oscar’s body had been working toward a heat the whole time, if it had been the sign of a long-winded, strange pre-heat that Lando smelled on him, and Lando could have–
It’s not important anyway. Oscar has made himself clear.
“Lando,” Oscar calls.
His voice is the barest hoarse, his hair is mused and his cheeks are still flushed, but the line of his jaw is set again, firm. The sound of his name makes Lando perk up regardless, his instincts still brimming with the urge to do something, to help.
“Yeah?”
“You said you want patches?”
“Oh, right,” Lando says dumbly. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
He drags a hand over his face, realizing how sweaty he has become, and hesitantly, tentatively makes his way toward the couch. He really doesn’t want to think about what kind of scent he is shooting into the air right now, and if it’s anything weird, Oscar doesn’t comment on it. He just quietly hands Lando a handful of pristine, sealed patches, then quietly watches as Lando peels the paper away and slaps them onto his neck, one by one.
“Thanks, mate,” he tries lamely. “You may breathe now.”
Oscar gives him a chuckle at that. It's the same easy smile again, the same easy push and pull they always have, and with the room now smelling like absolutely nothing but floral air freshener, Lando can almost pretend he doesn’t see the still bleeding dot on the side of Oscar’s neck.
“I’ll go pack then,” Oscar says, as final as it can be.
Lando nods before he can understand it, more than eager to see himself out, and his feet finally move again, bringing him to the door. He almost trips over something on the floor, and when he looks down it’s the empty syringe, rolling around and making soft, hollow noises.
“Uh, yeah,” he replies, several beats too late. “I should go do that too.”
_
Lando DNFed in the next two races. Which is definitely a very shit and unfortunate thing, but if there is anything Lando has learned during his time in the sport, it’s that he has grown a thicker skin. So he takes it just fine, with just the correct amount of frustration and disappointment and resignation, nothing more, nothing less.
Still, the incident from last year’s finale seems to have set a pretty bad reputation to his name, because he finds some staff members hanging outside his driver room after Monaco, holding some sealed, opaque bags that are doing a very bad job at concealing the emergency suppressants inside. He even finds Oscar a few minutes after the end of the race, knocking on his door like the good, dutiful teammate that he is.
Lando feels a little sick in his stomach at the thought that Oscar has been urged here, just because everyone and their mother are afraid that Lando’s going into a stress rut, as if Oscar’s a foolproof contingency plan to every Lando-induced fuckup or something.
“You good?” Oscar asks. He gives Lando a small smile from where he’s teetering at the threshold.
“Peachy,” Lando says. It comes out a little bitter, so he immediately softens his bristles and adds. “Uh, good race by the way. Shame that you lost out on podium because of the stupid penalty.”
Oscar smiles again, and this time it looks more honest on him. “Eh, it is what it is. Someone has been watching the race real close, I see.”
Lando gives him the middle finger, which is very mature of him. It makes Oscar laugh for real this time. “Not like I had anything else to do, innit.”
Jokes and banters, camaraderie, all the usual stuff. Safe, familiar, reassuring. See, ever since Miami Lando keeps having this gnawing like he must have done something wrong, with the way Oscar was looking him dead in the eyes while plunging the suppressant into his neck, as if Lando wasn’t three steps away, extremely willing to help. But then they are still racing like normal, talking like normal, doing all the stupid social media filmings and laughing together about it.
So, one month later, and Lando’s pretty sure that yes, they are indeed fine, they are still them, nothing has happened at all.
They haven’t talked about it. Not like there’s anything to talk about.
The most important thing to come out of the situation is that the scent of sweet, sweet heat is completely turned off on Oscar. No more scent, so no more confusion, and Lando can finally stop losing his mind about it. All’s good, god bless.
At Barcelona, he snatched the very last spot of the podium. In all honesty, his own meager achievement is not nearly as great as finally seeing the Lewis Hamilton on the top step in Ferrari’s colour, and Lando can’t even be mad that he isn’t the race winner – he always loves to appreciate a fellow driver’s special moment.
It’s big, it’s grand, it’s the kind of thing that makes the sport. Still, Lando’s just the smallest bit surprised when he smells that sweet note in Lewis’ scent, barely there as they stand together on the stage. Lewis is an older omega, full of experience, and he has been in this ruthless sport longer than most drivers on the grid. So, knowing that even Lewis himself is so moved and affected by this win to the point of possibly going into a stress heat really hammers home just how important the whole thing is.
Lando hasn’t meant to watch or stare, but Charles is right there when they’re off the podium, together with the whole Ferrari team. He DNFed today, so of course he looks sad, but he still keeps a smile on his face when Lewis comes to him, a hand protectively on the small of Lewis’ back.
“Yeah,” George whispers next to him, wrinkling his nose. “I think Lewis’ in stress heat.”
It piques Lando’s interest, because as far as he knows George is also an alpha, and he used to be Lewis’ teammate too, and the face he’s making at the Ferrari drivers’ PDA seems an awful lot like poorly hidden jealousy. Lando is a messy motherfucker, so he cannot miss a chance to probe and pry and test the water a little.
“Uh-huh,” he hums. “But he has his teammate now, so don’t cha worry.”
George just snorts, taking it all in good sport. “Of course,” he shrugs, even making a joke. “Best driver pairing on the current grid for a reason. Such good teammates.”
Lando’s reasonably sure George doesn’t even have any idea about Australia or Miami to knowingly make an off-handed dig at it, but it slights him regardless. He feels it even more as he watches Charles and Lewis in the distance, disappearing behind the same door of the Ferrari motorhome, all familiar and natural, like they have done it a million times before. To add insult to injury, they have only been teammates for a year or so.
He thinks of the crumbled blister pack and the empty syringe, of Oscar’s tactful words and dead stares. His voice sounds more annoyed than the sarcastic tone he has aimed for.
“Right. Such good teammates.”
_
Lando must have jinxed the fuck out of it, because Oscar’s heat scent is back at the Red Bull Ring.
He goes through the whole weekend like he always does, all the while putting on a rather piss poor performance of pretending like he doesn’t notice the change in Oscar’s scent. At this point, he’s in disbelief that no one other than himself seems to have any qualm about it. Lando understands the need for professionalism and appropriate behaviours and tacts and all that, especially when an omega is concerned, but it’s getting rather distracting.
He can’t help but cheer in his head a little when Oscar sits with the team physio longer on Thursday evening. Fucking finally. Maybe something will be said, be pointed out, and actions will be taken; Oscar won’t smell like he's in a perpetual Schrödinger’s heat anymore.
In the end, Austria is a so-so result for both of them, Lando three positions lower, because the car is shit and Lando is kind of shit from all this, too.
Oscar still smells the same at Silverstone.
Whatever the physio discussed with him, it didn’t seem to make a dent. So here Oscar is, on the weekend of Lando’s home race where quite a lot of things are at stake for Lando, smelling like the most mouth watering pain au chocolat that Lando cannot even address, let alone take a bite out of to sate his curiosity and be done with it.
At least it’s home, so he has someone who he can talk to without the fear of being reported to HR for inappropriate behaviours. Namely Max, who drops by the track on Wednesday, laughing through Lando’s garage like a storm. He visits Oscar’s too, a few handshakes, small talk here and there, and Lando notices the slight wrinkles of his nose when Oscar cocks his head just right, scent flaring.
He prides himself on being rather straight to the point, so that night at their booth, privately secured at one corner of the club, he asks Max right after their first sip of beer.
“Do you think Oscar smells strange?”
From across the table, Max almost chokes on his second sip. “Uhhh,” he stares at Lando. Thing is, Max and Oscar are good acquaintances too, so he rather hates it when he has to take a side. But soon he seems to realize Lando isn’t asking him to do any choosing, that what Lando has asked is just an honest question without ill intention or malice. So he clears his throat, laces his fingers together, like he’s bracing for whatever bullshit Lando’s bringing on.
“I guess.”
“Thank fuck,” Lando bemoans. “I thought I was going mental, mate. What do you think it smells like?”
Max gives him a funny look at that, but still entertains him like the good friend that he is. “I don’t know, not really his close and personal teammate, aren’t I,” he says. “But if I have to put it I think it’s like uhhh–”
“Heat?” Lando offers helpfully.
The sound of Max snapping his mouth close is loud. He seems to be thinking really hard, and the next time he speaks he’s careful with it.
“He smells different indeed,” Max says. “I was just going to say he smells a little sweeter–don’t fucking tell him that I say that by the way–but now that you said it, I guess it does smell like he is in heat, or at least pre-heat.”
Lando feels like pumping air and kicking feet from how validating it is to hear that Max smells it too; it’s not just in his head. Then, what Max said puts it into quite the perspective for him. Max hasn’t realized that it’s Oscar’s heat scent. It’s probably the same for everyone else – to them, Oscar’s scent is just slightly different than usual, so they assume nothing and move on about their life, and only Lando recognizes the scent for what it actually is.
Perks of being teammates, he supposes.
Friday, before the free practice, he makes his way to Oscar’s driver room with a bunch of scent-blockers in his pockets. In his defense, it’s the most tactful way he can think of to tell an omega that Hey mate, maybe you need to check your scent out. It’s like giving mints to a person with bad breaths, and Lando feels kind of like an arse doing it, but either that or his sanity.
He still owes Oscar some patches anyway. From Miami. Not like he’s a freeloader, but it’s Miami, and they have skirted around anything Miami-related like it's a sore, tender spot, so Lando has thought best not to mention it.
He stands at the door and knocks politely, because the last time he didn’t Oscar had nagged him about it. Nothing. The door is not locked, which for Lando might as well mean it’s open. Lando bites his lips. He lets himself in.
Inside, it’s Oscar’s driver room; there’s nothing more to be said. It smells like Oscar, like sweet, cloying heat, and the backpack is still there, lying listlessly on the floor, and Lando tries really hard not to get déja vu. He has planned to just leave the patches, maybe add a note for good measure, but contrary to his clean and structured image Oscar can be messy sometimes, and his stuff is just there, everywhere for Lando to ogle at. Everything is kind of a mess, the trash bin is quite full.
Lando’s blood runs cold a little when he realizes what is filling the bin to the brim. A hefty lot of suppressant packs, crumbled up and empty, not even a pill left.
“That’s right,” Oscar greets from behind him. “Make yourself at home.”
Lando jerks back to the door, where Oscar is leaning with crossed arms, quirking a slender, elegant eyebrow at him. Immediately, Lando pulls out the patches in his pocket, as if they are his great alibi. He scrambles a little in his haste, dropping some on the ground, and Oscar watches him through it, eyes laced with something almost like fondness.
“Hey,” he says. “I haven’t really given you these back, so here you go.”
Lando has expected it to be tense, because in some way it’s a reminder of Miami and Oscar’s been really keen on not addressing whatever was going on there. But Oscar just gives him a smile, one of the real things with his eyes all crinkled at the tail and his cheeks pushed up, round and rosy.
“And he bought my favourite brand,” he swoons, teasing in his tone. “Honsestly mate, it was just some patches, no need to sweat. But thanks anyway.”
He looks and smells so pleased that Lando feels lighter, too, and pleasantly he is reminded about one of those things he has learned about Oscar, that of course Oscar is the type to appreciate kind little gestures. It makes Lando preen, makes him want to find all the small, sweet things and bring them to Oscar, just to see him all shy and happy like this again. Their fingers touch when Oscar takes the patches from him, like he’s reaching toward Lando’s peace offering, and his fingertips feel soft and warm on Lando’s skin, and it should be the kind of small moments that makes Lando giddy just thinking about it for the next week.
Lando can’t fucking enjoy it. He’s still fixated on the trash bin, which is filled with probably enough empty meds packs to tranquilize an animal the size of the elephant in the room.
“I’m stopping my suppressants during summer break,” he says, sudden and loud.
Oscar just blinks at that, not at all caught up to Lando's intention. “Um,” he stammers, cheeks colouring. “Seems a little early to discuss our summer plans, but thank you for sharing?”
“It’s just, well, you know, it’s not good to be on those meds for too long. Or too much,” Lando tries again.
“Sure.”
“Lots of drivers do it actually, to cleanse off build-up hormones and all that, so uh, I think it’ll be good for my health. Maybe–maybe you should try it–”
“Mate,” Oscar says. “It’s kinda none of your business, isn’t it.”
Lando shuts it instantly, pressing his lips into a thin line. Next to him, Oscar’s face is flushed red, expression set in a confused frown and his mouth open, like he can’t understand what has prompted Lando’s interest in the things he should do for summer break.
For a beat, silence spans across them, and Oscar adds to it by wordlessly crouching down to pick up the patches that Lando has dropped. He’s right next to the trash bin, and Lando has to keep his gaze straight ahead, trying to prove that he hasn’t seen anything, that his sudden rant about stopping suppressants is just out of nowhere.
“Well, uh, thank you again for the patches,” Oscar says. “And for the advice, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Lando nods, almost gibberish in his reply.
“By the way, could you help take the trash on your way out?” Oscar asks, all steady and neutral. His eyes bore into Lando. “My bin is quite full, as you can see.”
Lando can just nod again.
There is a crinkling sound of a plastic bag being tied at the mouth, pulled out of the container. Oscar has the patches in one hand and the bag in the other, and Lando’s sure if he looks down, the trash bin is pristine clean now.
He hands Lanso the bag, their fingers not touching this time. The empty packs crackle inside like the sound of fire, screaming for attention.
Lando walks out.
_
He missed out on the podium at Silverstone, Oscar a few places behind, the race ending in safety car. All Lando allows himself to think about, is what a waste of a good livery, of his home race.
The mediocre performance drags on to Spa. He tries to do his best in qualifying to make up for his penalty, but there’s only so much that he can do. It’s really not how Lando had imagined his title defending season would go, but if he lies to himself really hard, he can shrug off that at least they are fighting for midfield now instead of DNFing on consecutive weekends.
Most of the team have that grimace on their face, and Oscar looks dead in every post-race interview. Lando’s doing a little better, because at least he still has a relatively fresh championship under his belt, but just barely. They haven’t had an actual good time for a while now, not since the double podium in Miami.
It always comes down to Miami, doesn’t it.
But on they go. To Hungary they drag the cars, and Oscar is right there, sugar and chocolate in his scent. Lando holds his breaths, and races on.
_
He won in Hungary.
He’s so grateful that the win is right before summer break, so he gets to end the first half of the season on a high note and party to his heart’s content instead of moping around and coping by doing the exact same thing, just without any real enjoyment. It feels great, so great, and the champagne tastes so much sweeter than the last time he drank it, almost worth four long months of fighting with the car.
If Lando paused long enough, he’d have half a mind to use his brain and think of how they could have had more than this. It could have been another double podium, maybe even a 1-2, when Oscar had been fast all race, up until the collision and his mechanical DNF. But Oscar isn’t here right now, and all that Lando can see is the sea of people in orange that are yelling his name, hugging him, praising him, and it’s so much easier to celebrate like the happiness is complete, two halves of a whole, nothing missing.
So Lando celebrates.
Nightlife in Budapest has always been great. He drinks until he throws up, and throws up so much that his system’s basically void of alcohol after a few trips to the bathroom. Now, Lando is too sober for his own good, sitting in a corner of the club with his head rapidly clearing. He washes the sour taste at the back of his mouth away with a shot, which is not nearly strong enough to give him that pleasant buzz again. There is nothing for him to do but take in his surroundings with clinical clarity.
The boys from the team are drunkenly singing and shouting for a new round of drinks. At this point, they seem to have completely forgotten what and who they are celebrating in the first place, leaving Lando in a ditch to go toward their own calling of the night. Their scents are all over the air, sour notes of sweats and alcohol. It’s rather unpleasant. Now – Lando eyes his right side – the omega girl on the couch doesn’t seem to smell so bad. Lando beams at her. It’s a cue as good as any, so the girl scoots over to his spot; any centimeter closer and she’ll practically be in his lap.
“Well, aren’t you the race winner?” She asks over the deafening music, tilting her head just right to bare her patchless neck, the way omegas often do when they want to flirt.
From his spot, Lando gets a face full of her scent. It’s something floral and cottony, and it’s good, it’s nice, but it makes Lando frown. It doesn’t smell like what he’s used to, what he prefers – the sweet and decadent scent of a freshly baked pastry.
His head does a disorienting flip, like it's forcing him to remember something he’s forgotten. He asks in late, sudden realization, “Where is Oscar?”
“What?” The girl says, eyes all wide, like she doesn’t understand what the fuss is all about. “That other guy who DNFed?”
When Lando returns to the hotel, it’s around eleven o’clock.
He knows how Oscar copes after a bad race. Pulling away, keeping to himself, making his pain small and unimportant. Unlike Lando who makes sure all his problems are loud and clear to attract support or at least attention, Oscar is self-sufficient in a way that makes the team always assume the best from him, and they don’t dote on him like they do Lando. He doesn’t have the staff members waiting outside of his driver room with suppressants after a gutted DNF, nor does he have his teammate delivered to him under hushed voices.
After Australia, after Miami – after everything – Lando knows how wrong that assumption is.
At the door to Oscar’s room, he hesitates a little, suddenly having cold feet. The night is still young for his standards, but as far as he knows it may be well past bed time for Oscar; or worse, Oscar is already on a plane, half-way to Monaco.
He knocks anyway. It takes roughly thirty-nine seconds, half of his pole lap around Hungagoring, but finally the lock clicks and Oscar opens the door.
“Hey,” Lando greets, throat dry.
“What are you doing here mister winner?” Oscar says, barely surprised. He must have smelled Lando through the door, with all the alcohol and Lando’s patchless neck. “Aren’t you supposed to be out celebrating?”
“I just wanted to check on you,” he says earnestly.
“Uh, that’s nice of you, but tonight is not about me is it,” Oscar says, looking the tiniest bit confused. “Congrats on the win by the way. Now go get shit-faced.”
He’s just in a hoodie and shorts, looking dead tired leaning against the black, heavy door. The patches on his neck look brand new, like he just barely managed to put them on before opening the door for Lando, and they do nothing to hide the leftover scent in his room, sweet and sugary, a telltale crescendo of heat.
Lando’s stomach drops.
Oscar’s in stress heat, stewing in it all alone for how long he doesn’t even know because he was too busy giving himself an alcohol poisoning at the club. In any other circumstances, he would have marvelled at what a season it has been, putting Oscar fucking Piastri three times into stress heat when it’s only half done, but now he can only look at Oscar, frowning in worries.
“Osc,” he calls. “How are you feeling? Are you okay? Why didn’t you call–”
“What, are we playing twenty questions?” Oscar deadpans, voice almost humorous. He’s doing that tactic again, being obtuse on purpose to get away from confrontation. “You’re acting like I’ve never had a DNF before.”
“I’m not asking about that,” Lando doesn’t let him get away with it again. “I’m asking about your stress heat.”
Oscar’s scent blooms through the patches, and for a brief moment he seems actually surprised that Lando dares to go there and calls a spade a spade. It doesn’t last. Soon, he returns to that bored, unbothered demeanour that gets on Lando’s fucking nerves.
“Eh, had those before too,” Oscar shrugs, voice steady. “No worries, I have suppressants.”
“Then why didn’t you take them already?” Lando’s hands almost fly to his head. “Why did you let it get to–”
“I took them. They didn’t work,” Oscar says. He sounds tired, like he’s explaining downforce to a five year old, trying his best to be patient at hearing dumb, obvious questions. “So I will take the injection, if you’re asking. Can you stop giving a fuck about my suppressants now?”
It often goes like this: Oscar gives a look and Lando takes a hint, turns his back to leave and closes the door for Oscar on his way out. This time, Lando doesn’t do any of that. With terrifying determination, he decides right there and then that they are going to have this conversation tonight, whatever it is.
He bullies his way into Oscar’s room, slamming the door closed with a bang. Oscar can hardly put up a fight when Lando pushes past him, heat weak, and finally that blasé look is wiped from his face, leaving him only with sickly red cheeks and pupil-blown eyes.
“Lando,” he calls. “What the hell.”
His voice is high and ridden with uneasiness and anxiety, and it should have made Lando feel so fucking bad, because he did that, he scared Oscar. But inside, those pills are all scattered across the coffee table, right in the middle of the room, and all Lando can hear is blood rushing in his ears.
Enough is enough.
Lando doesn’t give a flying fuck about being rejected, but this infuriating way Oscar goes about it – acting like he’s forced into a game of Lando Or The Suppressants, putting his own health in jeopadry – drives Lando to the brink. “You made it clear, mate, you don’t want my help, I get it, alright,” he snarls, rage making him nasty and stupid. “You don’t have to pull this–this suppressant shit every time and rub it in my face.”
Oscar is wide-eyed at him, mouth dropping open and his face so red it might as well be bleeding. Rapidly, that shocked look twists into something distant and cold.
“Come on, not everything is about you Lando,” he says, mean and bitchy with it. “Maybe I take suppressants just because I have to. Can’t really race if I’m in heat, don’t cha agree?”
“Then just go deal with your heat the normal way instead of trying to overdose on those meds, like, go fuck whoever you want to fuck or something! Stop acting like you’re stuck with me!”
At that, Oscar rolls his eyes. “Oh, so this is what it’s all about,” he taunts. “Alpha Lando can’t handle rejection.”
“That’s not the fucking point,” Lando says, and can’t go on to make his point across because he’s just so mad to even think straight. All that comes out is just indignant splutters, and Oscar gives him an unimpressed look as if asking What’s the point, then.
“Grow up, mate. I’ve been given worse,” Oscar shrugs. It’s like he’s just saying shits solely with the goal to hurt now, not to make any sense. “Honestly didn’t think you’d get this upset over this, when I was just trying to respect your wishes.”
“What the fuck does that even mean–”
“I don’t want to force you into it, do I,” Oscar cocks his head. “Last time I checked, you seemed pretty against me being anywhere near your rut.”
“Oscar,” Lando sighs. They cannot be doing this right now. “Come on. You’d just lost the championship. From me. There was no way I could have made you do it.”
“You know I’m not talking about 2025,” Oscar snaps.
That shuts Lando up, and for a second, his vision stops wobbling with red, and he can see Oscar’s face again, utterly flushed with heat or anger or both. In the air, the scent of his heat is completely overpowered by bitter pain, and he is doing that thing, bristling into something big and bad and cruel, all mean frown and tightly pressed lips, but it’s hardly convincing with his wet, tired eyes and the tremors in his shoulders.
He’s crying, Lando realizes.
The rage drains from him.
“Osc,” he stammers. “I’m s–”
“Get out,” Oscar says.
His fingers can barely close around the bulk of Lando’s palm, but he yanks at it with a decisive force and drags Lando straight toward the door, hitting the table and sending the suppressants everywhere. Lando’s slow to react. The weight of Oscar’s accusation is still vibrating in him, making him dumb a little, his heart beating too loud to think, and only when he’s already half across the room that his brain kicks in again and Lando just knows that he has to stay, he’s not going anywhere.
He pulls his arm back, instinctual with the need to stop Oscar’s quickening pace, and Oscar loses his balance with the force of it. They tumble down onto the thick carpet together, a tangled mess of limbs, and right away Oscar starts struggling to get up, almost kicking and screaming with it when Lando pulls him back down, not letting him go anywhere.
“Get out,” he spits out again. “Fuck off.”
For months, Lando has thought of being allowed to help Oscar with the stress heat, of soothing his pain away and making him feel nothing but good and content. In his imagination, he’d hold Oscar close with his fingers in Oscar’s fluffy hair and his mouth on every span of flushed, mole-dotted skin, and Oscar would soften into his touch, letting out quiet, little noises of pleasure, shy but pliant and trusting, his scent blooming into chocolatey and buttery sweetness.
In reality, Oscar is tense and rigid when Lando wraps him in his arms.
He has a centimeter or two on Lando, more balanced proportions, and it makes him look broader sometimes, like he takes up more space. But under Lando’s big, heavy hands, he hardly feels large or sturdy; he feels small, fragile, curling into himself and shaking with the efforts to hold back, to posture a resemblance of restraint. At first, there are only small, bitten-off hiccups, the slight shakes of his shoulders, then Oscar starts to sob and sob and sob, drawing in choked gasps like he can’t even breathe, his whole body trembling with it.
It punches Lando in the gut, splitting his ribs open and knocking into the hollow space where his stomach has dropped. “Don’t cry,” he says uselessly. His heart is pounding in his throat, and even speaking feels difficult. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.”
In his arms, Oscar just shakes even more. He is hiding his face into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, his wet, hot nose digging into Lando’s collarbone, his cries muffled in Lando’s tear-dampened shirt. Lando thinks if he tightened his arms enough he’d break Oscar, and in between the cracks the tears wouldn’t stop coming out. Oscar’s been in so much pain, so much distress, for so long.
All because of Lando.
It always comes down to Miami, doesn’t it.
Lando remembers it well, better than Abu Dhabi 2025, the way a first career win should be remembered. Between the sureness and certainty Oscar carried himself with and the easy, familiar relationship that they had grown into throughout the 2023 season, Lando had barely registered that he and Oscar weren’t simply just peers, that there were inherent differences between them – older and younger, driver number one and driver number two, if any, alpha and omega.
When Oscar knocked on Lando’s driver room after his victory, it was the first time Lando had felt the differences so keenly, had seen Oscar acting so his role. Flushed red yet still putting on a brave, cold face, even though his scent showed just how uncertain and clueless he felt. At that moment, it came rushing to Lando that Oscar was barely in his second year in the team, in the sport, still practically a rookie, Lando’s rookie. His neck hadn’t even thickened that much, and it would be so easy for Lando to just dig his teeth into it and leave a bite there, marking him forever.
Lando was younger at the time, his controls not as firm. If Oscar were to stay with him through the stress rut, he would have claimed Oscar by the end of it.
Against his skin, Oscar has stopped sobbing, but just barely. Now he’s making pained, quiet little sniffles, only letting them out when he needs to take a breath, like he's ashamed and is trying to hold the noises in, and it breaks Lando’s fucking heart. He feels big and clumsy; all he can do is hug Oscar tighter, closer, and Oscar lets him, almost obedient, probably too exhausted to put up a fight.
He buries his nose into Oscar’s hair and spreads a hand over Oscar’s back, rubbing mindless circles through the hoodie, doing anything to soothe and comfort. Oscar’s body is warm against him, his legs tangled across Lando’s own, and Lando gives in to his urge and slides his other hand there, finally touching heated, bare skin.
“‘M sorry,” he repeats like an idiot.
There are so many things he wants to say; he didn’t know Oscar had kept that day with him all this time, had let it affect his usually unwavering resolve that much. Then again, of course he did. Oscar was barely a member of the team then, still trying to fit into a place that had functioned well enough without him ever being a part of it, a place that was practically Lando’s kingdom. He ought to be desperate with the need to be of help, to be needed for something, anything, even if it was helping his teammate through a stress rut. So eager to please, only to get back from Lando a frantic fuck no.
“I’d wanted you so much,” Lando says, trying to offer a reason, to make sense, babbling with it. “You were so good for me, Osc, offering to help me like that. I was so afraid I’d mark you right then and there and ruin your career from it, so I had to let you go.”
If Lando were calmer, less ridden with hormones, he’d be more careful with his words to not sound so sleazy and obscene, like he’s spouting bad dirty talk. But every thought he has about Oscar has been obscene, so he supposes it really can’t be helped.
He doesn’t know if his pathetic explanation is well-received, but Oscar’s scent changes in the air, just a little. It turns sweeter, more sugar and chocolate, less burnt sadness, the reminder of his heat clearer now. At first, Lando’s not sure what to make of it, slow and dumb with all the things that had just happened, then it clicks into place and his head does a nasty spin.
“Oh baby,” he coos. “You like that? You like me to mark you in front of everyone?”
From against his collarbone, Oscar makes a choked sound. He can feel an involuntary shudder where his palm rests on Oscar’s bare, soft thigh, just like how he’d imagined Oscar would react to his touch, down to a tee. It’s dizzying, the vindication that his fantasies have been true all along. Lando wants to chase after it, to press his fingers and lips and tongue all over Oscar’s skin, just to see how much he can make Oscar shake and shiver.
He feels like a typical knot-headed alpha, because here he is, letting his dick get the better of him, while Oscar is still sniffling in his arms. A very bad knot-headed alpha at that too, making Oscar cry from distress and displeasure, when he should have made sure the only tears Oscar sheds are of the good kind.
Lando can fix that. Will fix that. There is plenty to do, but they can start with Oscar’s stress heat. The rest can come later.
Oscar’s face is red and utterly wrecked when Lando pulls it away from his shoulder. His cheeks are indented with the lines of Lando’s clothes, his eyes puffy. If he didn’t still look so sad Lando’d think he was so cute like this, so easy to bully. He has always found Oscar so cute it makes his teeth ache, which is really the root cause of this whole thing, of everything.
“I will take care of you,” he croaks. It feels good to finally say what he has wanted to say since Miami, since Australia, since even before that. “I want to take care of you, Osc. Please let me take care of you.”
He’s certain that he sounds super mancho and alpha when he says it, totally not whiny at all. Oscar’s eyes are wet and wide at him, eyebrows slightly scrunched up, like he is confused, like he doesn’t believe Lando. The thought makes Lando a little sad again, so he bends down and puts a kiss on Oscar’s cheek, licking the salt there, confirming, reassuring. There’s still a really good chance of Oscar telling him to sod off and taking his trusty needle instead, and Lando’s heart aches with the thought of it.
But Oscar allows the kiss, so there’s that. When he pulls back Oscar’s face is already calmer, but his voice is still shaky, fresh out of a thorough crying.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he says, still so dignified with his red, teary face. “Just be sure you won’t regret it after.”
That last part should be infuriating, again, but Lando decides to bite his tongue and instead focuses on making Oscar eat his fucking words. He’ll make it good, the best Oscar’s ever had; he has to. In all fairness, Oscar can spew all the mean shits he wants if he keeps lying beneath Lando like this, all flushed red and trembling, shy and pliant and trusting. Straight out of Lando’s dreams.
He starts with ripping off the patches on Oscar’s neck, flinging it mindlessly somewhere onto the carpet, and Oscar’s scent pours out, sugar and chocolate, heat, clearer than ever. Lando is going drunk with it. He leans down and licks a line across Oscar’s scent glands, savouring the taste, his grip tightening on Oscar’s thigh like he’s clutching a life line, anything so that he won’t accidentally claim Oscar right there.
And Oscar – his eyes keep flicking to Lando’s hand on his thigh, like he can’t stop looking, distracted by it. Lando raises an eyebrow. Oscar yelps when Lando digs in his hand even more, making the flesh spilling out between his fingers, hard enough to bruise.
“Yeah, you like my hands baby?” Lando grins. “Like me touching you like this?”
“Shut up,” Oscar says, but his cheeks are a glowing red and his scent is oh so sweet, unfiltered and naked.
It seems like he wants to say more, but bites his lips shut with a stuttered gasp as Lando’s palm moves higher and higher, until his fingers reach Oscar’s clothed cunt, so warm and inviting even through all the layers. He gives it a few soft rubs, feeling the give of the supple flesh, trying to dip his fingertips as far in as possible despite the resistance from Oscar’s shorts, reveling in every shaky little whimper that Oscar can’t seem to stop making.
It’s everything Lando’d ever wanted; he’d wanked himself thinking about the scent of Oscar's heat since Australia, then again even before that Oscar had always occupied a large, enormous space in his mind and would just never leave. The rush of having Oscar like this makes him dumb and impatient, and Lando’d love to just slip his hand right under Oscar’s shorts, reach inside and run his fingers all over that wet, pretty pussy.
But Oscar’s thighs are thick, amazingly, mouthwateringly so, and together with Lando’s bear paws the shorts really have no chance of not getting ripped if he goes down that path. So he lifts Oscar off the floor to tug off the offensive piece of clothing, and his hands almost touch all the way wrapping around Oscar’s slender waist like this, fingers spanning across the soft, vulnerable span of Oscar’s stomach.
It makes Lando’s cock so hard it hurts. Oscar’s so perfect, even in the way he reluctantly gives Lando a hand and shimmies off his shorts with an embarrassed frown. When that is dealt with Lando is faced with white cotton panties, so soaking wet that Oscar’s pussy lips are peeking through, glistening with all the slick.
Lando is going to get his mouth all over there, his fingers and his cock – they have to get there soon enough, for Lando’s own sanity.
“Shouldn’t–shouldn’t this be off too?” Oscar asks, hands already pulling at the white waistband.
“Slow down,” Lando teases, feeling a little mean when he sees Oscar like this. “What are you in such a hurry for? Already so desperate for it?”
Lando is really the desperate one; there is so much he wants to do to Oscar that he doesn’t know where to start. He can’t stop looking at those slick folds through the white, almost transparent cotton, marveling at the softness and wetness as Oscar squirms under his gaze, so sweet and shy and red.
As a taste, he runs his fingers between the lips, just light, gentle touches, but instantly Oscar’s thighs snap together, trapping Lando’s hand between them. There’s a stunned look on his face when Lando doesn’t stop rubbing a thumb on his clit through the sopping panties, his hips kicking up in surprise only to be held down firmly.
Like a last ditch attempt, he grabs at Lando’s wrist, trying to yank him off. “If you keep doing that–”
“What? You’ll cum?” Lando asks. “That’s the point, baby.”
He tries to pry Oscar’s thighs open but they keep snapping back together, like Oscar can’t help it, like he’s trying to block out the pleasure, but his hips keep bucking down to meet Lando’s fingers, stuttering in small circles against each rub on his slick clit. Mixed signals, just like what he usually gives.
“I-” Oscar pants, all wide eyes and slack mouth. “It’s too m–”
“Aw, you’re so sensitive,” Lando presses a kiss onto his knee. “My fingers aren’t even inside yet. How are you going to take my knot, hm?”
And just like that, Oscar cums with a whimper, eyes screwed shut as he tries to hide his face in the crook of his own shoulder, scent flaring sweetly in the air. His thighs squish Lando’s drenched hand impossibly tight, and they shake and shake as Lando continues to pet him through it, drawing his orgasm out long and good.
There are so many things Lando can learn from this, like Oscar’s definitely the quiet type in bed, only letting out choked-off gasps and muffled moans even under Lando’s relentless bullying, always trying to be in control of his voice. Lando wants to change that and he will; he will make Oscar cry with pleasure when he’s done with him, make him lose his composure till he can’t stop making those pretty little noises.
“Lando,” Oscar whines. His fingers are still scratching uselessly at Lando’s palm as Lando rubs his oversensitive clit red and raw, his hips twitching away.
“Sorry baby,” Lando says. Still, his thumb gives one last grind, and Oscar lets out the most perfect squeal, the loudest he’s ever been. “Oh,” Lando smiles. “Bet you can come again like that, yeah?”
“N-no,” Oscar sniffles. His eyes are wet again, tears cresting. “Too much.”
“Liar, you like it,” Lando accuses. “Your cunt’s getting wetter, babe.”
That makes Oscar look nervous, like he isn’t sure if Lando will actually go through with his words. Lando’d love to, but Oscar is already so pitiful as he is. His face is so red, tears at the corners of his eyes, totally unclothed from the waist down saved for his soaked panties, which is practically sealed to his blushing cunt from all the slick. He looks ruined already, almost far gone from his heat, and Lando hasn’t even sinked his cock inside that pretty pussy yet – hasn’t gotten his fingers in, or his mouth on it.
There’s a lot Lando hasn’t done actually; it smacks him in the head that they are still on the fucking floor, suppressant pills scattered right beside Oscar’s head, discared patches arms length away. Oh my god, Lando’s such a bad alpha. He’s not going to make Oscar spend his heat on a carpet, but at the same time his head hurts thinking about all the logistics of getting to the bed.
At this point Lando’s going to kill himself from frustration before he can get his knot into Oscar’s pussy, really.
“Lando,” Oscar calls again, like he can feel the way Lando’s getting into his own head. He sounds so sweet, but a little unsure, peering up at Lando through his lashes. “Kiss me?”
That, too. Lando has made Oscar cum all over his hand, but they still haven’t kissed. That simply won’t do. Oscar hums against his mouth when they finally kiss, sloppy and wet, filthy. Even his lips and tongue and everything inside his little mouth taste good and warm, Lando marvels, giggling meanly when Oscar gasps at a scrape of his teeth.
“Let’s get you into bed, yeah?” He asks when they part, still so close their breaths are mingled together. “Can you stand up baby?”
Oscar turns redder at that, if possible. He clings to Lando’s shoulders as Lando hauls him up, stumbling on shaky legs with his thighs still glistening with slick. Lando is impatient, so he wraps one arm around Oscar’s waist and practically manhandles him to the bed, rough and hasty, and Oscar bounces up once when Lando pushes him down hard onto white, pristine sheets. Finally.
“Such a gentleman,” Oscar glares at him, seemingly annoyed by Lando’s rough handling. But his thighs are open, and slick is gushing through his panties, dripping onto the fucking sheets now.
“Come on, don’t be coy,” Lando calls his bluff. He gets between those big, gorgeous thighs, pressing them open even further until Oscar hisses at the stretch. “You like it. Fucking sopping from it.”
Every protest dies on Oscar’s tongue when Lando’s palm aims at his cunt and slaps hard enough to splash slick everywhere. Another slap, and Oscar’s hips keep twitching, back arching off the bed like he doesn’t know whether to push into it or get away, but getting wetter from it either way.
“See,” Lando gleefully proves his point. “You like it, baby. When I’m being rough.”
Oscar seems like he’s trying to muster up a glare again, but his face keeps slackening away from pleasure. He looks like he can’t believe Lando’s doing this, that he likes that Lando’s doing this, and it messes with Lando’s head a little. He wonders if Oscar had ever fantasized about being with him before, and if yes he’d probably think Lando to be all soft and gentlemanly, the sap that he is.
In reality Lando is running his mouth, being an utter dick about it, slapping his pussy until it’s all red hot and puffy.
“L-Lando,” Oscar says again, like it’s the only word he knows. Lando really likes that. “I’m going to cu-”
Lando’s blood rushes to his dick. “Aw, again?” He gives a particular hard slap, aiming his finger on Oscar’s clit, kneading circles on it. “Then cum for me baby.”
“But I want to–inside,” Oscar mewls. He’s hitching his hip up so that Lando’s fingers trace lower, catching against his hole through the panties. “I want…”
Fuck. Lando’d love to tease Oscar more, make him spell out what exactly he wants inside him until he cries and begs for Lando’s cock, but he is just a man after all and hearing Oscar being so eager to get fucked spurs on his own need.
“Yeah? You want to cum with me inside?” He finishes the words for Oscar. “Which though? My tongue? My fingers? My cock?”
“Yes,” Oscar nods furiously. “Yes.”
His eyes are hazy as Lando finally slips his panties off, leaving trails of slick everywhere. With each exposed stretch of his cunt, his breaths get quicker and quicker, bottom lips caught under his teeth as Lando takes a real good look from where he sits between Oscar’s thighs.
“Such a pretty pussy,” Lando says. His mouth is watering.
Slick is pouring from Oscar’s cunt, and his folds swallow Lando’s fingers so easily when Lando touches and probes and caresses, all swollen and supple. Oscar’s little hole is not as yielding – it’s so wet and slick but so tight, and the walls of Oscar’s pussy flutter madly when Lando pushes a finger in, one slow, continuous slide.
Oscar’s brows are all scrunched up and he’s panting open mouthed, eyes transfixed on where his cunt is taking Lando in. Lando’s just the same – he can’t stop watching the way slick are drenching down his wrist, leaking out from where Oscar’s pussy is clenching around his finger. Just one, singular finger, and Oscar’s already struggling to take it.
“B-big,” Oscar slurs, a hand flying to Lando’s wrist again, as if he can make Lando pull out of his perfect pussy. “Why are your hands so f-fucking big.”
“Oh this is nothing baby,” Lando says, blood rushing in his ears. “Just wait until you take my knot.”
Oscar genuinely perks up at that, and Lando feels affection welling up inside his gut, almost spilling over with how full it is. It’s like Oscar has been waiting for this for so long, and there is nothing else that Lando wants to do aside from giving him all of it. He feels a little sappy with how much Oscar wants him, so he steals a kiss from Oscar’s slackened mouth, and Oscar kisses him back oh so readily, making little noises against Lando’s lips, his mouth just as wet and warm as his cunt. It is sucking greedily at Lando’s fingers, two now, but still that’s barely enough room for Lando’s cock.
Oscar cries out when Lando adds in a third, his little hole obscenely stretched out, his hips twitch off the bed, body bucking up toward the headboard. “Too much,” he says again, yet he is grinding against Lando's hand in earnest, tilting his hips just right so that Lando can brush at his little sweet spot every time. Again, always so conflicting; it’s like he’s urging Lando to keep going despite saying it’s too much.
So Lando makes the decision for him and continues to pump his fingers in, harder and faster, knocking Oscar’s breaths out with each flick of his wrist.
“Hah, there–” Oscar hiccups. “It will–I’m gonna–”
He throws his head back when Lando’s palm slaps against his soaked pussy lips, grazing on his clit, and he cums on Lando’s fingers just like that, clenching down impossibly tight, legs kicking with it.
“You’re so tight baby,” Lando purrs. “Damn near crushing my fingers. Would you be just as tight for my cock?”
“Yes, yes,” Oscar nods, so eager and earnest. All his prim and proper is out of the window now, like he can only think of Lando’s promise of giving him a knot, saying just anything to please him. Like he’s finally given up his control, fully succumbed to his heat. “I’ll be tight, I-I’ll be so tight for you.”
Lando knows that’s the truth, because Oscar’s pussy is still clamping down when Lando tries to slide his fingers out, like it doesn’t want to let him go. When he does pull his fingers free slick also gushes out like a broken faucet, clear stringy strands connecting from Oscar’s hole to all over his digits.
It’s fucking debauched. Lando’s dying to taste it, so he brings his hand up and sucks on his fingers, moaning at the sugary sweetness, fucking divine. Oscar tastes just as good as he smells. Lando has to bend down so he can have it straight from the source, licking a stripe from Oscar’s clit to his entrance, dipping his tongue inside that tight hole, collecting every drop of slick.
From above, Oscar sobs, pressing into Lando’s mouth and then stuttering away. Lando makes a mental note with all red bold letters: he will eat Oscar out properly – spending hours with his mouth on Oscar’s pussy, sucking on his clit until he thrashes and has to yank Lando away. He will drag Oscar’s stress heat out long enough to do it. But for both his and Oscar’s own good, he has to put his cock in Oscar’s pussy now.
Oscar seems to agree with him, because his cunt twitches at the sight of Lando’s cock finally popping free. He lets out a gorgeous little whine, not even blinking as he watches Lando rut his cock teasingly against the soft seam of his pussy, a hint of pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Oh, Lando notes that too. “You want to taste my cock, baby?”
Oscar’s brows furrow, like he’s actually considering it. But he’s made up his mind quickly. “Later,” he says with adorable determination, then shyly raises his hips up and pushes his soaked cunt toward Lando, thighs splayed open and wet and slick, like an invitation, like his own version of presenting. “F-fuck me–”
It’s cut off with a gasp when Lando starts to push in.
Fucking hell. Oscar’s going to kill him. Lando has to bite the inside of his cheek and let the pain sober him as Oscar’s pussy grip around his cock, tight as a vise. He continues to press in deeper, sliding through the tight heat of Oscar’s cunt torturous centimeter by torturous centimeter, swiping his fingers on Oscar’s clit to coax him into it. It makes Oscar arch off the bed, makes him let out a litany of stuttered, teary noises, and his eyes are impossibly wide and glazed, looking at Lando like he’s in awe, like he can’t believe that this is happening, that he’s being stuffed full of Lando’s cock.
“Thank you,” Oscar slurs, dazed and honest. “Hah, t-thank you, thank you–”
Lando’s heart clenches. “For what baby?” He asks, grinding in a little deeper and smiles at the tiny ah-ah-ah sounds Oscar’s making. “For fucking you? For giving you my cock?”
“Yes,” Oscar nods desperately. “T-thank you. Thought you wouldn’t–wouldn’t want to help.”
Lando has to soothe instantly, “Of course I want to help baby, I already told you that.” Even deep in heat Oscar’s still reeling from the insecurity Lando had accidentally planted, and Lando will just have to fuck it out of him. “I want to help so bad, I’ve always wanted. Had to beg you to let me help, didn’t I?”
Oscar seems content enough with his reassurance. “I–I,” he stutters, still so shy even all stuffed full with Lando’s cock. “I’ve always wanted to help you too.”
He sniffles when Lando gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re so sweet baby,” Lando coos softly, even as there is nothing soft or gentle in the way he grabs Oscar’s hips and thrusts in, hard, finally burying his cock to the hilt, bottoming out in Oscar’s pussy.
Oscar gasps from it. His hands fly to Lando’s ones on his hips, as if he’s trying to pry them off and get away from the bruising, insistent force inside his cunt. Lando has to close his eyes and takes in slow, heavy breaths to keep himself from fucking Oscar instantly. It’s fucking torture – Oscar’s so tight and hot around him, taking Lando so well and deep that he can see the slight bulge of his cock on Oscar’s lower stomach.
“S-so deep,” Oscar pants. He struggles weakly as Lando spreads his palm and presses down on the bulge, and his own hand flies to rest over Lando’s, not sure whether to take it away or press further down.
Lando rocks his hips a little, watching the way his cock moves inside Oscar, feeling Oscar clench around him at the slightest movement. His hands move to Oscar’s hips again, gripping with bruising force, and pulls out completely.
Oscar makes a questioning noise, then it turns into a scream when Lando slams back into him.
“Lando–” Oscar babbles. “Too deep, too deep, it’s too much–”
It’s like he is just making faux, conflicting complaints, just like all the times before, so Lando just keeps pushing in, hard and fast. Oscar is crying from it, tears streaming down his face, his entire body shaking, like he doesn’t know what to do with all the sensation he’s feeling. His hips twitch away on a particular deep thrust, cunt fluttering like crazy, and Lando feels like a mad man because he thinks he’s just hit Oscar’s cervix–
Oscar cums, squealing.
Lando fucks him through it, just because he can’t even think of stopping, too busy drinking in every minute detail of Oscar, the half pained, half blissed-out expression on Oscar’s face, the sweet noises that are coming out non-stop from his slack, open mouth, the orgasmic clench and flutter of his pussy around Lando’s cock, still so greedy even though his hips can’t stop twitching away from overstimulation. He lets out a guttural growl, leaning down again so he can press his nose against Oscar’s flushed red neck, inhaling the scent there, teeth aching with an overflowing need.
Like this, balls deep in Oscar’s wet, tight cunt, Oscar thrashing at every brush of his cock, every flick of his fingers at that fat, slick clit, Lando realizes how much in tune their bodies are, Oscar taking him so readily and easily, natural like breathing. It’s like this is bound to happen, he and Oscar, together in Oscar’s heat, in Lando’s rut, or both at the same time when they sync up inevitably.
He feels like the biggest fucking idiot in the fucking world for not allowing this sooner. To think that they could have had this all the way back in 2024, right after the race of Lando’s maiden win, maybe even sooner, saving themselves so many bottles of pills and needles to the neck. But Lando still considers himself one insanely lucky bastard – he’s so, so glad that Oscar ended up with him, that he is Oscar’s first and only teammate in the sport, so Oscar can help only him and only he can help Oscar with this. Lando won’t allow Oscar to move to any other fucking team; he will drag Oscar back to him, kicking and screaming. He will keep Oscar with him forever.
Suddenly, Lando is filled with an unreasonable, deep-seated meanness, pissed off by his own fault from Miami 2024 and Oscar's made-up team change that he conjures up in his own mind. And typical for Lando, of course he has to go and pour it out onto sweet, defenseless Oscar, even though he’s still fucking into Oscar’s juicy cunt.
“This is better than any suppressants, right?” Lando asks, petulant and childish, taking advantage of Oscar’s heat-drunk state to get what he wants. At Oscar’s incoherent nods, he continues, faux heartbroken voice. “Then why’d you take those things before? You’d hurt me so much Osc baby, taking all those pills and needles when I was right there for you.”
Oscar whimpers, wide eyed and glassy. Lando is wondering if he's even registering Lando’s tantrum, too far gone to understand anything, but Oscar grabs his shoulders, clinging to him, his soft, wet mouth making warm little puffs of breaths against Lando’s skin.
“I’m sorry,” he slurs. “I’m sorry–this is better, much better. Thank you. Thank you.”
Unknowingly, Oscar has reached into the depth of Lando’s bottomless ego and made the deathly mistake of stroking it. “Yeah?” Lando grunts. “You’d take me over anything else, right? Would take me every time? Let me have this, let me stuff you full of my cock, let me give it to you, do everything I want to do to you?”
“Yes,” Oscar says simply. “Every time.”
It’s the best confirmation Lando can get, and he fucks in harder, faster, his grip keeping Oscar dead in place, not letting him go anywhere just like what Lando’s promised to himself, making him lie there and take it. Oscar can only let out helpless little noises when Lando’s cock thrusts against his sweet, sensitive spot, his cunt gushing out slick everywhere, making Lando’s abdomen and thighs glossy with it.
It’s all so good and wonderful that Lando can already feel his knot forming at the base of his cock, throbbing with the need to lock inside that sweet little pussy. He shuffles on the bed, finding better balances and snapping his hips forward, his knot catching on Oscar’s hole.
Oscar’s scent has been sweet and smooth the whole time, but there is a spike at the first brush of Lando’s knot, like confusion. His dainty hands scramble on Lando’s shoulders, desperately finding somewhere to hold on to, legs trying to snap shut around Lando’s bulk, like it’s too much for him to handle.
Maybe it is, Lando thinks and nudges in a little deeper.
“Lando–”
“Yeah, it’s my knot, baby,” he grins, victorious. “You want this, remember?”
“It f-feels–” Oscar stares up at him, fucked stupid to the point of losing his words. “Please, I-I don’t know–it–”
“Aw,” Lando makes a noise of faux sullenness. “You don’t want my knot?”
“No, no, yes–I want it, I want it–but–”
“No or yes?” Lando asks. He draws back, and it’s torturous, but the power rush from teasing Oscar makes it all worth it. “You have to make up your mind baby.”
Instantly, Oscar’s legs come up to wrap around him, trapping him in place, not letting him back off. It pulls a mean chuckle out of him, and he bites at the glowing red tip of Oscar’s ear, rasping against his temple.
“You want my knot? Want me to pump you full of my come?” He pushes in again. His knot catches a little, and Oscar is making the most pitiful noises from it. “Breed you full of my pups?”
That seals the deal for Oscar. “Yes,” he whines frantically, all reedy and needy and perfect. “Please, breed me, Lando–give me your pups–”
Lando buries his face in Oscar’s neck as his knot bullies its way into Oscar’s tight pussy, his teeth aching with the terrible urge to mark. Oscar howls when he pulls out then fucks in again, no in-between break, making his still-expanding knot grind thoroughly against that abused little entrance. The tip of his cock is still kissing Oscar’s cervix on every downstroke, and Oscar’s hand desperately tries to stop Lando when Lando rubs on his clit, his whole body an overstimulated mess.
“Too much, too much,” Oscar pleads, already changing his mind again. What a hard-to-please omega. “It feels weird, Lando–please please please–”
“It’s okay,” Lando says. He’s snarling, he realizes, voice all rough like it’s a command, instead of something soft and reassuring. “It feels good, you’re just feeling good, baby.”
Oscar shakes his head. He sounds so confused and scared it almost softens Lando’s heart. “I think–I’m gonna–”
“I know, baby. Come for me.”
Oscar tenses up, like he is still trying to resist it, still clinging to the last strand of his control. Until Lando’s knot pops in with a final thrust, fully locking them together, and Oscar lets go.
He squirts all over Lando’s cock, pussy clenching impossibly tight, fluttering madly. Warm slick gushes out in little pulses from where he is stuffed full of knot, and he still has that look on his face, the confused furrow of his brow, pink mouth hanging open, as if he doesn’t understand how he’s feeling so good, how he’s gotten to the point of cumming and squirting on Lando’s cock.
Of all things, that dazed, innocent look on Oscar’s face is what pushes Lando over the edge. He has to bite down on his own hand when he comes inside Oscar, barely starving off the need to claim and bite and mark.
One day, Lando’s instinct croons. It sounds like a promise, one that Lando’s really keen on. But there’s still a long way until then; there’s so much to do. For starters, after Oscar’s heat is done, they will have a long, hard talk, and Lando will have to take him out for dinner, first thing first. Then they still have to race together, fight together to win a few more championships, both of them. He just has so, so much to do with Oscar.
But for now, he focuses on the simple things first, like kissing all over Oscar’s face and licking away his tears as he clenches on Lando’s knot in overstimulation. Like nosing at Oscar’s glands and taking in his scent, letting a hint of teeth scrape against the sensitive skin there and delighted in the gasps Oscar makes.
“You’re good,” he tells Oscar. “You’re so good for me.”
And Oscar takes the compliment so sweetly, flushed and shy even with Lando’s knot still inside him, like he doesn’t know what to do with Lando’s undivided affection and attention, and Lando decides he just has to give those to Oscar even more.
They spend their time waiting for Lando’s knot to go down just like that, Lando whispering sweet nothing to Oscar, telling him again and again about how good he is, how well he’s taken Lando’s knot, like he’s made for it, how pretty, how much Lando just wants to claim him. Oscar fucking whimpers when Lando’s finally able to pull his cock out, knot all gone now, like he’s mourning the loss of it, and Lando’s cum rushes out of his abused pussy, mixing with clear slick into a mixture of just them, of pure Lando and Oscar on their basest instincts.
Lando licks his lips. He’s so ready to go again, cock already trying to perk up in interest, but he’s made a promise of tasting that pretty pussy after all.
Oscar seems to beat him to it, though. “L-Lando,” he stammers, voice still high and whiny with heat. He moans with sensitivity even as he reaches down, pretty fingers spreading himself open, showing his needy, cum-stained hole to Lando. “Again?”
If Lando wasn’t losing his damn mind from the view Oscar’s making, he’d at least tease Oscar about being so desperate, so eager. It's like now that he’s gotten a taste of Lando’s knot, he just wants more and more, so greedy with it; like he’s trying to make up for all their lost time since 2024.
Lando has thought to himself that he will never let Oscar go. Maybe Oscar has decided the same; he will never let Lando go.
“Again,” Lando agrees, and kisses Oscar breathless.