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The apartment was too quiet for how loud Oscar’s head felt.
It was a Tuesday night in London, the kind of evening that was supposed to belong exclusively to them. No flights to catch, no debriefs with engineers, no cameras shoved into their personal space. Just the low, warm hum of the central heating and the flickering shadows of golf highlights, on the massive TV in Lando’s living room, something Lando had insisted would make good background noise.
Oscar was settled into the corner of the sofa, his long legs stretched out, his arm draped over the back of the cushions. Lando was tucked into his side, his head resting on Oscar’s shoulder, his curls tickling Oscar’s jaw. On the surface, it was perfect. It was exactly what Oscar had been thinking about during the final laps of the last race, just getting back to this.
But Lando wasn’t actually there.
Oscar felt the slight, rhythmic twitch of Lando’s thumbs. He didn't have to look down to know what was happening. The blue-white glow of the iPhone screen was reflecting off the glass coffee table, and more importantly, it was reflecting in the corner of Oscar’s eye.
Ping.
Lando huffed a little laugh, his chest rising against Oscar’s ribs. He didn't move his head from Oscar's shoulder, but his focus was entirely directed at the palm of his hand.
"Max is actually obsessed," Lando murmured, his voice thick with a distracted kind of amusement. "He’s still arguing about that incident in the sim from three nights ago. He just sent a five-minute screen recording to the group chat."
Oscar didn't say anything. He kept his eyes on the TV. He felt a strange, cold pressure building in his chest. It wasn't that he disliked Max, or George, or any of the people Lando spent his life communicating with. It was the fact that even here, when alone together, Oscar was still competing for a slot in Lando’s brain.
"That's nice," Oscar said. His voice was level. Flat. The possessiveness was settling in, his body going very still, his eyes becoming watchful.
Lando didn't pick up on it. He was too busy typing. Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. The sound was tiny, but in the quiet apartment, it sounded like a hammer against Oscar’s skull.
"He says if I don't admit I was off-line, he’s going to…oh, wait, George is chiming in now. Hang on."
Lando shifted. He didn't pull away, but he angled his body slightly more toward the phone, pulling just an inch of warmth away from Oscar. It was a small movement, but to Oscar, it felt like a mile.
Oscar reached out with his free hand, his fingers idly tracing the hem of Lando’s oversized hoodie. He wanted to see if Lando would react. He moved his hand upward, his palm grazing the skin of Lando’s stomach where the fabric had bunched up.
Lando didn't flinch. He didn't lean into the touch. He just kept scrolling.
"Osc, look at this," Lando said, finally tilting the screen up. "Look at where his front wing is. He’s completely delusional, right?"
Oscar finally turned his head. He didn't look at the screen. He looked at Lando.
Lando’s eyes were bright, lit up by the LED screen. He looked young, playful, and completely unaware that he was currently pushing Oscar toward the edge. There was a smudge of sleepiness in his expression, but his thumbs were still hovering over the keyboard, ready to jump back into the digital fray the second Oscar gave him an answer.
"I'm not looking at that, Lando," Oscar said softly.
Lando blinked, his brow furrowing. "Why? It's literally right there. Look, if you just—"
"I don't care about the sim, Lando. And I don't care about the group chat."
Lando paused then. He sensed a shift in the atmosphere, the way the air in the room suddenly felt heavier, more pressurized. He gave Oscar a little sideways look, a cheeky, bratty grin starting to pull at the corners of his mouth. He thought this was a bit of banter. He thought Oscar was just being cranky.
"Someone’s grumpy," Lando teased, his voice dropping into that playful, high-pitched tone he used when he was trying to poke the bear. He turned back to his phone, his thumbs moving again. "I'll be done in a second, baby. Just let me tell Max he’s a loser and then I’m all yours."
All yours.
The words should have been reassuring, but they felt like a lie. If Lando was "all his," he wouldn't be checking for notifications every thirty seconds. If Lando was "all his," he would feel the way Oscar’s hand was now gripping the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him just a little bit closer.
Oscar watched him. He watched the way Lando’s eyes darted across the screen, reading, reacting, drifting. It was a constant cycle of distraction. Lando was like a golden retriever seeing a squirrel, except the squirrel was a glowing rectangle of glass.
Oscar felt a spark of possessiveness flare up, hot and sharp. He wasn't the type to yell. He didn't do big, dramatic displays of anger. His jealousy was quiet. It was a slow-rolling tide that pulled everything under the surface before you even realized the water was rising.
"Put the phone down, Lando," Oscar said. It wasn't a suggestion this time. It was a low, steady command.
Lando chuckled, not looking up. "In a minute, Osc. Seriously, George is being so funny, I just need to see what he—"
Ping.
The phone vibrated in Lando’s hand, the haptic motor making a dull bzzz sound against his palm.
That was it. That was the last bit of patience Oscar had.
In Oscar’s mind, he saw the night clearly. He saw the way it was supposed to go. He saw Lando focused, Lando quiet, Lando belonging entirely to the space between them. The phone was a barrier. It was a third person in their bed. It was an intruder.
Oscar’s hand moved. It wasn't fast or frantic, it was precise. He reached across, his fingers locking around Lando’s wrist with the firm, unyielding grip of a driver holding a steering wheel at two hundred miles per hour.
Lando’s head snapped up, his breath hitching in surprise. "Whoa, okay! Aggressive much?"
He was still smiling. He still thought it was a game. He tried to twist his wrist away, a playful struggle, his eyes dancing with mischief. "What, are you jealous of Max now? Is that it? Does the big, bad Oscar want all the attention?"
Oscar didn't smile back. He leaned in, his face inches from Lando’s, until Lando could see the dark, serious intensity in Oscar’s pupils. The playfulness in Lando’s expression started to flicker, replaced by a sudden, sharp realization that he might have pushed a little too far.
"I don't 'want' your attention, Lando," Oscar whispered, his voice vibrating with a territorial edge that made the hair on the back of Lando’s neck stand up. "I have it. Or I'm supposed to."
With a sudden, powerful jerk, Oscar pulled Lando’s hand toward him. Before Lando could protest, Oscar used his other hand to pry the phone out of Lando’s grip.
"Hey! Oscar, give it—"
Lando reached for it, but Oscar was already moving. He stood up, towering over the sofa, and tossed the phone onto the far end of the long dining table behind them. It slid across the wood with a loud clack and landed face down, silent and dark.
Oscar turned back to Lando. He didn't sit back down. He stood there, his shadow falling over Lando, his hands resting on his hips.
"Now," Oscar said, his voice dropping another octave. "Let’s try this again. Without the audience."
Lando sat on the sofa, looking up at him. His mouth was slightly open, his chest heaving with a sudden spike of adrenaline. The bratty comment he’d been about to make died in his throat. He looked at the phone on the table, then back at Oscar.
Lando stared at the phone on the table, then back at Oscar. The silence in the room was suddenly heavy, the kind of weight that made your ears ring. For a heartbeat, Lando looked genuinely stunned, his eyes wide and blinking rapidly as he processed the fact that his lifeline to the outside world was now six feet away and face-down.
Then, the brat came out.
It started with a huff. Lando rolled his eyes, a defiant little smirk tugging at his lips as he slumped back into the cushions. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking up at Oscar with that look, the one that said he knew he was being difficult and he was enjoying every second of it.
"You’re actually mental, Oscar" Lando said, his voice regaining its teasing edge. "What, are you going to put me in time-out next? Ground me because I wanted to see a crash replay?"
Oscar didn’t move. He didn’t crack a smile. He just stood there, his shadow stretching over Lando’s lap. "I’m not grounding you, Lando. I’m reminding you where you are."
"I know where I am," Lando shot back, his legs kicking out playfully. He started to shift, his muscles tensing as he prepared to lunge. "I’m in my apartment, where my phone is currently being held hostage. And I think I want it back."
Before Oscar could even blink, Lando scrambled. He was fast, years of reaction-time training making him a blur of gray cotton as he tried to bolt past Oscar toward the table.
He didn't make it two steps.
Oscar’s hand shot out, catching Lando by the waist. He didn't just stop him; he hauled him back. Lando let out a surprised oomph as he was yanked backward, his back hitting Oscar’s solid chest.
"Oscar! Let go!" Lando laughed, but it was a breathless, high-pitched sound. He started squirming, his elbows digging into Oscar’s ribs, his heels scuffing against the expensive rug.
"Come on, don't be a dick. I just want to send one more message. One! I promise!"
"No," Oscar said. It was one syllable, clipped and final.
He spun Lando around in his arms. It wasn't a struggle; it was a demonstration of strength. Oscar was deceptively strong, his grip like iron when he wanted it to be. He forced Lando back toward the sofa, pushing him down until the back of Lando’s knees hit the edge of the cushions and he tumbled backward.
Lando tried to sit up immediately, his face flushed pink from the exertion, his hair a mess of tangled curls. "You can't just—"
"I can," Oscar interrupted, stepping between Lando’s parted knees. He leaned over, planting a hand on the back of the sofa on either side of Lando’s head, effectively caging him in.
The proximity was immediate. The heat coming off Oscar was intense, smelling like his expensive cologne. Lando’s protest died in his throat. He looked up, his pulse visible in the frantic beat of the vein in his neck.
"You've spent the last hour everywhere else but here," Oscar murmured, his voice dropping to that low, vibration-heavy register that usually turned Lando’s bones to liquid. "You’ve been with Max. You’ve been with George. You’ve been with a thousand strangers on a screen. But you haven't been with me."
Lando swallowed hard. He tried to maintain the bratty persona, tried to poke the fire. "Maybe they’re just more interesting than you tonight, Osc. Maybe they actually talk back instead of just brooding in the corner."
Oscar’s eyes darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Slowly, Oscar reached out. He didn't grab. he just slid his hand over Lando’s throat, his thumb resting right under the hinge of Lando’s jaw. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm was a physical demand for silence.
"Is that what you think?" Oscar asked.
Lando opened his mouth to make another smart-ass comment, but the words wouldn't come. He felt small under Oscar. Not in a way that felt bad, but in a way that made him feel incredibly seen.
"You're a brat when you're bored, Lando. I know that," Oscar continued, his thumb tracing the line of Lando’s lower lip, pulling it down just enough to reveal the damp pink of the inside. "You push because you want to see how much it takes to make me snap. You want to see if I’m still paying attention."
Oscar leaned in closer, until their noses were almost touching.
"I'm paying attention now. But are you?"
Lando nodded, a small, jerky movement. The defiance was still there, flickering in his eyes, but it was being drowned out by a wave of heat. He liked this. He hated that he liked it, but he did. He liked the way Oscar’s jealousy turned into this cold, hard competence.
"Use your words, Lando," Oscar prompted, his hand sliding from Lando’s throat to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the curls there and giving a firm, grounding tug. "Are you paying attention?"
"Yes," Lando whispered, his voice cracking. "Yes, Oscar."
"Good. Because here are the rules for the rest of the night," Oscar said, his eyes locking onto Lando’s with predatory stillness. "You don't touch that phone. You don't mention the group chat. You don't even think about what’s happening on a screen. If your mind wanders, I’ll know. And if it does, I’m going to make you regret it."
Lando’s breath hitched. "You’re being mean."
"I'm being honest," Oscar countered. He shifted his weight, pressing his body more firmly against Lando’s, pinning him into the soft cushions. "You’ve been a distracted little brat all night. And now, you’re going to be mine. Completely. Do you understand?"
Lando looked at Oscar, really looked at him. He saw the possessiveness, the simmering irritation that had been building for hours, and the deep, underlying affection that made it all feel safe.
"I understand," Lando breathed, his hands finally coming up to rest on Oscar’s hips, gripping the fabric of his hoodie.
Oscar stayed there for a moment, just breathing the same air, letting the weight of the moment sink in. He wasn't in a rush. He had all night. He had stripped away the distractions, silenced the world, and now he had exactly what he wanted: Lando, wide-eyed and waiting, with nowhere left to look but at him.
"Good," Oscar said, a ghost of a smirk finally appearing on his lips. "Now. Get off the sofa. On the floor. Between my knees."
Lando blinked. "The floor? But—"
"Lando."
One word. One warning.
Lando didn't argue again. He slid off the sofa, his movements slightly clumsy as he settled onto the rug at Oscar's feet. He felt the shift in power as Oscar sat back on the sofa, spreading his legs and making a space for Lando to fit into.
The transition from the plush sofa to the rug felt like a sudden drop in temperature, though the air in the room was thicker than ever. Lando settled on the floor, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt exposed down here, looking up at Oscar who was now draped back in a position of effortless authority.
Oscar didn't move for a long minute. He just watched. He let Lando sit in the silence, let him feel the restlessness that always came when his hands weren't occupied. Without the phone to scroll through or a joke to crack, Lando was forced to deal with the raw, buzzing energy of Oscar’s undivided attention.
Lando’s fingers twitched, picking at a loose thread on the rug. He shifted his weight, his knees knocking together. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin.
"Be still," Oscar said.
It wasn't a shout. It was barely a whisper, but it carried enough weight to make Lando freeze mid-fidget.
"It's hard," Lando complained, though his voice was small. He tilted his head back, looking up at Oscar from a sharp angle. "My brain is... it’s going too fast."
"I know," Oscar murmured. He reached down, his fingers broad and warm as they cupped Lando’s chin, forcing his head back even further until their eyes met. "That’s the problem. You’re always running. Tonight, you’re staying right here."
Oscar’s hands moved with agonizing slowness. He began to trace the lines of Lando’s face. His thumb moved over the bridge of Lando’s nose, then traced the curve of his cheekbones. It was a grounding touch, heavy and deliberate. He was mapping Lando out as if he were claiming the territory for the first time.
"Look at me," Oscar commanded when Lando’s gaze tried to flicker. "Eyes on me, Lando."
Lando obeyed, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He felt like pushing more of oscar’s buttons—a witty remark, a playful nip at Oscar’s fingers but every time he opened his mouth, Oscar’s gaze sharpened, cutting him off before he could start.
"You were so busy earlier," Oscar said, his hand sliding down to wrap around the back of Lando’s neck. His fingers squeezed the sensitive skin there, a firm, possessive pressure. "Typing away. Making sure everyone else knew what you were thinking. Did you tell them you were ignoring your boyfriend?"
Lando’s face burned. "I wasn't..I didn't mean to ignore you."
"But you did," Oscar countered. He leaned forward resting his chin on lando’s head. "You let them into our space. You let Max and George sit on this couch with us. Do you think they belong here?"
"No," Lando whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as Oscar’s thumb began to stroke the pulse point in his neck. It was racing, a frantic, thudding beat that betrayed exactly how much this was affecting him.
"Good answer." Oscar’s touch moved lower, his hand slipping under the collar of Lando’s hoodie to find the warm skin of his shoulder. He kneaded the muscle there, feeling the tension slowly begin to drain out of Lando, replaced by a heavy, syrupy weight. "You’re so loud when you’re on that thing. Always performing. I don't want that Lando tonight. I want the quiet one. The one who belongs to me."
Lando let out a shaky exhale, his body finally going limp against Oscar’s legs. The restlessness was being replaced by something much more dangerous: a total, intoxicating sense of surrender. He felt Oscar’s legs close slightly, pinning Lando’s shoulders between his knees, a physical reminder of the cage he had stepped into.
"I’m here," Lando breathed, his hands coming up to rest tentatively on Oscar’s shins. "I’m quiet."
"Are you?" Oscar’s voice was a low rumble. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of Lando’s ear, sending a violent shiver down Lando’s spine. "We’ll see. Because if you’re quiet, you can hear everything. You can hear how much I want you. And you can hear exactly how much trouble you’re in for making me wait."
Oscar’s hands moved to the hem of Lando’s hoodie, his fingers hooking into the fabric. He didn't pull it off not yet. He just held it, a silent threat of what was coming next.
"You like to push, don't you?" Oscar asked, his breath hot against Lando’s skin. "You like to see how long it takes for me to get jealous. You like the way it feels when I finally lose my patience."
Lando couldn't lie. Not now. Not with Oscar’s hands on him and the room feeling like it was shrinking around them. "Yes," he admitted, a tiny, broken sound.
"At least you're honest," Oscar said, his grip on the hoodie tightening. "But every time you push, there’s a price. And tonight, the price is your control. You don't get to decide what happens next. You don't get to move unless I tell you. You don't get anything until I decide you’ve earned it."
Oscar pulled the hoodie upward, forcing Lando to lift his arms as the fabric was stripped away and tossed onto the floor. Lando shivered as the cool air hit his bare skin, but the chill was gone a second later as Oscar’s hands returned, larger and warmer than before, splaying across his chest.
"Now," Oscar murmured, watching the way Lando’s nipples peaked in the dim light. "Let’s see just how much of my attention you can actually handle."
Oscar didn’t give Lando time to adjust to the cold. Before Lando could even think about shivering, Oscar’s hands were back, moving with a heavy, proprietary slowness over his ribs. He traced the line of Lando’s sternum, his touch firm enough to leave temporary white marks on the pale skin.
"You're shaking," Oscar observed, his voice devoid of pity. It was a statement of fact, a hunter noting the twitch of a bird’s wing. "Is it the room, or is it me?"
Lando swallowed, his throat tight. "You," he whispered.
"Good. Stay focused on that."
Oscar reached down, his hands sliding under Lando’s armpits, and hauled him up. It wasn't a gentle lift; it was a display of effortless strength that reminded Lando exactly who was in charge in this room. He didn't put Lando back on the cushions. Instead, he pulled him onto his lap, forcing Lando to straddle him.
The change in perspective was jarring. Lando was taller now, looking down at Oscar, but he had never felt more submissive. Oscar’s hands settled on Lando’s hips, anchoring him in place, his fingers digging into the soft skin just above the waistband of his joggers.
"You want to be a brat, Lando?" Oscar asked, his eyes tracking the way Lando’s chest was heaving.
"You want to play games for attention? Fine. We’ll play a game.
It’s called 'Stillness.' If you move, if you try to take what you want, or if you even look away from me... we stop. And I go back to the kitchen to make tea while you sit here and think about why you can’t behave."
Lando’s eyes widened. The idea of Oscar walking away now leaving him wired, half-naked, and desperate was a special kind of torture. "Oscar, please—"
"Shh," Oscar silenced him, one finger pressing firmly against Lando’s lips. "I didn't give you permission to speak. I gave you a command."
Oscar began to move his hands. He didn't go for the obvious spots. Instead, he focused on the periphery. He traced the sensitive skin of Lando’s inner thighs through the fabric of his joggers, his touch light, teasing, barely there. Then he moved to Lando’s sides, his thumbs grazing the bottom of his ribcage in a way that made Lando want to squirm, to arch, to do something.
Lando’s breath came in ragged hitches. He felt the familiar itch of wanting to act out to nip at Oscar’s shoulder or grind down against him just to break the tension. He shifted, just a fraction of an inch, trying to find friction.
Immediately, Oscar’s hands went still. He went completely limp beneath Lando, his expression turning neutral, almost bored.
"That was a move, Lando," Oscar said coldly. He started to pull his hands away. "I told you the rules."
"No! No, wait," Lando gasped, his hands flying to Oscar’s wrists to keep him there. His pride was gone, replaced by a frantic need for the contact to continue. "I'm sorry. I'll stay still. Please don't stop."
Oscar let him hold his wrists for a beat, watching the desperation flicker in Lando’s hazel eyes. He was taming him, stripping away the layers of his playful defence until there was nothing left but the raw need for Oscar’s touch.
"Try again," Oscar murmured.
This time, the touch was more intense. Oscar’s hands found the hem of Lando’s joggers, sliding inside the waistband. He didn't go deep, he just let his knuckles graze the skin of Lando’s hips, over and over, until the friction started to create a dull, thrumming heat.
Lando whined, his head dropping onto Oscar’s shoulder.
"Don't hide your face. Look at me."
Lando forced his head back up, his neck straining. Tears of frustration were pricking at the corners of his eyes. Every nerve ending was firing at once, screaming for a release that Oscar was intentionally withholding.
Oscar’s hands moved to Lando’s chest, his palms flat and heavy. He began to rub circles, slow and rhythmic, his eyes never leaving Lando’s. The friction on Lando’s nipples was becoming too much, a sharp, electric sensation that made his toes curl.
"Oscar, it's... it's too much," Lando whimpered, his back arching instinctively.
"It’s exactly enough," Oscar corrected. He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more deliberate, more demanding. He could feel Lando’s heart hammering like a trapped bird against his ribs. "You wanted my attention, Lando. You wanted me to see you. This is what it looks like when I see you. I see everything. I see how much you’re struggling. I see how much you want to break."
Oscar shifted, his own body reacting to the heat between them, but he kept his voice steady, his control absolute. He moved one hand down, his fingers curling around the base of Lando’s length through the fabric, squeezing just hard enough to make Lando let out a choked sob.
"You’re mine tonight," Oscar reminded him, his voice a low, possessive. "Not the fans'. Not the team’s. Mine. And I’m going to make sure you remember that every time you even think about picking up that phone."
Lando was on the edge, his mind a static-filled haze of blue light and Oscar’s voice. He was falling, and Oscar was the only thing holding him up.
Oscar’s gaze didn’t soften just because Lando had found his first release. If anything, the sight of Lando slumped against him, flushed, breathless, and completely undone, only fed the territorial hunger that had been clawing at Oscar’s chest all evening.
"You’re shaking," Oscar noted again. This time, he didn't just say it; he leaned down and pressed his face into the crook of Lando’s neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell like you’re falling apart. It’s a good look on you, Lando. Much better than the one you had earlier."
Oscar’s hand, which had been resting on Lando’s hip, began a slow, agonizing journey. He didn't go straight for Lando’s center. Instead, he let his fingertips ghost over the soft skin of Lando’s lower stomach, tracing the line of his hip bones, dipping into the shallow hollows of his groin. Each touch was light as a feather but felt like a brand.
"Please, Osc," Lando whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut. "Just... touch me. Properly."
"I am touching you," Oscar countered, his voice like velvet over gravel. “You don't get 'properly' yet. You haven't earned the right to be impatient." Oscar’s other hand came up, his palm flat against Lando’s chest. He began to rub, slow and firm, his calloused thumb catching on Lando’s nipple and rolling it with a steady, rhythmic pressure. Lando let out a sharp, broken gasp, his head lolling back against Oscar’s shoulder.
"Eyes," Oscar reminded him, a sharp tug on his curls forcing Lando’s head forward again. "I told you. Don't go inside your head. Stay here with me."
Lando’s eyes were glassy, blown wide with a mix of desperation and sensory overload. He watched as Oscar finally moved his hand down, his fingers curling around Lando’s length. But Oscar didn't stroke. He just held him, tight, steady, and unmoving.
"You feel that?" Oscar whispered, his breath hot against Lando’s wet cheek. "That’s me. Not a notification. Not a comment section. That’s my hand. My weight."
Then, Oscar began to move. It was the slowest stroke Lando had ever experienced. It took seconds just to reach the top, and by the time Oscar’s thumb grazed the head, Lando was already crying out, his hips jerking instinctively to meet the friction.
"No," Oscar growled, his grip tightening to a punishing degree, holding Lando perfectly still. "I move. You stay. If you try to take it, I stop. Do you want me to stop, Lando?"
"No! No, don't stop, I’m sorry," Lando sobbed, his fingers digging so hard into the sofa that his nails were catching on the fabric. "I'll stay still. I promise. Just keep going."
Oscar resumed that torturous, snail-paced rhythm. He was watching Lando’s face the entire time, tracking every twitch of his lips, every flutter of his eyelashes. He would stroke up, wait a heartbeat, and then pull down just as slowly. It was building a pressure in Lando’s gut that felt like it was going to turn him inside out.
"You’re a good boy when you’re being handled, aren't you?" Oscar murmured. He leaned in, his tongue darting out to lick a stray tear off Lando’s cheek. "So much better than when you’re being a brat. You like being told exactly what to do."
"Yes," Lando choked out.
"You like knowing that you don't have a choice."
"Yes, Oscar. Please."
Oscar accelerated just a friction. Not enough to give Lando what he wanted, but enough to make the pleasure sharpen into something unbearable. He added his other hand to the mix, his fingers roaming over Lando’s thighs, pinching and kneading the sensitive skin, creating a sensation that Lando couldn't process.
Lando was overstimulated. Every nerve ending was screaming. He was on the very edge of a precipice, his breath coming in short, sharp hitches that sounded like he was running a race. His skin was flushed a deep, angry red, slick with sweat in the cool air of the apartment.
"Oscar, I’m close... I’m so close, please, I can't hold it—"
Oscar stopped.
He didn't pull away completely, but he went still, his hand just resting there, keeping the heat trapped but offering no relief.
Lando let out a sound that was barely human, a high, keening whine of pure agony. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against Oscar’s shoulder, his body trembling so violently he nearly slipped off Oscar’s lap.
"The phone just lit up again," Oscar said conversationally, his voice steady as if they were discussing the weather. "Do you want to see who it is? Maybe Max has a new clip for you."
"No," Lando wailed into Oscar’s skin. "I don't care. I don't care about anything. Just finish it. Oscar, please, I’ll do anything. I’ll give you the phone. I’ll delete the apps. Just... please."
Oscar felt the victory then, not a mean victory, but a deep, satisfying sense of having his partner back. The "brat" was gone. The distraction was gone. There was only Lando, broken and beautiful and entirely his.
"Look at me one last time," Oscar commanded.
Lando lifted his head, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated need. He looked wrecked.
"You belong to me," Oscar said, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "Say it."
Lando’s hands were trembling where they were white-knuckled against the top of the sofa. The position was exhausting, his back arched and his chest pushed forward, but he didn't dare move. He was a wire tuned too tight, and Oscar was the only one allowed to touch the strings.
"I'm yours," Lando whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm yours, Oscar. Always."
Oscar didn't make him wait any longer. He closed his hand firmly around Lando and began a fast, demanding pace that was the polar opposite of before. He was ruthless, his movements heavy and certain, driving Lando toward the finish line with a dominance that left no room for anything else.
Lando’s world narrowed down to the point of a needle. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe. There was only Oscar’s hand, Oscar’s voice, and the overwhelming reality of being claimed.
When he finally broke, it was violent, his body jerking against Oscar, his voice cracking as he screamed Oscar’s name into the quiet apartment.
Oscar held him through it, his grip never wavering, his eyes locked on Lando’s face until the very last tremor subsided.
Lando tried to go limp, his muscles turning to water, but Oscar’s hands were back on his waist in an instant, gripping him with firm, unyielding pressure.
“I didn’t tell you we were finished,” Oscar murmured into the sudden quiet.
He didn't give Lando time to recover. With a firm hand on Lando’s shoulder, he guided him back, shifting him until he was lying flat against the sofa, It was a vulnerable, open position that left Lando with nowhere to look but up at Oscar, who was now looming over him, stripping off his own hoodie in one fluid motion.
Oscar’s chest was broad, his skin pale in the dim light. He looked powerful, grounded in a way that Lando felt he wasn't. Oscar reached for the lube, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. The sound of it wet and slick made Lando’s toes curl into the sofa.
"Stay open for me," Oscar commanded.
He didn't wait for Lando to settle. He moved in, his fingers finding Lando with a directness that made Lando gasp. Oscar was slow, but he wasn't gentle. He was thorough. He used his thumb to press against the base of Lando’s balls while his fingers worked inside, stretching him with a deliberate, rhythmic pressure that was designed to prepare him, but also to keep him pinned to the spot.
Lando’s head thrashed against the cushion. "Oscar... please, it feels... it's too much."
"It’s not enough," Oscar countered. He added another finger, his knuckles grazing Lando’s inner thighs. He was prepping him with the same precision he used to hit an apex, no wasted movement, total control. He felt Lando’s walls twitching around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion. "I want you to feel every bit of this. I want you to remember the weight of me when you’re lying here alone tomorrow."
Lando let out a broken moan, his hands reaching up to find Oscar’s forearms, gripping the solid muscle there just to stay grounded. He felt stretched, filled, and completely dominated. The dominant energy was at its peak; Oscar wasn't asking for Lando’s body, he was taking it, one inch at a time.
Once Oscar was satisfied that Lando was ready, he pulled back just long enough to deal with the condom. The crinkle of the foil was the only sound in the room. Lando watched him, watched the way Oscar’s hands were steady, his focus absolute. There was no hesitation in him.
Oscar moved back between Lando’s legs, his knees forcing Lando’s thighs even wider. After getting rid of his own jeans he settled his weight against Lando’s entrance, the head of his length pressing firmly against the opening he had just spent ten minutes prepping.
"Look at me," Oscar said, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
Lando opened his eyes, his vision blurry with tears and heat. Oscar was looking down at him with a look of such intense, terrifying possessiveness that Lando felt his heart skip a beat.
"This isn't a game, Lando. This isn't for a stream. This is just us."
Oscar pushed in.
He didn't go fast. He went slow, a steady, relentless pressure that filled Lando to the point of bursting. Lando’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, his back arching off the sofa as he took all of Oscar. It was a heavy, dull ache that quickly sharpened into something electric.
Oscar didn't move for a long moment once he was all the way in. He let Lando feel the fullness, let him adjust to the sheer scale of the intrusion. He leaned down, his chest pressing against Lando’s, his sweaty curls mingling with Lando’s own.
"Mine," Oscar whispered into Lando’s ear, the word more a command than a statement.
It was a slow, punishing rhythm. Oscar pulled back until he was almost out, then drove back in with a heavy, grounded thud that made the sofa creak. He wasn't rushing. He was making Lando feel every ridge, every bit of friction.
Lando was losing his mind. The overstimulation from earlier hadn't faded; it had just changed shape. Every time Oscar pressed in, Lando’s entire body spasmed. He was sobbing now, incoherent sounds of "Oscar" and "Please" and "More" spilling from his lips.
"You want more?" Oscar asked, his pace picking up just a fraction, his hands sliding under Lando’s lower back to lift him higher, meeting every thrust with a deeper intensity. "Then take it. Take all of it."
Oscar was ruthless. He used his weight to keep Lando pinned, his movements becoming more demanding as the friction built.
He was claiming Lando in the most primal way possible, asserting a dominance that went beyond the brat-taming of earlier. This was about the deep, quiet jealousy that had been simmering all night finally finding its release.
Lando’s world was nothing but Oscar. The blue light of the phone was a million miles away. The group chats, the fans, the noise of the outside world, it was all gone. There was only the sound of Oscar’s breath, the heat of his skin, and the relentless, beautiful way he was being broken and put back together.
As the end drew near, Oscar’s control finally flickered. His thrusts became faster, more desperate, his fingers digging into Lando’s hips to keep him in place. Lando was a mess beneath him, his legs shaking, his voice gone hoarse from crying out.
"Oscar—Osc, I’m—"
"I know," Oscar gasped, his own composure finally shattering. "Stay with me. Stay right here."
Oscar drove into him one last time, a deep, final surge that sent them both over the edge. Lando’s vision went white as he collapsed, his body going completely limp as Oscar followed him down, burying his face in Lando’s neck and letting out a long, ragged exhale that sounded like a victory.
The silence that followed was different than the one before. It wasn’t heavy with tension or sharp with jealousy; it was thick, warm, and quiet, broken only by the sound of two people trying to find their breath again.
Oscar didn't move for a long time. He stayed draped over Lando, his forehead pressed into the crook of Lando’s shoulder, his heart thudding a heavy, satisfied rhythm against Lando’s chest. He felt Lando’s small, shaky hands come up to rest on his back, fingers fluttering uselessly against his skin as if Lando didn't quite have the strength to actually hold on.
"You okay?" Oscar murmured, his voice a gravelly wreck of its usual self.
Lando just let out a long, shaky exhale that ended in a tiny, tired laugh. "Yeah. Just… think my legs are made of jelly now."
Oscar huffed a soft breath against Lando's skin, the closest thing to a chuckle Lando was going to get. Slowly, Oscar pulled back, disentangling himself with a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the way he’d handled Lando moments before. He saw the marks he’d left, the flushed skin, the damp curls, the dazed, soft look in Lando’s eyes.
The jealousy was gone, completely purged, replaced by a deep, protective hum in his veins.
"Stay there," Oscar commanded, but the edge was gone, replaced by a quiet tenderness.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, returning with a warm, damp washcloth. Lando watched him through half-lidded eyes, looking small and soft against the velvet sofa.
Oscar knelt between Lando’s legs with a quiet, focused care. He cleaned Lando up slowly, his touch hovering between clinical and affectionate.
"Sorry if I was a bit much," Oscar muttered, his eyes focused on his task, a rare hint of sheepishness in the line of his shoulders.
Lando reached down, his fingers catching a lock of Oscar's hair. "Don't be. I liked it. I think I… I think I needed you to do that."
Oscar looked up, his gaze softening as he saw the honesty in Lando’s face. He leaned forward, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to Lando’s forehead, then his nose, then finally his lips, a slow, sweet contact that tasted like salt and surrender.
"I just don't like sharing you," Oscar confessed, his voice a low vibration. "Especially not when I'm right here."
"You don't have to share," Lando whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm all yours. Promise."
Oscar nodded, satisfied. He set the cloth aside and reached down, sliding one arm under Lando’s knees and the other behind his back. With a grunt of effort, he scooped Lando up into his arms. Lando made a small, surprised sound, instinctively tucking his face into Oscar’s neck and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.
The walk to the bedroom was short and quiet. The apartment felt different now, settled. Oscar laid Lando down on the cool sheets and climbed in after him, immediately pulling the duvet over both of them.
Lando didn't waste a second. He crawled into Oscar’s space, his head finding its familiar home on Oscar’s chest, his limbs tangling with Oscar’s until there was no space left between them. Oscar shifted, settling his arm under Lando’s head and using his free hand to reach up, his fingers sinking into Lando’s messy, damp curls.
He twirled a single ringlet around his finger, pulling gently, then smoothing it out. Over and over. A rhythmic, soothing motion.
"Get some sleep, Lan," Oscar whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of Lando's ear.
"Mmm. 'S nice," Lando mumbled, his eyes already drifting shut. He looked peaceful, the restless energy completely out of him. He pressed a sleepy, clumsy kiss to Oscar’s collarbone.
"Love you, Osc. Even when you're a mean, jealous shadow-man."
Oscar let out a genuine, quiet laugh this time. "Love you too. Go to sleep."
He watched as Lando’s breathing slowed, growing deep and even. The light from the hallway caught the edge of Lando’s eyelashes, casting long shadows over his cheeks. He looked younger when he slept, unburdened by the noise of the world or the glow of a screen.
Oscar looked toward the living room door. Somewhere out there, on a mahogany table, a phone was probably lighting up with a dozen notifications. Max was probably still arguing; the world was still spinning; people were still demanding a piece of Lando Norris.
But they couldn't have him.
Oscar tightened his hold just a fraction, burying his nose in those soft, familiar curls, finally closing his own eyes as the silence of the apartment felt, for the first time all night, entirely complete.
Lando was exactly where he belonged
quiet, claimed, and finally, undeniably home.