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Jenson is pretending otherwise, but he's anxious about this whole premiere dinner thing. Lando doesn't really get it (it’s a documentary release, not the fucking Baftas), but he looks fit in a suit, and he agreed to bankroll her eSports proposition. So.
"Hello trouble," Jenson smiles, meeting her eye in the mirror when she loops her arms round him from behind, already loose and easy from the uppers. "You look gorgeous."
Lando preens. She's wearing a slip of a dress in her favourite shade of green. The fact it's also Brawn's colour is a happy coincidence. Jenson likes this, she can tell. All his things matching.
"Not too shabby yourself, old man."
"Fuck off," he says fondly, turning around to pull her flush against his chest. "No, honestly. I'm glad I've got you with me tonight."
That’s sweet. He means it, too.
"Is Mark coming?" she asks, while he's still distracted by her tits. Like Lando gives a single flying fuck about Mark Webber.
"Mark? Oh," Jenson chuckles. "Well, we've invited him. Said he had news, or something of the sort. Must've finally landed that WEC drive he was after, the bastard."
Lando grins brightly, reaching up to straighten his tie. Doing more harm than good, really. "Nah, you mean your WEC drive?"
It makes Jenson laugh, like she'd known it would.
With the Bentley that's shown up to chauffeur them idling downstairs, she pushes Jenson flat up against the wardrobe and sucks him off for his nerves. Doesn’t end up swallowing, but that’s fine. He won’t hold it against her.
The hotel is one of those pointlessly golden ones, massive vintage chandelier in the ballroom and everything. Lando snags a flute of champagne, winking at the server. She’s so bored she could cry. Also, the heels were a mistake. She’s stumbled twice already, the strap digging into the same pale score on her achilles the second time around. She’s going to have a bitch of a shoebite tomorrow, damn.
“Sorry, just a couple more hours and we can skive off, alright?” Jenson murmurs. He brushes his lips against her temple, eyes dark and warm with promise. “I booked the honeymoon suite.”
Lando grins, palming the keycard he slips her. Then someone calls his name and he glances at them over the top of her head, pasting on his generous media smile. It's almost indistinguishable from his normal smile, unless you know what to look for. She follows his line of sight to where they’re being waved over to a tasting sample of the guest list: a couple of reality stars, retired F1 personnel, a MILF-y sports journalist she knew the name of but forgot, Mark Webber.
And Mark Webber's—
Fucking hell. It’s sunlight through a magnifying glass, being looked at like that. Intent and focused, burning her up from the inside. Who needs drugs, honestly.
"Mate," Webber says, clapping Jenson on the back when they join the circle. "The team did a cracking job. Good stuff."
"Cute one, wasn't he?" Lando smirks, keeping her eyes on Mark and Mark alone. This bit is fun, too, in its own way. "Dunno what happened.”
"Oi," Jenson protests, squeezing her waist as Mark guffaws.
“Like anyone was paying attention to ol’ JB here with Neo on-screen."
“D'you know that movie came out the year I was born?” Lando says conversationally, just to watch the interesting things it does to Jenson’s face.
The ragging and gladhanding finally peters out into reliving the glory days, so to speak. No one pays her any attention, except to offer her more champagne or occasionally ogle her chest.
That's fine, because it leaves Lando free to do what she came here for.
"Hi again," she says. For appearances.
Oscar makes a soft noise, the neutral slant of her mouth widening just a touch. "Hello. Lando, was it?"
Oh, she's got jokes now.
Next to them, Mark has pulled Jenson aside. “You know I hate to talk shop on your big night, mate,” his eyebrows go up meaningfully. It makes him look like a car salesman. “But. Porsche called.”
“Mate,” Jenson groans good-naturedly. “Come on, I’m with company.”
“And what lovely company too,” Mark acquiesces, nodding at Lando. “Still, there's some people who want to chat—”
“We can keep ourselves entertained,” Lando cuts in. She sidles close, looping an arm around Oscar's waist. It's platonic enough; sweet and sterile. Just a couple of girls, girlfriends, bonding at a black-tie event. Positively precious.
“Traitor.” Jenson tilts her chin up for a quick peck. “But cheers, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.” When he draws back, there's a smudge of her lipstick on the corner of his mouth.
"They'll be fine," Mark chuckles. "Always joined at the hip, these two."
"I'll say," Lando says innocently. Oscar’s fingers tighten on her arm in warning when Lando gropes her arse, but no one's even looking at them anymore.
The honeymoon suite looks like any other suite, thank god. No rose petals or anything. They'd found out the hard way Oscar's allergic.
Such an attention whore, Lando had giggled, running a finger down the bridge of Oscar's sulking, swollen nose—and got bent over the edge of the tub next morning for her trouble.
In retrospect, maybe candles and a flower pool had been a tad fucking extra for a two-week-old fling. But nothing between them has ever been patient, measured, careful. Always too much, too fast.
In the foyer, Oscar presses up against her back, hands hungry and roaming. "I'll say," she echoes. "Christ, you're such a—"
"No flattery 'til your clothes're off, " Lando breathes, scrabbling at the zipper on Oscar's slacks. She's already wet between her legs, her pussy tensing in Pavlovian anticipation like it knows Oscar's close, Oscar's gonna sort her out.
"Pretty dress," Oscar says softly, sliding the hem up, up, past her thighs. Lando can hear the smile in her voice. "You wear it for me?"
"Uh huh," Lando says, shivering. Why lie? It's Oscar's favourite shade of green too.
"The shoes look like they hurt, though."
They do, but it’s annoying to have it pointed out. "Yeah, and? D'you know what it costs to look this g—"
She yelps, jaw going slack when Oscar tugs her knickers aside and presses two fingers knuckle-deep into her in one swift thrust. No warning, nothing. The shock knots her lungs, emptying them of air. Fuck, shit. Her eyes prickle—it actually burns. God, Oscar can be a right bitch sometimes.
Says something about Lando, probably, the way the intrusion has her leaking all over the place anyway. Too much, too fast—just the way she likes it.
( Jesus, JB, Mark had laughed, the first time Jenson brought her along to one of these things. That's got to be illegal.
They'd just gone public, everything shiny and easy and new. Jenson liked spoiling her almost as much as Lando liked to pretend she was impressed by Michelin stars and private yachts. Her carousel of them strategically kissing in front of the sunset was easily the most liked post on her grid. Up until then, that is.
Lando had nodded and twirled her hair the requisite amount. Mark's date was even younger, though. Hippo critical, much?
She wasn't the sort of girl Lando usually saw accompanying men in this business, men Mark's age. Her suit—suit—was poorly tailored for one, too tight around the tits and thighs. Her hair was cropped short, the neglected lovechild of a mullet and a bob that didn't do her doughy face any favours. Even when she engaged the men in racing talk, it was in this blaisé, non-threatening way.
Basically: she was plain. A bit boring, really. )
"Oscar, god, wait." Lando’s knees give out, the carpet rough against her freshly waxed skin. "There's a, a frickin' bed right there,"
"Later." Oscar's hot breath tickles her nape. Her five outstretched fingers are a brand on Lando’s bare stomach, boxing her in, holding her in place. "Once. Once here, yeah?"
For fuck’s s— it’s a godless angle. Her arms tremble as she locks her elbows, trying to hold herself up on all fours. Oscar can't even go deep like this, so it's just an aimless shallow thrust into the wet center of her. A dip in the pool—just enough to get your toes damp, no cool plunge of relief. She can't even come like this, probably.
She says as much, taunting. Pleading. Oscar, the sodding overachiever, pretends not to hear.
Then Oscar moves her fingers differently, more up, and Lando whines, nearly losing her balance. Her twisty bun has been tugged loose, curls sticking to her sweat-damp neck, falling in her eyes and her open, panting mouth. She doesn't even have a spare hand to brush them away. There's nowhere to go except the heat of Oscar, claustrophobically close and overwhelmingly good.
( So how'd you two meet? Lando found herself asking anyway.
Ah, Mark said, and had the decency to look chastened. Well, )
Ex-F1 drivers, girlfriends half their age — hell, the comparisons draw themselves. Her and Jense make the prettier couple for sure, but in terms of scandal at least, Mark and Oscar have them beat.
He'd known her since she was eighteen. Managed her in juniors, back when Oscar was still racing. Must not have been very good at his job, is Lando's read on it. Jumped into bed with his client at the first chance, hadn't he?
Who knows, maybe Mark even sabotaged her career on purpose. Shook his head in weary, faux regret, claiming the sponsors weren't convinced, when all the while he didn’t schedule any meetings, never made any calls. Sorry, kid, maybe the sport isn't ready for a girl.
And then he'd pour Oscar a commiseratory glass of red in some dodgy motel room, his rough hand ruffling her hair, lingering on the pale curve of her neck. But don't you worry Osc. I'm going to take care of you.
"Has anyone told you you've got a vivid imagination?" Oscar deadpanned later, one day on the green.
"No," sniffed Lando. “Whatever. Learn to keep up.”
They'd left Mark and Jenson behind at the last hole. Lando with her bunches and custom engraved club, Oscar in a pair of tight little golf trousers that were not regulation. Drenched in those last golden dregs of daylight, it’d felt like a different world—one just big enough for the two of them.
Oscar had only raised her brows in response. 'Course, she missed her shot completely, huffing in vague annoyance as Lando snickered, but. Turns out she could keep up just fine.
If anyone asks: Lando’d just been flirting for sport. She hadn't thought it would go anywhere. For a long time, it didn’t.
But then it did, on one of those sweltering chandeliered nights; guiding Oscar's hand under her dress in some over-furnished powder room. And then it did again. And again, and again, and oh man, Lando liked her mouth, but mostly she liked how Oscar didn’t mess about wasting it on watery little we shouldn'ts or we can'ts, a whole lot of crap that wasn't no. No one ever says no to Lando.
She bites into her arm to muffle the noise, tasting the bitter sheen of her body lotion as Oscar fucks her open. Her stupid nails dig into Lando's waist, unfiled and proprietary.
Jesus, she's not being gentle—but then again, when is she ever? Feels a bit different today, though. Sharp. Every touch rife with the sort of crude desperation Lando hasn't seen on her since that first time, when the risk of getting caught had been half the thrill.
It’s the lipstick that did it, probably. One time, Lando had come to see her with a fresh hickey on her hip and Oscar had held her down and caught the broken skin between her teeth and didn’t let up or let her leave until it was ten times worse than before. That’d been a fun one to try and explain. Yeah babe, didn’t know I could bruise like that either.
Or maybe it's to do with the spectacle of tonight, the event itself. The guests, the pointlessly beautiful venue, the gold and the neon green. Jenson's mark on everything—Lando included.
Oscar dips down to bite the plucked flesh of her inner thigh, and Lando gasps, dizzy.
Geez. She'd sooner skip back downstairs and offer Ross Brawn a complimentary handie than say it out loud, but. Oscar's got nothing to worry about.
"Look at you," Oscar says, thumbing over Lando's left nipple through her dress. Oh great, she's feeling chatty. Never a good sign.
"Such a," Oscar twists, hard. She sounds fond. "Slut for it."
Oi, watch it, Lando tries to say, but it comes out more of a strangled cry. Oscar's licking at her chest now, because she doesn't give a damn about symmetry, doesn't care that only one of Lando's nips is damp, silk darkening under her mouth in a growing patch of wet.
"Yeah, nah. Bet you get like this for all the boys and girls." She pulls off to laugh; a breathless sound. "Can't be all that special, can I?"
Jenson’s soft at his core, the precious reformed playboy. Holds his hands up in deference when Lando says she's not into all that jealous shit. Bit whatever-ist, innit? Bit of a show.
Too bad Oscar's never been humbled like that.
"N-no," Lando moans brokenly, cunt sopping wet. So embarrassingly easy for Oscar, always. "Only — only you, Osc."
"Yeah?" Oscar breathes, eyes black. She scissors her fingers inside, once, wide, then—pulls out. Fuck. Lando nods helplessly, vision blurring. When a slick index presses against the corner of her mouth, she opens it, grateful.
Sometimes, when it’s like this, Lando feels like she didn't exist before Oscar fucked her.
Which is just. Every bit as mental as it sounds. She's twenty-four, for fuck's sake. Has a sort-of job and a famous boyfriend and more collab DMs than her agent can handle. She's been with guys for two-thirds of a decade, girls almost as long. She thinks about voting, sometimes. Makes no sense to get all up in knots over a good shag.
It’s just, Oscar—
Oscar was the first time she ate someone out. The first time she came so hard she felt it for a week. The first time Lando had to work for anything in her fucking life, and have it be worth it.
The day Oscar finally fucked her, it felt like she was forging a space for herself inside Lando; a sick little void that would exist as long as Oscar wasn’t there, filling her up.
They were in a hotel room Lando'd put on her own card, not the one Jenson gave her. The sun hadn't set yet, but the window shades were carelessly open, everything orange and aglow—Oscar most of all.
"You can — harder. M'not gonna break," Lando had whined, and still felt on the verge of it when Oscar smiled that pretty, close-mouthed smile and rolled her hips, slow and deep, the silicone length of her cock pushing all the way in. It was so much. Lando wanted it all the time. Oscar, all the time.
She gags when Oscar’s fingers brush the roof of her mouth, and it brings her back into her body, a little. Oscar’s removed her strappy heels at some point, the ones that hurt. She spreads her legs wider on the mattress, shivering when Oscar crawls between them.
For a second, Oscar stays suspended over her like that, staring at Lando like she wants to draw the moment out, make it last. A tense, furled rosebud trembles in Lando's stomach—she needs to come so bad she's gonna cry—but, like. Yeah. She gets it. She’s always hated sharing, too.
Lando feels Oscar a breath away from the hungry, wanting mouth of her cunt, and closes her eyes.
"Mark asked me to marry him."
Lando laughs, high and bright. Her legs haven't stopped shaking since ten minutes ago.
"Yeah, I bet. Seems the type." She reaches her arm out for a cuddle.
When another beat passes and it doesn’t come, Lando twists around to stare at her, incredulous. Oscar's doing up her blouse buttons. Avoiding Lando's eye.
Fucking hell.
And that's when she sees it: the unassuming band of silver on Oscar's ring finger, sat below the indecent freckle Lando likes to lick. Subtle. Classy. No diamond, because that's not Oscar's style. She must've picked it out herself.
Suddenly, the champagne is bubbling in her stomach, threatening to make a reappearance. She sits up to keep it down. Stares at the generic painting on the wall like someone's going to draw a curtain across it and ask her what it was. It's a boat.
Once, in a heat flash moment of post-orgasm insanity, Lando's stupid, traitorous mouth asked Oscar to run away with her.
We could go anywhere, she'd said, Verstappen and Leclerc trading places on the tablet nestled between them. Lando hasn't flown commercial in years, but she'd do it. For Oscar. Catch the next red-eye out to Bali, or Ibiza, or fuckin, dunno. Perth. I hear it's nice this time of the year.
And Oscar,
Oscar had just laughed.
It's always nice.
Then she'd leaned forward, bumping up the volume, and—that was that. Oscar wasn't about it, and Lando had too much pride to beg.
"Uh huh," she says now, the painting swimming something awful. "Sure, that's— yeah." Her tongue feels like rubber. "Guess I wanna know, like. Why? You don't even."
"He's done a lot for me," Oscar says shortly, like that's anywhere near the same thing. "And besides. You love Jenson."
Lando likes Jenson. He makes her laugh, he gets her weird stroppy moods. Hell, he's pretty fucking solid in bed. And some days, when he looks at her with his crinkled, sun-lined eyes and easy smile and tells her how lucky he is to have her, she thinks it could become more than that.
With Oscar, she doesn't have to think at all.
Good. No, this is good, actually. It was all getting a bit too, like. Much. Past the line of uncomplicated fun, demanding sincerity Lando isn't built for.
Learning Oscar's sisters' names, how she takes her hot chocolate. The wrinkle in her nose when her cricket team is losing. The barely-audible hitch in her breath when she's close. The feeling of her cropped hair, short like a boy’s. Coming three, four times in a single night. Waking up with a pale arm around her middle.
It's. Exhausting, honestly.
"The airport's only forty minutes away," Lando blurts out, shrill with desperation. So much for pride.
Oscar's fingers still on her shirt.
"If it’s. My family has money." Lando scrambles to sit up, her dress pooling around her waist without the ties to hold it up. "We'd—we could take care of you." I could take care of you.
Beach houses, box seats to every world cup match, a suit that fits. Whatever it takes to make Oscar love her. More. The most.
Racing again, maybe. Lando’ll pump them with millions until they have no choice but to give Oscar a drive. And her—fuck, she’ll be the world's best WAG, come to every race weekend, even the boring ones. She’ll kiss Oscar over the barriers and not even care about angling her wrist so the cameras catch the jewelry she’s flogging. Not care who sees.
Oscar just looks at her.
“Oscar, c’mon.” Ridiculously, Lando's lip wobbles. She has to bite down hard to make it stop. “Dont,”
But what can she even say? Don’t go. Don’t marry him. She's twenty-four, she's not fucking naive.
"Lando."
God, but she hates it—those two syllables of her name laced with, what? Pity? Fucking hell. And from Oscar, of all people.
Fine. For fucking sure. If Oscar wants to be Mark Webber's child bride and raise a litter of racer babies too mid to ever make single seaters, she can go right ahead. Lando can't stop her. Won't.
The plush hotel mattress dips as Oscar sits down.
"We," she starts, and then flinches. Like she hears how the words sound; their audacity. "We don't have to stop."
And oh, wow. That's just. Great, isn't it. Real charmer, is Lando's girl. Swoon.
“Course we're not stopping," Lando chirps, injecting the kind of over-the-top cheer into her voice reserved for toddlers, sponsors, and Jenson's mum. "C'mon babe. Whad'you take me for?"
"Lando," Oscar says, fingers flexing on her lap like she wants to—touch, or. Say something else. Lando turns away, sluggish, curling onto her side. Time stops for about twenty years, give or take.
The last thing she hears before the door shuts behind Oscar is a soft, "Well. Belated happy birthday."
Lando snorts, the noise wet and loud in the too-large room. On the bedside table is a welcome cupcake, fancy with blue and white buttercream swirls on top. No, not swirls. Roses. Aw.
There's no candle, but she blows damp air over it anyway and wishes that Webber dies.
When Jenson finds her here later, fucked out and miserable, he'll just assume she took something. He'll tell her off, in that indulgent way of his, sweetheart, darling—'cause that's the thing, isn't it? No one ever says no to Lando.
Oscar's the first, again.
There's a dull stinging along her throat where Oscar's teeth had been. Lando pushes two fingers to it, focusing on the ache. With any luck, it'll bruise.