dig in

The digital clock on the microwave flickered to 3:14 AM, casting a clinical, neon-green glow across the pristine marble countertops of the penthouse. Oscar Piastri sat at the kitchen island, a single glass of water in front of him, staring at the front door. He wasn't angry—Oscar didn't really do anger—but he was tired. He had told Lando three hours ago that they needed to be at the simulator by nine.

The sound of a key fumbling against the lock echoed through the hallway, followed by a dull thud and a string of muffled, high-pitched giggles.

The door swung open, and Lando Norris practically tumbled into the foyer. His curls were a chaotic mess, his expensive designer shirt was half-unbuttoned, and he was radiating the distinct, sweet scent of expensive tequila and sweat. He blinked at Oscar, his pupils blown wide, a lopsided, bratty smirk stretching across his face.

"Oscar! You’re awake," Lando chirped, his voice an octave higher than usual. He tried to kick his shoes off, missed, and nearly fell over his own feet. "Were you waiting for me? That’s so sweet. You’re like a little housewife."

"You’re three sheets to the wind, Lando," Oscar said calmly, standing up. He moved with his usual deliberate grace, intercepting Lando before he could walk face-first into a floor vase. "And we have a debrief in six hours."

"Blah, blah, blah. You’re so boring," Lando groaned, leaning his entire weight against Oscar’s chest. He looked up, his eyes glassy but twinkling with that familiar, explosive mischief. "I won a bet. I think. Or I lost one? Anyway, I’m great. I’m the fastest man in the world, Oscar. Don’t you forget it."

Lando shoved himself away from Oscar with a clumsy burst of energy, stumbling toward the living room. "I need... I need the big chair. No, the couch."

He didn't so much sit as he did collapse. Lando landed face-down on the oversized leather sofa, his legs dangling off the edge, groaning into the cushions.

"Get up," Oscar sighed, walking over. "You’re going to wake up with a headache that feels like a power drill if you don't drink some water."

Lando didn't move. Instead, he wriggled his hips, his shirt riding up his back as he tried to get comfortable. "Too tired. Just... leave me here to die. I’m a champion. I deserve a noble death."

Oscar reached down to grab the hem of Lando’s shirt, intending to pull him upright, but he froze.

As the fabric shifted upward, it revealed a pale expanse of skin on Lando’s lower back, just above the waistband of his dark trousers. There, written in bold, unmistakable black Sharpie, was a message.

DIG IN

Underneath the words, a thick, jagged arrow pointed directly downward, disappearing beneath the fabric of his pants toward the curve of his ass.

Oscar stared. The silence in the room stretched, heavy and sudden. Lando was a brat; he loved the attention, loved showing off, and clearly, he’d let some group of people at a club turn his body into a billboard for his own vanity.

"Lando," Oscar’s voice was lower now, losing its clinical edge. "What is this on your back?"

Lando let out a muffled, muffled laugh into the pillow, turning his head slightly so one eye could peek at Oscar. "Oh, that? The girls thought it was funny. Or maybe it was the guys? I don't know. Everyone wanted a piece tonight, Osc. Can you blame them?"

He shifted again, arching his back slightly, the movement intentional and provocative. Even drunk, Lando knew exactly how to push buttons. He was a natural-born show-off, thriving on the reaction he could draw out of his teammate.

"It says 'dig in,'" Oscar remarked, his voice devoid of its usual patience.

"Well?" Lando challenged, his voice dropping into a playful, slurry rasp. "I’m a man of my word. I never ignore instructions. Are you going to be a good teammate and help me out, or are you just going to stare?"

Oscar felt a familiar heat rise in his chest. He spent his life being the calm one, the one who absorbed Lando’s frantic energy and neutralized it. But there was something about the sight of those words—the sheer, bratty audacity of it—that snapped the last thread of his restraint.

"You really are a menace," Oscar whispered.

He didn't help Lando up. Instead, he climbed onto the couch, straddling Lando’s thighs and pinning him down. The leather creaked under his weight.

Lando let out a sharp, surprised yelp that quickly dissolved into a needy moan as Oscar’s hands gripped his hips. "Oh? So the quiet one finally wants to play?"

"Shut up, Lando," Oscar muttered. He reached out, his thumb tracing the black ink of the arrow. The contrast of the harsh marker against Lando’s soft skin was intoxicating. "If you’re going to put an invitation on your body, don’t be surprised when someone accepts it."

Oscar reached for the button of Lando’s trousers, undoing them with a practiced flick of his wrist. He shoved the fabric down, exposing the pale, rounded cheeks that the arrow had been pointing toward. Lando was squirming now, his face buried back in the cushion, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

"You’re so... you’re so bossy when you’re annoyed," Lando gasped, his voice muffled. "I like it. Do it, Oscar. Dig in. I want to see if you’re as fast as they say."

Oscar didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the skin right over the ink, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark that would rival the Sharpie. Lando arched his back, a loud, unfiltered cry escaping him.

"You talk too much," Oscar said, his voice a low vibration against Lando’s skin.

He reached for a bottle of expensive massage oil sitting on the coffee table—a gift from a sponsor Lando had never opened. He poured a generous amount onto his palm, the scent of sandalwood filling the air.

Lando’s bravado was beginning to melt into something more primal. As Oscar’s slicked fingers found his entrance, Lando’s fingers dug into the leather of the couch.

"Oscar, please," Lando whimpered, his honesty finally breaking through the alcohol. "I’ve been... I’ve been wanting you to look at me like that all night."

"I’m always looking at you, Lando," Oscar replied, his voice steady but thick with desire. He pushed one finger inside, then two, stretching Lando slowly, savoring the way the older driver gasped and shuddered beneath him. "You just make it so hard to be nice to you."

"Don’t be nice," Lando pleaded, turning his head to look at Oscar over his shoulder. His eyes were wet, his cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. "Be... be whatever you want. Just don't stop."

Oscar felt the last of his composure crumble. He stood up just long enough to shed his own clothes, his eyes never leaving the sight of Lando sprawled out on the couch, marked and ready.

When Oscar pushed into him, it was a slow, agonizingly deep slide. Lando let out a long, high-pitched wail, his forehead pressing into the back of the sofa as he took all of Oscar. The friction was perfect, the heat between them explosive.

"God, Oscar," Lando sobbed out, his hips jerking back instinctively to meet Oscar’s thrusts. "You’re... you’re so much..."

"I’ve got you," Oscar whispered, leaning down to press his chest against Lando’s back, his hands reaching around to grip Lando’s hair, pulling his head back. "Just stay still and take it."

But Lando couldn't stay still. He was a creature of movement, of friction. He fought against Oscar’s grip, trying to turn his head to kiss him, his body bucking wildly. He was a brat to the very end, demanding more, demanding everything.

Oscar shifted his rhythm, finding the angle that made Lando’s voice break into those tiny, pathetic whimpers he loved. Every time Oscar hit that spot, Lando’s toes curled and his entire body shuddered.

"Is this what you wanted?" Oscar asked, his breath hot against Lando’s ear. "Everyone at the club seeing this? Thinking about this?"

"No," Lando gasped, his eyes rolling back. "Just you. Only... only you, Osc. I just wanted you to notice."

"I noticed," Oscar growled, increasing the pace.

The living room was silent except for the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies colliding and Lando’s increasingly frantic cries. Oscar was relentless, his quiet intensity translating into a raw, powerful physical force that left Lando completely undone.

As the tension reached its breaking point, Oscar gripped Lando’s hips so hard his knuckles turned white. He buried his face in the crook of Lando’s neck, biting down as he came, his entire body locking up.

Lando followed almost immediately, a loud, broken shout tearing from his throat as he collapsed into the cushions, his body trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, the only sound was their heavy, synchronized breathing. Oscar didn't pull away, staying draped over Lando’s back, his heart hammering against Lando’s spine.

Finally, Lando let out a weak, shaky chuckle. "So... does this mean we’re late for the sim?"

Oscar pulled back just enough to look at the back of Lando’s head. He reached down, his fingers tracing the now-smudged ink of the "dig in" sign.

"We’re definitely late," Oscar said, his voice returning to its calm, dry tone, though there was a new warmth behind it.

Lando turned over with a groan, looking up at Oscar with a dazed, satisfied grin. "Worth it. You’re a really good listener, Oscar. Very attentive to instructions."

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he couldn't hide the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Lando’s forehead.

"Go to sleep, Lando," Oscar whispered. "I’ll handle the team in the morning."

"Love you, housewife," Lando teased, his eyes already fluttering shut as the exhaustion and the comedown finally took hold.

Oscar just shook his head, pulling a throw blanket over both of them. He knew he’d regret the lack of sleep tomorrow, but as Lando curled into his side, smelling of tequila and Sharpie, Oscar decided that for once, being the sensible one was highly overrated.