♡ not by a long shot ♡
or: your neighbors are a strange pair. there's lando (golden boy, smile too wide, canines hiding something wicked). and there's oscar (too good to be true, too kind to be clean). they're only home december to february, but, god, do they make the most of it. to your expense. oscar piastri x lando norris x fem!neighbor!reader
warnings: neighbor!oscar and neighbor!lando being muppets, this is DISGUSTANGGGG voyeuristic bullshit, porn with plot because duh!!
♡
there is a special place in hell for oscar piastri and lando norris. and it's paved with spilled beer, sticky shot glasses, and a bass-heavy playlist that makes your overhead lamp shiver with each pulsating beat. (one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, god, when were they going to shut up?)
you'd tried it all at that point. high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds. white-noise apps. begging to sleep at your best friend's, or your ex's, or an overpriced hotel room on the other side of the island (a low moment, you admit). and fifteen desperate texts to your landlord later, righteous rage was coloring your insides less rational by the minute. (god, you would break your own lease if it meant those two inconsiderate idiots would get what was coming to them.)
what kind of normal neighbors threw parties on a tuesday night? what kind of normal neighbors kept a strict schedule—december to february, blackout season, working nine months just to come home and ruin your remaining three? what kind of neighbors haunted your peace (in-person) when they weren't haunting the screen of your living-room television?
the answer? none. except these two.
(fuck it).
your feet hit the tile cold and sharp as you count the steps out of bed, across the hallway, up the echoing stairwell, breathless with exhaustion and a splinter of glee you haven’t felt in weeks. (maybe you want a fight. maybe you want to be the problem, for once. it's only human.)
"some of us pay rent here," you rehearse, not-so under your breath. "some of us have actual jobs. some of us care whether or not our neighbors can sleep through the night.”
you take the stairs two at a time, a bead of sweat trickling down length of your spine. up close, the beat syncopates with your pulse, every floorboard humming under your bare feet, slinking up your calves. (only then, somewhere on the landing, do you realize you're not at all dressed for the confrontation you're about to instigate. of course.)
it's too late to turn back now. you raise your fist as you approach the door, swallowing the taste of marijuana smoke curling under the jamb, the clatter of a southern-english accent, sweat, and sugar, and suffocating heat. you pause. you could walk away, try again tomorrow, let your anger go gracelessly. (but all of a sudden the music gets impossibly louder, crashing through a fresh round of voracious laughter, and your patience—never your strong suit—snaps right in half.)
you knock. no, you pound. hard enough that it goes silent for half a second before resuming (if not doubling) in volume.
it takes fourteen seconds for someone to come to the door. you're raising your hand to knock again when it swings open, and there goes your dignity, because lando norris is standing in front of you, and he's smiling, and very, very drunk, and, oh, no.
he's shirtless, flushed a deep cherry-red, black training shorts riding halfway up his thighs. he pulls at them with his free hand as he throws a 'be back 'n a second' over his shoulder, pupils blown wide under blinding hallway light. you catch low-lit glimpses of drinks stacked on an entryway table before lando steps out, letting the door shut with a low clunk behind him. "hi, neighbor," he slurs, voice curling gentle and soft. "y'lost or somethin'?"
you open your mouth to say something, anything, but all you can do is inhale the scent of his sweat, the reek of gin splashing faintly under expensive cologne, and it should disgust you (it almost does), but your anger is tangled now, caught in something deep, and dark, and wrong. (you came here to yell at him, remember?)
"i've lived here longer than you," you bite out, and you swear lando's eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. "so no. i'm not lost." "m'kay," lando chuckles, a low, warm thing that starts in his chest and spills down the hallway. "d'you wanna come in? 's that it?"
"no," you say, indignant, and his smile shifts, looser, an uptick in the curve of his mouth.
"wha's up, then?" he asks, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his shorts. his grip is tighter than you'd expect, knuckles turning white, as though he's holding himself back from reaching for you, resisting the urge to pull you in with him—
"what's. up?" you snarl. "what's up is that it's four in the morning, and you're throwing a fucking rave! what's up is that the walls in this building are made of fucking paper and i have to listen to every fucking thing—"
the door opens, interrupting you, and oscar steps out slow, hair touch-mussed, white t-shirt sticking translucent-thin to the dip of his collarbone, the sharp hinge of his shoulders. he doesn't say anything at first, standing there too tall, too comfortable, gaze scraping over you so thoroughly you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child.
(it's surgical, his silence. you swear he's underneath your skin, storing your image for later review. you think about snapping at him to stop staring, but that would be admitting you feel seen when all you wanted was to be heard.)
"everything alright?" oscar finally asks, voice vibrating straight to the bone. you suddenly feel violently unsteady. lando doesn’t move, and for a second you forget what you wanted to yell about. (for a second, the entire world goes deathly quiet.)
"no, actually, it's not," you snap. "unless you're about to tell all these people to get the fuck out, nothing is 'alright'."
oscar blinks, arms folding slow across his chest. "didn't think we were that loud."
your scoff is graceless. "you have got to be kidding me."
"i'm not."
"are you seriously telling me you don't hear it?"
"we don't."
"it's fucking loud."
"this could've been a text message," your rage burns so hot you almost hit him. though you doubt it would do much.
"fuck. off."
"gladly," he replies, expression something between surprise and amusement. "you're what's keeping us here."
you wish you had something to say to that. you really do.
but oscar moves, slow, cracking the door just enough to let the party spill out in tidal waves of laughter and thudding bass. there’s the unmistakable crash of glass shattering hard on tile, the scrape of voices overlapping in drunken crescendos, and the sticky-sweet smell of spilled liquor and lando’s impossibly sharp cologne that drifts under the door and settles right smack in your diaphragm.
lando shifts off balance, and it's watching electricity, the way oscar’s hand slides up without missing a beat, palm coming to rest with such easy certainty against lando’s elbow that it makes something coil tight in your gut. (they fit together, in some secret way you've only just noticed.)
you blink, and the doorframe is suddenly closing on you, an acute end to the conversation. "i'm telling the landlord about this!" you snap, cutting through the lull between songs.
oscar throws a glance over his shoulder, mouth quirking upward. (you'd think he was beautiful, if he wasn't such an ass.) "cry to daddy, baby. go ahead."
you're halfway down the stairs when you realize he called you baby.
♡
it only gets worse from there.
you decide to start with mailing lists. harmless, really. except you sign both lando and oscar up for fifteen of them. each.
first, the alcoholism anonymous emails. ("struggling to stay sober? you’re not alone. join our virtual support meeting!") then, the porn addiction group emails. ("battle porn cravings with our scientifically-backed mindfulness exercises!") the spam is worse: "THE SECRET TRUTH BEHIND F1 DRIVERS’ UNBELIEVABLE FITNESS ROUTINE—CLICK TO FIND OUT!"
you think you’ve got away with it. nights fall silent, merciful quiet pressing against your eardrums with an unnatural pressure. no thudding footsteps. no blaring music. (no reason to see them again.)
that is, until the magazines.
stacked like a brick wall on your doorstep, tied so sweetly that you let yourself believe, for half a heartbeat, that this is some kind of olive branch. an apology wrapped in glossy, fresh pages, slick covers of... official F1 magazines. (well, high-octane marketing that you don’t care about but now absolutely cannot ignore.)
you untie the bow, flipping through the first with impatient flicks of your wrist. there’s lando first—turned away from the camera, low, golden light catching his cheekbones and the faint flush blooming just above the dark fabric of his racing suit. then oscar, skin in vivid color, helmet clutched in the space between his elbow and hip.
(you don't stop to excuse the slick heat ruining your best pair of panties—a mistake, certainly.)
you almost miss the note scrawled onto the top right of the last page:
pictures of me should help w/the porn addiction. make it worse, i mean. xxx lando
you did not get away with it. you do, however, up your game.
you think you’re clever about it. anonymous shipping. no gift receipt, no note, the billing address a throwaway email you haven’t used since college. you order nineteen different protein powders—who even needs that many flavors?—to be shipped right to their door. the perfect play.
you track the order, refresh the delivery status twelve times an hour, and choke imagining oscar drinking the the mango sorbet flavor out of politeness and then sending you a legal notice. (very polite of him.)
the package lands at their door right before noon; by dinnertime, you’re yet again positive you’ve won. (it's unnerving, the way you’re slightly disappointed.)
it doesn't last long.
at first, you think you’re hallucinating a beat, muffled and persistent, seeping through the walls that night, familiar enough for your shoulders to rise and fall with each measure. it's sweet caroline. playing loud enough to set your bathroom mirror twitching with every bass kick.
you don't mind it for the first ten minutes.
but you go from neutral to rage in the time it takes the chorus to repeat for the ninth time. the song loops, as if trying to drill a singular, awful message through your skull. (you were going to kill them. you debate calling the landlord. animal control. the goddamn police.)
instead, you climb onto your kitchen counter and pound your fist against the vent on the ceiling with as much force as you can muster.
the song only gets louder in response. the second hour of it, you're already planning your next move. by the fourth, you're curled up on the couch with your head planted in between the thick leather cushions, unable to hear yourself think.
by the time sweet caroline finally sputters out—an ugly, abrupt end to an ugly, abrupt punishment— you’re asleep, lyrics splintering like a broken record across your eyelids.
your saving grace? boxer briefs. in forest-green, aquamarine, navy blue. two pairs each. the catch? you order the absolute smallest size in stock, the ones that barely look made for humans, let alone someone even slightly well-endowed. you put their address in the shipping box, smirking like you can taste victory. (and god, that’s enough to make your pulse jack up.)
hope these fit right. from, your neighbor.
it's magnificent until your buzzer goes off the next morning, slicing through your kitchen headache-sharp. you ignore it once, twice, but it doesn't stop, impending doom on your doorstep. (bad omen, bad, bad, bad, your brain suggests, before your hands even reach for the doorknob. this isn’t a game anymore.)
when you finally crack the door, the hallway is empty save for a sleek, black box on your doormat—unmarked, glossy, obnoxious in the soft spill of hallway morning light.
your fingers slip on the lid as you hastily carry it inside, paper brushing against your skin like a tease.
a bra. delicate, impossible, nearly see-through. italian lace, if the quality was any indication. baby-pink embroidery, scalloped cups heavy with hand-stitched rosettes—you trace a strap with your fingertip, just to prove it's real. matching panties underneath, same pale pink, nothing left to the imagination except the price tag (obscene, you notice, and in euros, which honestly makes it worse).
it's flushed-after-a-kiss pink. take-it-off-of-me-oh-god-please pink.
the card’s slipped under the elastic, scrawled in a neat hand you recognize now.
hope these fit right, baby. — o.p.
oscar piastri just sent you lingerie. i see you, it said. come here and see me.
♡
they simply don't let up.
the parties multiply. a glitter bomb ends up from in their vent to yours (lando's idea, clearly). oscar smiles, polite as ever, when you mention his new underwear. somewhere, in the midst of rubber-banding their junk mail and replacing their tequila with water, you crack. (because it's valentine's day, and it's been two and a half months of their bullshit, and you're feeling especially, violently, completely single.)
you pick a dress (short). you wear a pair of heels that's been collecting dust since last june. you're halfway out the door (shallow breath, prickling nerves for a stranger) when you see it.
the black box. perched dead-center on your dresser. mocking you in the low lamp light, like it knows you’re full of shit.
you ignore it to fix the strap on your shoe, but your eyes dart back, magnetic as a car crash. god, it’s just underwear. (it’s lingerie. it's gorgeous. it's his. for you, for you, for you.)
you groan. turn away. then turn back. meander over to the dresser. (fuck it.) you snap the band off, peel back tissue—cursing under your breath when you almost tear it. the lace is softer than you remember as you slip it on underneath your dress, light as air. skin-like in all the right places.
you stare at yourself in the mirror, playing with the neckline of the dress. (low. too low. not low enough. you want everyone to see. you want to curl up and die.) you roll your eyes at your reflection—hope these fit right, baby, you can hear oscar saying. my pretty baby.
(nope. nope. nope. not doing this right now.)
the hallway’s already buzzing with weekend chatter as you lock your door behind you, pressing the elevator button at the end of the corridor with a breath that burns. (this is not about them. it isn’t. it’s about needing something easy. a drink, a stranger, the pleasure of knowing you could want and be wanted and go home alone. or not.)
the elevator dings, and you catch his reflection in the mirrored panel inside before your own.
oscar.
(don't look at him. don't look at him. don't look at him.) you catch the flick of his eyes bouncing back and forth in your periphery as the doors close—impassive, as if he's categorizing groceries on a shelf beside you. the floors blink down to your left—thirteen, twelve, ten, eight, six, four, two, one—
oscar slams the bright red 'emergency stop', jolting you both forward.
you blink. "oscar. what the fuck."
"don't go."
"i—what?"
"don't. go."
your laugh is brittle, barely-concealed offense. "i have a date."
his mouth sets as you stare at him, ironed-out lines of soft skin. not angry. not anything. "today?" (he still won't look at you.)
"yes, today," you snap. "obviously."
the silence is full, thick and sour. "it's cold out," is all he says. "you don't have a coat."
that stops you for half a second. then—anger, hot and immediate, renders you nearly non-verbal. who the fuck are you to tell me what i have and don't have? you want to yell. who the fuck are you to tell me what i need?
"i don't need a coat," is what comes out. "let me out. god—"
you move for the door, and he steps into your path, not close enough to touch, just... there. close enough to hold your gaze. close enough to catch the hitch in your breath. (come closer, go farther, go away, be here, do nothing, oh, god.)
"don't," he murmurs, and something rotten twists in your chest. "trust me."
"you're—" you inhale, schooling your tone. "you're a real piece of shit."
his expression goes blank. not annoyed. not offended. (flat, you realize.) he reaches past you and presses the emergency stop again, and the elevator sinks to the first floor, a clean dismissal.
you take two steps out then turn on your heels, ready to give him the final piece of your mind, to say something razor-blade sharp and stinging, something to pretend you didn't care what he thought of you, that you've never cared what he thought of you—
when you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel. and with it, the pink lace of your bra beneath the neckline of your dress. (visible. obvious. his gift, on you, like you wanted him to look.)
but he doesn't spare you a glance as the doors slide shut.
oh.
♡
valentine's day comes and goes.
so do your neighbors.
mid-february hits hard and fast, and suddenly the apartment above yours is dark more often than not. no music bleeding through the vents at all hours of the night. no laughter and clinking beer bottles ricocheting down the stairwell. their door stays shut for weeks. their lights stay off so long you wonder if they've moved.
you tell yourself it’s a blessing. a needed vacancy.
(it should be.)
you sleep through the night for the first time in weeks, sans noise-cancelling earbuds and white-noise apps. your mornings are quieter (and you definitely don't spend minutes each morning staring at the vent above your kitchen counter wondering when you'll hear something again). the building settles back into something resembling... normal.
you don’t get any mail that isn’t yours. (which should be a good thing.)
you stop checking the hallway camera on your way home from work. you stop planning your next move at odd hours of the night. (which should be a relief, shouldn't it?)
you catch yourself pausing in the kitchen when a door slams somewhere down the hall, waiting for the tell-tale pair of footsteps, a chance to catch them in the act, to stop holding your breath. but nothing happens.
(you open and re-open the black box nearly a hundred times. you wake up at 3:30 in the morning with your heart in your throat. they're training, you tell yourself. this is their job. you wanted this, you wanted this, you wanted this.)
nothing happens. then everything happens.
1:37 am. monday. keys scrape on the floor above you. a door slams. suitcase wheels stutter across tile, thunk-whine, thunk-whine, the rhythm unmistakable and unwelcome. (welcome home.) you freeze, heart a tight fist in your ribs; irritation hits first. of course they couldn’t be gone for good, they were back to disturb your peace, wreck your life, make you miserable.
then relief. sour, thick, slamming through you. you listen to the subdued laughter stuffed behind walls, and you stay stubbornly in bed, staring at the patch of light bleeding under your door from the hallway. (nope. not going. won’t give them the satisfaction.)
but the pattern returns.
at first, it’s subtle: a stray beat of music, dull and far, seeping through the drywall late tuesday. a clatter of glass bottles. laughter—two, maybe three voices, never more, but always too loud, always right above where your head hits the pillow. you clamber around at midnight searching for your noise-cancelling earbuds, falling asleep to remixes of god-awful pop songs.
but lando and oscar were never subtle.
friday night brings bass so heavy the lamp rattles on your nightstand, voices crashing over each other in slurred crescendo, liquor and something else headier threading the air. and god, you try to be angry. you roll onto your back, curse loud and colorfully at the ceiling. practice the way you'd uppercut both of them if given the opportunity. realize you wouldn't do half the damage you wanted to.
(you'll never admit that you missed the reason to go storming up there.)
you throw back the sheets, pad across the hallway past the elevator, up the echoing stairwell, and the closer you get, the louder it is. you can feel the bass in your teeth, in your collarbones, rattling up through the soles of your feet to your thighs. that familiar flush of nerves, rage rising. (or maybe just excitement. you’ll never admit the difference.)
lando somehow opens the door before you knock—not shirtless, not wasted, just standing there in one of his old karting shirts, collar loose, curls still slightly damp from a midnight shower, eyes much too focused on you. he leans against the doorframe, mouth tilting (never quite a smile). "are y’lost again?"
your jaw sets, resisting the pull of his mouth, the dare in his voice. "you’re throwing another rave."
"could say that," he shrugs, glancing over your shoulder. "missed us?"
"no." (maybe? yes?)
"wanna join?"
you hesitate for a beat too long. "no."
his gaze flickers, obvious. "suit y'rself, then."
the music thrashes through your bones, inside louder than ever, laughter ricocheting from wall to wall. you’re about to turn, to tell him to shut it down, to tell him anything else so he won't leave—when from the living room, clear and bored as anything:
"let her in, lan." (oh, oscar.)
lando shrugs, steps aside. "y'heard him."
you step in, ignoring the heat behind your cheeks, the flush crawling up your neck at the smoke and sugar and sweat and something warm swirling in the air, oscar leaning against the living room window, arms folded, face unreadable in the garish light. a handful of people you don't know gathered around the kitchen counter, backs pressed to the island, yelling over the music, laughing at jokes you don't understand.
oscar doesn't look at you when he cuts the speakers. "party's over."
lando's brows shoot up, half-delighted, half-annoyed. "bit early, mate," he murmurs, but he doesn’t look surprised—that, more than anything, flips your stomach inside out.
oscar's gaze flicks up, across the room, over you, past you, then: "everyone out. now."
lando shepherds the crowd, clapping everyone on the back ("rain check, see y'next time"), dragging footsteps and half-mumbled complaints crossing the threshold, the scrape of coats off hooks, the last pair of heels clacking across the floor. the energy empties out in a seismic wave, and, more suddenly than it feels, it is silent.
the door clicks shut.
lando is standing behind you—close enough that you feel his breath ghosting the back of your neck, more threat than comfort. you don’t move. (won’t give either of them the satisfaction.)
you scoff, voice dry: “i thought that would take a lot more work.”
oscar is already watching you, eyes shadowed against the harsh overhead light. "how was your date?"
(fuck.)
you dig your nails into your palm. "it—fine. it was fine."
lando makes a low, amused sound, somewhere between a snort and a sigh that curls against the curve of your spine. you resist the urge to shiver. "tha's convincing," he chimes in.
"it's true," you snap, turning your head over your shoulder, and that was a mistake, because your breath catches in your throat the second your eyes meet lando’s. his gaze flickers, brows a touch raised, a challenge, a dare, a promise. (come here and see me. come here and see. come here.)
then, his breath just barely brushing your ear, he murmurs, "y’wanna go home?"
your heart stalls. because you should go home. you really should.
lando nudges again, quieter still. just for the two of you. "y'wanna stay?"
and you're not sure if you say yes, or you nod, but lando's mouth finds yours, an explosion of mint-chased cigarettes, and sloppy want, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibration of the shattered sound echo down your spine.
he's dragging your bottom lip between his teeth like he knows you wanted it (needed it), a thin line of spit stretching between his mouth and yours; heat burns your cheeks as his tongue darts out, licks the strand away, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that infuriating too-wide grin.
you've barely caught your breath when there's a hand curling around your stomach to spin you around—oscar. he's got one palm at the base of your spine, and the other anchoring itself at the hinge of lando’s jaw. his thumb traces slow over the mess you made, catching that slick string at the corner of lando’s mouth (cleaning up after you, messy girl, look at what you did).
lando's lashes flutter, running a full-body shudder, and you feel it where his hip is pressed to yours, everywhere you’re tangled together. (you feel it in your goddamn bones.)
oscar's hand slips south just as he kisses lando, almost gentle, except for the way it's not, except for the way watching their mouths share the same breath of air cracks something open deep in your stomach. lando's hands fist in oscar's shirt the same way they had in your hair, wounded need you’ve never seen from him—not on tv, not at the door, not even when he kissed you.
it's reserved for oscar. you understand that now.
you don’t realize you’re staring until oscar breaks the kiss with a soft, low sound—more an exhale than anything else—and shifts to press his mouth to yours.
not hard. not rushed. not sloppy, not hungry. purposeful, controlled. you hate him for it.
he’s correcting the angle, you realize. molding you soft, like you kissed lando all wrong and he’s showing you how it should be, what you should do. the hand at your back tightens, pulling you flush to his chest; the other lingers on lando’s jaw, thumb stroking absent circles there (to kiss both of you at once).
(and you don't hear lando whine—you feel it.)
oscar pulls back just enough for you to see it—the faint shine on his mouth from kissing lando first. it glistens when he drags his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mix of you and him and lando into something you shouldn’t want but do.
and you're getting ready to tell him off for it, but lando's mouth is on you, hot at the column of your throat, two months of restraint branded into a blind, hungry path for skin. (the blind leading the blind, you don't have any more control than he does—)
"easy, mate," oscar warns angling your face toward the wall with a kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "you'll spook her."
lando's exhale punches straight through your stomach. "s-sorry," he says, but he doesn't mean it. (he's been starved off of praise for years, and, fuck, this is what he looks like waiting for someone to give it to him.) his teeth scrape your pulse, forcing a breathy sound of surprise out of you before you can swallow it down. both his hands are frantic—one fisting the fabric at your hip, the other tugging, tugging, tugging until the hem of your sleep shirt slips off your shoulder and pools at the crook of your arm.
(all of a sudden he's higher, fingers grazing the curve of your chest.)
he goes still.
"pretty," lando whispers, the words slurred with want, and you're not exactly sure who he's talking to. he noses at the exposed skin, kissing the skin like he’s thanking it. (thank you, thank you, thank you.) "c-can i take it off?" (he's talking to oscar. about undressing you. like you're not even there.)
oscar steals whatever sound was about to leave you, fondness in the lick he gives your upper row of teeth. it's predatory, but you want it, and you would feel ashamed if you could feel anything at all. "she doesn't seem to mind." he taps the side of your cheek as your eyes roll back, heat lining your cheekbones. "right?"
you barely get out a nod as lando's mouth trails lower, lips closing around the top swell of your breast as he's pulling your shirt down, down, down—"oh—"
oscar's breath brushes your ear when his hand clamps over lando's, halting the motion. (oh, you hate him now, the absolute piece of shit, making you wait, starving you of something he so evidently wants.) "let her take this off." he puppeteers lando's hand where it grips the hem of your shirt. "by the window."
your pulse trips. "the—window?"
both men go still, watching you. assessing. your gaze slams against lando's, his pupils blown black in the half-light, but he doesn’t say a word. he just waits, knuckles white on your hip. (because that's what he does for oscar. waits.)
oscar’s thumb drags slow over your cheek, and you realize you've been quiet for too long. "you heard me. go on."
you want to tell him to fuck off, or at least to pull the blinds, but lando’s teeth are ghosting your skin, and you’re suddenly, unreasonably hot all over. the window’s only a few steps away, but it might as well be miles with your shaky stance. you catch the streetlights flickering beyond, the golden spill of someone else’s kitchen window. it's too early in the morning to catch passerbyes on the street, but the impossibility dwindles.
you half-turn, glancing over your shoulder. oscar’s watching you with that unreadable look from the elevator, a hand lingering alongside lando's hip. you don’t know who you want to impress more. (danger, danger, danger, danger.)
you're curling your fingers under the hem of your shirt when oscar's voice lilts through the room.
"aren't you going to open the window?"
(you're going to kill him.) "oscar."
"yes."
you roll your eyes—try for defiance, but your hands are trembling. "it's—someone could see me."
"so?"
you suddenly find yourself unequipped to handle the english language. "so it's—wrong. and... dirty. and i—"
"—am both of those things." oscar finishes for you, and something hot curls low in your stomach. he nods to where your palm traces over the soft skin of your navel absently, a flash of electricity sparking in his tone. "finish what you started, baby."
"what i started?" you're surprised you've got the breath to spit the words out. still, you reach forward to unlatch the window, beginning to drag the fabric of your shirt over your head, slow enough for them to see, for the world to see, if they cared to look. the air bites at every inch of bare skin you reveal. "y-you put glitter bombs in my vent. and you sent me lingerie."
"which you wore," comes lando's voice as you drop your shirt to the floor. you hear the scrape of his breath catching behind you as you shiver dutifully in the cold february air, nipples pebbling almost immediately under the gaze of the world turning, the pairs of eyes staring fire into your spine.
"only because—" you start to defend, but oscar interrupts, clicking his tongue.
"if you want to talk," he says, barely louder than the wind rattling the glass, "do it while taking off the rest."
you don't talk. but you do keep your eyes pointedly on the window latch, fingers fumbling at the waistband of your shorts.
"go slow" oscar murmurs as you rush, and you hate him for how gentle it sounds. how soft he's being with you. "make it pretty."
your face burns as you peel your shorts down, the fabric catching on your thighs, your underwear following behind it. you kick them away, bare feet against the cold floor, the chill biting up your legs, nowhere left to hide. the february air kisses between your legs, sharp and mean. (oh, that feels nice, doesn't it?)
oscar steps closer, his body a shadow at your back. "look," he says, voice honey-thick and terrible. "how many people can you see?"
you blink, eyes adjusting to the street below. it's a blur of streetlights and shifting shapes, the occasional glimmer of movement. at first, you want to lie—say no one, say it’s empty—but there’s laughter echoing up from the sidewalk, the far-off clatter of heels on wet pavement. you squint, heart pounding.
"n-none," you stammer, but it comes out pathetic.
oscar laughs, low and knowing. "look harder."
lando’s hand ghosts over your hip when your hands twitch by your sides. you swallow. there’s a group spilling out of a taxi, a pair of friends weaving home, someone lighting a cigarette under the yellow haze of a street lamp. oscar’s hand comes to rest at the center of your chest, over your heart, fingers splayed. "how many?" he asks again, mouth at your temple. "how many people could look up and see you right now?"
(honesty burns.) "seven. or—eight."
"fuck," is lando's exhale, palm sliding higher, stomach to sternum, flicking over your peaked nipples. when did they get so close? where did they begin and you end?
"imagine if they looked up," oscar continues, lips brushing your ear. you barely hear him over the sound of your heart. "imagine if they saw you. what would they think, hmm?"
your knees nearly give out. you press your palms to the cold window, the city yawning open below, the air biting at your skin. you bite down on a breath, but it doesn't matter. lando’s hands have found your waist, lips dragging desperate down your shoulder. but then he sinks lower. and lower, and suddenly he's slinking a hand in between your thighs, spreading your legs. (he's on his knees in front of you and staring at your pussy like he wants to pray to it, and oh, god, he better do something about it soon.)
you must jolt forward into lando's hand, because oscar punches out a breath.
"dirty," he grits out, and you can feel the hard press of him behind you, the slow grind of denim against naked skin. "dirty fucking girl." and oh, his thumb reaches through to push ever so slightly at the entrance there, circling the slick gathered from the show you put on. "ever take it back here before?"
shame tangles in your throat. "n-no," you answer honestly, and lando's resounding moan vibrates through your lower half. "guys tried. in the past. but i-i'd let you." (you're saying just about anything to get either of them to do something, aren't you?)
oscar hums, rocking his hips up against you, just once. you nearly choke. "bet you’d let me do it right fucking now, wouldn’t you?"
"yes," lando responds for you, and you're keenly aware of the way he's tonguing at the inside of your thigh, hot and desperate.
oscar's mouth meets your throat, and you stretch backward, hand stuttering into lando's hair. "would you? hmm?" his palm slides up your spine, curling at the back of your neck. "right here, where anyone could see you? would you let me just—" he pauses, and you hear his belt buckle clink. "—fuck your tight lit—?"
it's lando who doesn’t let him finish.
he moves forward, mouth catching on your cunt, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing short of obscene—half-moan, half-curse, all deep, dark hunger. your forehead hits the cold glass, breath fogging up the view, and you know if anyone looked up they’d see fucking everything, and humiliation courses through your blood.
lando leans his tongue flat, like he’s been waiting his whole life just to taste you, hands digging bruises into your hips, keeping you spread open for him, for oscar, for anyone who might be watching.
"there we go," oscar mutters, prideful. he leans in, mouth hot at your ear, hand sliding down, down, down, until his thumb is sliding through the slick mess lando’s making of you, pressing down, not enough to penetrate but just enough to feel your natural resistance give.
"osc—lando—" you gasp when the latter's hands lock around your hips, grinding your body across his open mouth, and you damn near break the window with how hard your hand slams against it.
oscar’s thumb drags lower, circling, teasing, and then—fuck—there’s a second finger joining the first, slick and slow and stretching you open. it’s too much and not enough, and he's not giving you any time to recover, but god, you’re already so close you can taste it. lando groans, tongue somehow dipping inside of you, and you’re a mess down his chin but you know he wants it just as much as you do.
"jesus—y'hear that, baby?" oscar murmurs, clearly pleased, and only then does it occur to you how wet you actually are. you lock up, every muscle straining, right there, so close—
and then he pulls out.
you sob, hips jerking forward, and then you're coming around nothing, white light behind your eyes, knees stuttering against lando's shoulders as he suckles your clit into his mouth then releases it with a slow slip of his tongue, forehead drooping against your thigh. (you're opening your mouth to thank him when he kisses your hip, and you realize he already knows.)
"fuck you," you choke out, hands scrabbling for purchase. "fuck you to hell and fucking back—"
oscar's two steps ahead of you. one second he's lining up, and the next the blunt head of his cock slides easy, too easy, through the mess between your cheeks, hot and heavy, pressed right where you’re aching for it, contracting around nothing.
you shiver when he kisses the back of your neck, smoothing the sweaty hair at your nape. you expect him to scold you, to say something mean back as he gathers your slick in his palm and covers his cock with it. but no.
"perfect girl, sweet girl, fucking takin' it so good, fight me if you want me to stop, put up a fight, pretty—"
and then he's splitting you open so slowly you fold over, hands braced on lando's shoulders.
you squeeze your eyes shut as oscar punches out a choked breath ("tight fuckin' fit—"), a painfully sharp shot of electricity going up your spine. you've barely got your eyes open before you're keening, nails dug deep into the crevices of lando's broad collar. and god, isn't the man himself a sight, jaw slack, cheeks cherry-red, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats.
he shoves them down his thighs just enough to free his cock—flushed dark, leaking in his fist. he doesn’t even bother getting up, just sits back on his heels, hand working himself in time with the way oscar’s fucking you open. his hand tightens when you watch the flush creep up his chest, the way his stomach twitches when you moan.
(he likes the attention just as much as you do.)
oscar's breathing words into your neck, his voice deep, strangled brass, and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing. "did you miss us? hmm?" (nod.) "gonna let me fuck you like this all the time?" (nod.) "gonna let lando have a turn?" (nod, nod.)
lando whimpers like he can imagine it already, and you feel the sound like a live wire between your legs. you reach for him blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, dragging him up, and he goes willingly, cock still in his hand, mouth sealing over yours in a mess of tears and spit.
you kiss him the way oscar taught you—slow, controlled, all tongue and filthy want, and you taste yourself lingering in his mouth, slick and sharp and obscene. lando groans into it, hips rutting into his own fist.
"oh—" he breathes, breaking away to pant against your jaw, "god, 'm gonna come—"
oscar shifts behind you and you yelp, breaking the kiss as he angles your back, pressing your shoulder blades so you lean down, chest nearly touching lando's. his hips are already high into his hand, cock throbbing within reach, and oscar thrusts so deep you see stars as he grits out, "put your mouth on him."
(you almost want to say no. just to see what he'd do. but there's a shine in lando's eyes, oh, god, he's crying for you—)
your lips close around the tip just as his hips shudder up, unintentionally fucking your mouth. his hands fly to your hair, a half-syllable of your name leaving his lips as you close your lips tighter, a soft, possessive kiss in the swirl of your tongue. you barely get any warning before he's going ramrod straight, babbling, "shit, ‘m gonna—" and tumbling off the edge, release flooding your mouth.
you don't swallow. not immediately. not until oscar pulls you upright, presses you flush to his chest, and draws the hinge of your mouth open. "swallow," he says after what feels like hours, and you do, and he's kissing you, and oh, god you've never tasted anything better.
there's an ache in your navel, a desperate, sweet torment that buckles your knees and slackens your spine, and every single nerve ending sings when oscar's hand loops forward, fingers ghosting over your clit, a touch so light it should’ve been too much. it would have been too much, had his cock not sunk in just that inch deeper, had it not been exactly what you needed.
"fuck, 'm gonna—wait—osc—" your eyes roll back, because oh, god, you're going to come, and you can't believe you didn't do this that very first night, you can't believe you let so many months go by without knowing how shallow oscar's thrusts get when he's about to come, how he breathes your name into your spine and hunches forward as warmth splatters along your skin.
(you can't believe you went so long not knowing how it feels to come around his cock.)
you barely catch your breath before lando’s hands meet your hips, strong and sure and steady, catching your weight as you fold forward toward the open window.
oscar pulls out slow, and you wince as he eases away the discomfort, hands moving to the small of your back to trace the warmth of his release there.
"we're not done," he murmurs, enchanted with the way you arch up. "not by a long shot."
♡
note: I NEED HOLY WATER OMG. 😭 you all are INCREDIBLE i know this is longer than most of my works but i hope it serves as something new from me!! once again i apologize for my extended absences—i should have a lil something else coming soon!! LOVE FROM GRACIE!!
