Roping Heats // landoscar

The Texas heat radiated off COTA’s asphalt in invisible waves, turning the main straight into a shimmering mirage. Inside the McLaren cockpit, Lando Norris tapped his gloves against the steering wheel impatiently, letting out a heavy sigh that echoed muffled over the team radio.

"Lando, we're looking at another ten-minute delay. The red flag is still out," his engineer’s voice crackled through his earpieces.

"What’s actually going on down at Turn 11? Did the barrier break?" Lando asked, craning his neck inside the car, trying to peek past the halo.

"Um... not exactly, Lando. There’s a cow on the track."

Lando blinked rapidly behind his dark visor.

"A what?"

"A cow. A Nelore bull escaped from a neighboring property and is running through sector two. Stay in the car, we’re trying to sort it out."

Lando let out an incredulous laugh. He had seen it all in Formula 1—torrential rain, iguanas in Singapore, dogs in India—but watching FIA track marshals, in their hi-vis overalls and with clipboards in hand, running in a panic after a half-ton cow was a scene almost poetic in its absurdity.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The animal, visibly stressed and spooked by the echo of engines still idling in the pit lane, started galloping out of control through the runoff area. Marshals tried to herd it with yellow flags like makeshift bullfighters, only to go tumbling into the gravel whenever the cow charged in their direction. The official broadcast didn't know where to look anymore, and the crowd in the grandstands was loving the circus.

Sitting on the side of his car after giving up on waiting inside the suffocating cockpit, Lando crossed his arms, huffing. His race pace was good, he had a genuine shot at a podium, and everything was going down the drain because of a runaway farm animal.

That was when a different sound cut through the crowd's annoyed murmur. It wasn't the electric whine of a safety car, but the rhythmic thud of heavy hooves against the circuit's gravel.

Lando adjusted the helmet on his head, knitting his brow, and looked toward the service access at Turn 10.

The scene unfolding looked like it was pulled straight out of a Western—if the movie were set at a multi-million-dollar, high-tech racetrack.

Mounted on an imposing dapple-gray horse, a man was ambling casually down the track. He wore faded jeans, worn leather boots, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms. A cowboy hat shadowed part of his face, casting shade over sharp features and an impossibly serene expression. In his hands, he held the reins with natural ease alongside a thick rope, already coiled into a perfect lasso.

"Who the hell is that?" Lando muttered to himself, utterly fascinated, forgetting his boredom and anger for a second.

The cowboy didn't waste time. With a light flick of the reins, the horse broke into a precise gallop across the asphalt. The cow noticed the approach and tried to change direction, but the rider was already anticipating the animal's every move. He spun the lasso overhead with almost hypnotic technique—two wide, clean, accurate loops—and threw the rope.

The lasso sailed through the air and caught perfectly around the beast's neck. With a subtle command, the horse dug its hind hooves into the gravel, absorbing the impact without losing balance. In a matter of ten seconds, the chaos that had paralyzed Formula 1 for half an hour was completely under control.

The grandstands erupted into cheers and applause.

The cowboy dismounted with an infuriating calm, adjusted his hat, and gave the horse’s neck an affectionate pat before leading the cow away from the racing line. As he passed near Lando’s car—where the Brit was still standing open-mouthed against his McLaren—the man paused for a second.

He tipped the brim of his hat up, revealing calm, dark eyes.

"Track's clear, mate," he said, with an unmistakably Australian accent that contrasted bizarrely with his Texan getup. He offered a subtle, almost imperceptible half-smirk and kept pulling the animal off the circuit.

Lando stood frozen. He looked at the cowboy walking away, then at his team in the garage, and finally down at his own steering wheel.

"Who... who was that guy?" Lando asked over the radio, his voice coming out a pitch higher than he intended.

"Apparently, the circuit's neighbor. Some guy named Oscar Piastri," the engineer replied, sounding just as confused as he was. "Get in the car, Lando. The race is about to restart."

Lando pulled his gloves back on, but his heart, which had previously been beating to the fast-paced rhythm of competition, was now racing for a completely different reason.

The crackle of the radio bringing his engineer's voice pulled Lando back to reality just in time to buckle his harness and snap his visor shut. The race restarted in the blink of an eye, and for the next 28 laps, the Brit’s reflexes operated on autopilot. Between aggressive overtakes up the hill into Turn 1 and rapid degradation on the soft tires, his focus should have been 100% on the podium.

Yet every time he rounded sector two, Lando’s gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the service area at Turn 10. The horse and cow were long gone, but the image of that Australian in a hat with that calm gaze seemed etched into the gravel.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Lando crossed the line in third place. A fantastic result for the weekend, but as soon as he pulled off his helmet and cleared parc fermé protocols, his podium fatigue vanished, replaced by an uncontrollable curiosity.

While most drivers headed to the motorhomes to shower and face the press, Lando made a quick excuse to his PR team and slipped toward the back of the circuit, near the fence separating F1’s multi-million-dollar setup from the open Texas countryside.

Fine rural dust mixed with the smell of burnt rubber. Leaning against the wooden fence bordering a neighboring ranch, there he was.

Oscar had taken off his flannel shirt and was wearing only a faded white tank top that accented his broad shoulders while he brushed the dapple-gray horse's neck. His cowboy hat rested on the fence beside him. He seemed completely oblivious to the blare of the loudspeakers and the chatter of the crowd just a few yards away.

Lando approached slowly, his race boots crunching on the gravel floor.

"Do you usually crash international events, or was today an exclusive performance?" Lando asked, crossing his arms and trying to keep his tone light and playful.

Oscar stopped brushing. He didn't seem surprised by the driver's presence. He turned around slowly, picking up his hat and placing it back over his dark hair, blocking the sun hitting his eyes.

"If your sport knew how to keep a fence shut, I wouldn't have had to get up from my lunch to fix the damage," Oscar replied. His voice was low, unhurried, thick with the same heavy Australian accent Lando had heard earlier. "Congrats on third, by the way. Caught the end on the barn TV."

Lando blinked, caught slightly off guard.

"Thanks. And I didn't even get a chance to say... you saved my race. I was about to lose my mind in that car."

"That's what they say about you lot," Oscar offered a half-smirk, tilting his head toward the track. "Pretty quick driving in circles, but absolute panic if a cow decides to go for a stroll."

"Hey! That thing was half a ton and charging right at me!" Lando protested, laughing. He took another step forward, extending a hand over the fence. "I'm Lando, by the way."

Oscar looked down at Lando’s hand, then up at the driver's face, which still bore helmet marks and sweat from the race. He gripped Lando’s hand with a firm, warm shake, his palm calloused from hard ranch work.

"Oscar," he introduced himself simply.

"Oscar Piastri. My engineer told me your name," Lando admitted, feeling the warmth of the handshake linger a second longer than strictly necessary before breaking it off. "An Aussie roping cattle in Texas... definitely wasn't on my bingo card today."

"Small world, Norris," Oscar patted the horse’s flank and rested his arms on the fence, coming within inches of Lando. His dark eyes locked onto him with a calm intensity that sent the Brit’s pulse racing all over again. "And Texas is big enough for all kinds of crazy."

Lando looked out at the red dirt horizon behind Oscar, then back at the bustling paddock behind him. Two worlds that had nothing to do with each other, but thanks to a broken fence, had just collided head-on.

"Are you gonna be around later?" Lando blurted out without thinking, acting purely on the impulse that usually guided him on track. "The team’s throwing a party in Austin after the race, but... I get the feeling your side of the fence is a lot more interesting."

Oscar stared at Lando in silence for a moment, an amused glint sparking in his eyes. He adjusted the brim of his hat one last time.

"Ranch doesn't close at night, Norris. If you know how to hop a fence without tearing those expensive fire suits, we'll find out."

McLaren's official party in downtown Austin was exactly as Lando expected: strobe lights, electronic music way too loud for any decent conversation, and a horde of sponsors and VIPs fighting for the drivers' attention.

Around midnight, Lando traded his race suit for black jeans, an oversized tee, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He slipped out the club's back door, ordered a ride, and typed in the coordinates his engineer—after plenty of nagging and blackmail—managed to get from circuit management.

Twenty minutes later, city neon gave way to rural darkness. The car dropped him off at the start of a dirt road, next to a metal mailbox bearing a cattle brand design and the last name Piastri.

Lando walked up to the three-rail wooden fence. He looked both ways, laughed at his own madness, and hopped over with surprising ease, resting his hands on the wood and landing on the other side with a soft thud in the dust.

"I said the suit was expensive, not the jeans," a low voice called from the porch of a wooden house brightly lit by warm yellow lights.

Lando looked up, adjusting his cap. Oscar was sitting on the top step of the porch, barefoot, holding a green glass beer bottle, wearing just a faded gray t-shirt and jeans. Without his cowboy hat, his dark hair was slightly tousled by the Texan night breeze.

"Rule number one of being a Formula 1 driver: never doubt my ability to clear obstacles," Lando teased, walking up the porch steps and stopping two paces from Oscar.

"Impressive," Oscar took a sip of beer and tilted his head to the side, gesturing toward the rocking chair by the step. "Cold ones in the cooler over there in the corner. Help yourself."

Lando grabbed a bottle, popped the cap on the opener mounted to the wooden post, and sat on the step right below Oscar's, crossing his legs. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable; it was filled only by the croaking of frogs and the wind rustling the oak trees surrounding the property. A stark contrast to the deafening roar of the paddock.

"So..." Lando broke the silence, turning his head to look up, finding Oscar’s dark eyes locked onto him. "How does an Aussie end up in the middle of Texas roping cows on a GP weekend?"

Oscar let out a quiet laugh through his nose, staring down at the neck of his bottle.

"My dad bought this land about ten years ago when he decided Melbourne was getting too crowded. I came out for a summer to help run the place and just ended up staying. I like the pace out here. Nobody gets on my nerves, there's tons of space, and the quiet is priceless."

"Until a multi-million-dollar circus moves into your backyard," Lando pointed out, smiling.

"Yeah," Oscar looked off toward the distant lights of the track on the horizon. "Though I have to admit, this year's event brought in a few surprisingly interesting attractions."

Lando felt his stomach do a slight flip, that familiar flutter he got under the gantry lights at the start of a race. He took a long sip of beer to hide his smile.

"Interesting, huh? I thought you saw us as a bunch of rich kids who just drive around in circles."

"I do," Oscar shot back without hesitation, but with a playful spark in his eye. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, closing the distance between them. "But you seemed a lot less annoying than the rest. And a lot more lost, too."

"Hey! I wasn't lost!"

"Norris, you were staring at my lasso like I was pulling off black magic."

"I was just impressed! It’s not every day a guy shows up on horseback looking like John Wayne and solves a problem the FIA spent half an hour staring at," Lando admitted, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more sincere. He looked closely at Oscar, taking in the faint freckles across the Australian's nose and the quiet confidence in his posture. "It was an incredible throw."

Oscar held Lando’s gaze. The calm aura the Australian radiated was almost magnetic, making the usually frantic and energetic Brit want to slow down and hang on his every move.

"Wanna learn?" Oscar asked suddenly.

Lando blinked, surprised.

"What? How to rope?"

"Sun's not up yet, and the track doesn't open for you until next year," Oscar stood up from the step, setting his empty bottle on the wooden table and extending his hand to Lando, just like he had at the fence earlier. "Come on. I'll show you how to do something useful with your hands besides turning a steering wheel."

Lando looked at Oscar's outstretched hand and, without a second's hesitation, took it to pull himself up.

The Texan night was clear, covered in a canopy of stars that seemed infinite away from Austin’s spotlights. Oscar led Lando to a small practice pen lit by two yellow bulbs mounted on wooden posts.

Leaning against the fence on a wooden sawhorse was a dummy steer made of iron and straw.

"First lesson," Oscar said, picking up a braided nylon rope hanging from the fence. "Forget brute force. If you try to pull with your arms, the rope will cut your hand or the animal will drag you. It's all about balance and wrist rhythm."

Oscar stepped up right behind Lando, the sudden proximity stealing the air from the driver's lungs. The Australian covered Lando’s right hand, guiding the Brit’s fingers around the rough rope, while Oscar’s other hand rested firmly yet gently on Lando’s hip to adjust his stance.

"Widen your stance. Lower your center of gravity, just like in the car," Oscar's voice murmured right in Lando’s ear, his deep accent raising goosebumps along the driver's neck. "Now, keep the loop open. Three twirls over your head, using just your wrist."

Lando tried to focus on the target ahead, but concentrating on the rope was nearly impossible with Oscar’s chest brushing against his back and the heat of his hand on his hip.

He swung his arm awkwardly. The rope lost its loop and dropped limp into the dirt.

"Terrible," Oscar commented with a quiet, breathy laugh that sent a shiver through Lando’s shoulders. "You're too eager, Norris. You want to do everything at two hundred miles an hour. Slow down."

"I'm a race car driver, Piastri, speed is kind of my job," Lando protested, turning his head to the side.

The distance between their faces was down to inches. Lando could see the dark specks in Oscar’s eyes under the amber light, the curve of his lower lip, and the Australian’s steady breathing contrasting sharply with his own frantic heart rate.

"Out here, time moves differently," Oscar whispered, his eyes dropping for a fraction of a second to Lando’s lips before locking back onto his eyes. He didn't let go of Lando’s hand, nor did he remove his palm from his hip. "Wanna try again, or are you gonna admit the cowboy’s got you beat?"

"No way in hell am I admitting that," Lando teased, a defiant smile touching his lips.

Oscar offered a half-smirk, his usual calm giving way to a darker, more provocative edge. He let the rope slip from Lando’s hand, letting it fall to the dirt, but instead of stepping back, he used the hand on the Brit’s hip to pull him even closer, erasing whatever space remained between them.

"Then prove me wrong," Oscar whispered.

Lando didn't wait for another invitation. He turned fully in Oscar’s arms, grabbed the collar of the Australian’s gray t-shirt, and pulled him into a kiss.

The initial shock lasted only a fraction of a second before Oscar responded with surprising intensity. The rancher’s calloused hands slid firmly up Lando’s back, gripping his waist with precision, while Lando tangled his fingers into Oscar’s dark, wavy hair. The kiss tasted like cold beer, dust, and an overwhelming chemistry that had been building since the moment their eyes met on the track.

When they broke apart for air, foreheads resting together and chests rising and falling in sync, Oscar let out a low laugh, his arms still holding Lando tight.

"Well..." Oscar whispered, brushing his nose against Lando’s. "I have to admit, your driving off-track is a lot more interesting."

"And I think I'm gonna have to find an excuse to come to Texas a lot more often," Lando replied, smiling against Oscar’s lips before pulling him back in for another kiss under the ranch stars.

Two weeks flew by in a blur, but for the first time, Formula 1’s fast pace felt like it was dragging for Lando. Between Austin’s chaotic, sunny layout and the rainy weather at Autódromo de Interlagos in São Paulo, the Brit spent every spare moment on his phone.

As expected of a rancher who spent his days far from social media, Oscar hated text messaging. He found it cold and impersonal. So their routine quickly adapted to late-night video and voice calls—or early mornings in Texas, when Oscar was already up brewing coffee while Lando navigated media duties in Brazil.

On the Thursday leading up to the São Paulo GP, Lando was sprawled out on his hotel bed in Jardins, staring at his phone screen where Oscar’s face was illuminated by the dim light of the ranch porch.

"Are you sure you have to drive on that track in the rain tomorrow?" Oscar asked, his deep voice coming through clear over the speaker. He was wearing a dark tank top with a small towel slung over his shoulder after working with the cattle. "From the forecast I saw, São Paulo is gonna be a swimming pool."

"Rain is my specialty, Piastri," Lando teased, adjusting the pillow under his head and smiling at the camera. "But honestly? The only annoying thing about Brazil is knowing that as soon as the race ends on Sunday, we have an entire week off before Las Vegas... and I have no idea how I'm gonna spend seven days in a fancy hotel without dying of boredom."

Oscar, who was listening while taking a sip from a glass of water, raised an eyebrow slightly, catching the hint. A slow half-smirk, accustomed to reading the driver's intentions, began to form at the corner of his lips.

"An entire week off, huh?" Oscar tilted his face toward the screen, his dark eyes glinting with his signature calm, teasing humor. "And why are you telling me this, Norris? Fishing for an invitation, by any chance?"

Lando felt his cheeks warm slightly, but held his gaze through the camera, smirking back.

"Maybe. Depends on how good my favorite cowboy's hospitality is."

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head with the patience of someone dealing with a speed-spoiled kid.

"If you think you can trade Vegas luxury dining for dust, home cooking, and helping me feed the horses early in the morning... the offer stands," Oscar said, his tone softening, becoming more direct. "Catch a direct flight from São Paulo to Austin on Sunday night. I'll pick you up at the airport."

Lando’s heart did that familiar flutter in his chest.

"Deal. But on one condition."

"What’s that?" Oscar asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You teach me how to actually rope that iron steer this time. Without distracting me halfway through."

Oscar’s smile widened, his eyes locked onto Lando’s through the screen.

"No promises, sweetheart. Now go to sleep, you’ve got a GP to run."

The São Paulo GP was a mess of rain, yellow flags, and near-zero visibility, but Lando drove like he was floating. He finished second on Interlagos’s soaked podium, breezed through interviews at record speed, and three hours after spraying champagne, he was settled into first class on a red-eye straight to Texas.

Anticipation kept him from sleeping almost the entire flight. When the plane finally touched down in Austin in the early hours of Monday morning, Lando dragged his small carry-on through the quiet arrivals area.

As soon as the automatic glass doors slid open, there he was.

Oscar was leaning against the side of an old, black Ford pickup, lightly dusted with dry dirt. He wore a worn leather jacket over a dark t-shirt, jeans, and, of course, the inevitable cowboy hat. Seeing Lando walk out, he unpushed himself from the truck slowly, walking with that calm, steady stride.

"You really don't sleep, do you?" Lando said as soon as he stopped half a yard away, offering a tired but genuine smile.

"The flight from Brazil lands at four in the morning, Norris. Somebody had to make sure you didn't take the wrong cab," Oscar replied, the corners of his lips curving up.

Without asking, Oscar grabbed the bag from Lando’s hand and tossed it into the truck bed. Turning back, he locked eyes with Lando under the dim parking lot lights. Before the Brit could throw out another tease, Oscar cupped the back of Lando’s neck and pulled him into a long, warm kiss that made all the flight fatigue evaporate instantly.

"Welcome back to Texas," Oscar murmured against Lando’s lips as he pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes.

"Good to be back," Lando breathed out, taking in the familiar scent of leather, fabric softener, and crisp night air that seemed permanently infused into Oscar.

The drive to the ranch took about thirty minutes, set to the quiet hum of a classic country station and the deep rumble of the truck’s V8 engine. By the time they arrived, the horizon was already painted in shades of orange and purple, announcing dawn.

The property was dead quiet. Oscar led Lando inside the wooden house, which smelled of freshly brewed coffee and cedar.

"Master bedroom is upstairs. You can drop your stuff," Oscar said, taking off his hat and hanging it on the rack by the door. "But like I promised, ranch chores start early."

Lando let out an incredulous laugh, leaning his head against Oscar’s shoulder from behind and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"You are not making me work at this hour, Piastri. I just raced in Brazil and flew ten hours."

"Fine," Oscar turned in the embrace, wrapping his arms easily around Lando’s waist and dropping a soft kiss on top of the driver’s head. "Truce for today. Let's get some sleep. Vegas can wait a week, but you're my guest until then."

The next few hours felt like they moved at a completely different speed than what Lando was used to. In the upstairs bedroom, with the morning breeze drifting softly through the window and the distant sound of horses in the pasture, his jet lag finally caught up to him. They slept until nearly noon, tangled under heavy blankets, miles away from cameras, telemetry, or lap timers.

When Lando finally woke up, Oscar’s side of the bed was already cold. He threw on an oversized tee, walked down the wooden stairs barefoot, and followed the smell of bacon and fresh coffee into the cozy kitchen.

Oscar had his back turned, wearing just a pair of slightly worn jeans, focused on flipping eggs in a cast-iron skillet.

"Thought you were gonna sleep until the Vegas race," Oscar commented without turning around, his sharp ears having caught Lando’s footsteps.

"The smell of food woke me up," Lando admitted, walking over and resting his chin on Oscar’s bare shoulder, watching the Australian's efficiency in the kitchen. "And I needed to make sure I didn't dream up that beat-up truck picking me up at the airport."

"The truck is a 1984 classic, show some respect, Norris," Oscar joked, plating two hearty servings and setting them down on the rustic wooden table.

Sitting side by side, Lando realized how simple and grounding the routine here was. No media commitments, no engineers analyzing data on bright screens, no suffocating championship pressure. Here, he was just Lando, and Oscar was just the guy who knew how to make him slow down.

Later that evening, as the temperature started to drop, they headed back out to the practice pen. This time, Oscar kept his promise: he taught Lando patiently, step by step, correcting his posture with firm touches and soft instructions whispered in his ear. When Lando finally managed to rope the iron steer on his third try, he let out a triumphant shout that echoed across the ranch, making Oscar laugh out loud—a rare, genuine sound that warmed Lando’s chest.

Over the days that followed, the week off flew by in a blur of horseback rides through property trails, quiet evenings on the porch drinking beer, and deep conversations neither of them usually had with anyone else.

On Friday night, the last before Lando had to fly out to the glitter and chaos of Las Vegas, they were lying on the wooden deck of the porch, stargazing.

"You know Vegas is gonna be insane, right?" Lando broke the silence, spinning his beer bottle between his hands. "Neon lights, parties, casinos... the exact opposite of this."

Oscar turned his head toward him, resting his head on his arm. The moonlight reflected softly in his dark eyes.

"I know. But the track is still the same, Norris. You know what to do out there," Oscar said with that calm confidence Lando admired so much. He reached out, lacing his calloused fingers through Lando’s. "And Texas isn't going anywhere. When the season’s over, you know where to find me."

Lando smiled, squeezing Oscar’s hand tight. Formula 1 might be his world, but for the first time in his life, he felt like he had found a safe harbor outside of it.

The season finale in Abu Dhabi had been an absolute emotional rollercoaster. Lando crossed the finish line securing the title of World Drivers' Vice-Champion after a fierce battle—a monumental achievement—but the biggest celebration on the podium came with McLaren clinching the Constructors' Championship.

Alongside his teammate, young Irish prodigy Alexander Dunne—whom Lando had informally adopted over the course of the year like a younger brother or a son, showering the kid with advice and proud celebrations—the Brit popped champagne and parted until dawn.

Once off the track, contractual obligations kicked in. FIA galas, sponsor dinners, and exhausting photoshoots lined up before he could finally be cleared for his off-season break lasting until March.

"...and then I have another formal dinner tomorrow night in London, a gala in Switzerland on Thursday, and only then, IF McLaren doesn't invent anything else, am I free," Lando grumbled, sprawled out on his luxury hotel bed, his phone propped on a pillow.

He covered his face with his hands, letting out an annoyed breath through the invisible visor of his exhaustion.

"I swear to God, Oscar. I won a trophy that weighs a million tons, Alex is practically crying with joy at some club, and all I wanted was to be in fucking Texas."

On the other side of the screen, thousands of miles away, Oscar Piastri was sitting on the ranch porch under the orange late-afternoon sky. He wore his usual dark tank top and held a cold bottle of beer. He tipped his hat back slightly, a calm, teasing smirk curving his lips as he listened to the driver's dramatic rant.

"Runner-up in the world and Constructors' Champion... yet whining like a five-year-old. Impressive, Norris," Oscar teased, his deep, unhurried voice flowing like a balm through Lando’s earphones.

"I'm not whining! I mean, I am!" Lando sat up on the bed, running a hand through his messy curls and glaring at the screen. "I miss waking up at six in the morning to that bizarre quiet, okay? I miss chasing Bash around the grass. I miss sitting on the couch and you forcing me to watch cricket or some old Western you swear is good."

Lando let the words spill out without a filter, realizing a second later the weight of what he had just admitted.

Since 2020, the Brit had built high walls around his heart. After a very public, painful breakup in the past, he had sworn never to get attached or expose himself like that to anyone again. But in a matter of weeks, that stubborn Australian cowboy, who had roped a cow in the middle of COTA and didn't give a damn about Formula 1 fame, had knocked down every single one of his defenses.

Before the silence could get tense, an eager whine echoed from Oscar’s side.

Bash, hearing Lando’s shrill voice coming over the speaker, put his front paws up on Oscar’s lap, shoving his snout toward the phone screen. The Australian Shepherd let out an impatient grunt and thudded his tail hard against the wooden floor.

"See? Even Bash agrees with me!" Lando exclaimed, breaking into a massive smile instantly and extending a finger toward the screen as if he could pet the dog. "Hey, boy! Tell your grumpy owner to let me come over already."

Oscar let out a quiet, fond laugh, scratching behind the dog’s ears while keeping his dark eyes fixed on Lando’s through the screen. His gaze held a soft intensity, fully aware of how much Lando had opened up and the place the driver now held in his life.

"Bash is impatient, but he knows how to wait," Oscar said softly, adjusting the camera to frame them both. "And so do I. Finish your duties in London, sweetheart. Play your fancy champion role."

Oscar took another sip of his beer, holding Lando’s gaze with an affection that needed no big words to be understood.

"Your spare key is under the porch planter. When you land in Texas, the house is yours until March."

The post-season marathon felt like it was suffocating Lando with every passing day. London was cold, gray, and packed with photographers, formal dinners, and suit-and-tie executives. Caught in the rush between an FIA gala and a promotional shoot for McLaren, the Brit felt an almost desperate need to regain control over his own body and break out of that rigid routine.

The idea struck on a Tuesday night, during a three-hour break between commitments in central London.

Impulsive, wired, and driven by the kind of adrenaline he usually only felt inside the cockpit, Lando dismissed the team driver and walked into a private body modification studio in Soho, recommended by a close friend. He didn't want a subtle change; he wanted something personal, hidden beneath the expensive fabric of his suits, something to mark the beginning of this new chapter.

An hour later, Lando walked out of the studio with his skin stinging under his heavy winter coat.

Three new pieces of surgical steel glinted on his body: a delicate, sparkling belly ring and two barbells through his nipples. The sharp pain of the needle had brought a strangely liberating feeling, a physical reminder that he wasn't just a world vice-champion or a billboard for a multi-million-dollar brand—he belonged to himself.

And inevitably, the first person he thought of as he headed back to the hotel holding his sore chest was Oscar.

That same night, around one in the morning London time—late afternoon in Texas—Lando locked his hotel room door, carefully slid off his heavy dress shirt, and started a video call.

Oscar answered on the third ring. The Australian was in the ranch's main barn, finishing up cleaning a leather saddle. His hat was pushed slightly back, and he wore a black tank top dusted with light dirt.

"Thought you were at a gala dinner wearing an Italian suit," Oscar commented, propping his phone up on a wooden workbench while continuing his work. "By the look on your face, either the event was awful or you were up to no good."

Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only gray sweatpants folded down below his waist. He offered a sly, teasing smirk, though his cheeks flushed slightly.

"Maybe both," Lando said, adjusting his phone camera. "But the second part is definitely more interesting."

Oscar’s hands paused, tilting his head toward the screen with curiosity.

"What did you do, Norris?"

Lando took a deep breath, adjusted the bedside lamp, and angled the camera up, framing his torso under the room's warm lighting.

The silver jewelry in his navel sparkled against his tanned skin, but the real shock came a bit higher, where two steel bars pierced his nipples, still slightly red from the recent piercing process.

On the other end, Oscar’s silence was immediate and absolute.

The Australian froze. His calloused hands dropped the leather saddle. Oscar’s dark eyes, usually so calm and collected, widened slightly as they traced every detail of Lando’s body captured on screen. The cowboy's breathing grew noticeably heavier, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Lando..." Oscar’s voice came out an octave deeper than usual, husky, completely stripping away his signature playful tone. "What the hell did you do?"

Lando bit his lower lip, feeling a shiver run down his spine at the drastic shift in Oscar’s voice. The shock on the Australian’s face was accompanied by a heavy, hungry, and undeniably possessive glint.

"I told you I was bored in London," Lando murmured, carefully tracing the tip of his finger around the sparkling navel ring while keeping his eyes locked onto Oscar’s. "And I thought... I don't know, maybe you'd like to see it when I got there."

Oscar let out a heavy sigh, bringing a hand to his face and running his fingers over his jaw, trying to regain the composure that seemed to have completely slipped through his fingers. He stepped closer to the camera, his eyes burning through the screen.

"You are completely out of your mind, you know that?" Oscar whispered, his voice thick with palpable tension. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be thousands of miles away looking at that?"

"You can see it up close in three days," Lando teased, his heart hammering against his ribs. That impulsive act had just shattered an invisible barrier between them, turning fondness and longing into an overwhelming physical pull neither could contain any longer. "Last event is Thursday morning. Thursday night I catch my flight."

Oscar stared at the screen for several long seconds, his gaze dropping once more to the glittering piercings on Lando’s chest before returning to the driver's face. A slow, dangerous, intention-filled half-smirk spread across the cowboy's lips.

"Then you better take real good care of those until then, Norris," Oscar warned, his deep voice causing Lando’s stomach to flip completely. "Because when you step onto this ranch on Thursday... I'm gonna check every single detail in person."

Thursday in London felt like it had twice the hours and half the necessary air.

Starting at six in the morning, Lando was dragged through a relentless whirlwind of official duties. The day began with a press conference at McLaren headquarters, where he had to zip up his official team kit, smile for dozens of cameras, and answer the same repetitive questions about winning the Constructors' Championship and finishing runner-up. With every sharp movement under the tight shirt, the fabric rubbed against his new piercings, sending a sharp sting of pain that reminded him exactly where he’d be in a few hours.

In the afternoon, his schedule pushed him into a corporate dinner with major sponsors at a luxury hotel in Mayfair. Lando wore a tailored dark suit, looking pristine on the outside, but his mind was thousands of miles away. While executives talked about targets for next season, the Brit checked his wristwatch under the table every ten minutes.

"Everything alright, Lando? You seem restless," his manager commented under his breath, noticing the rhythmic tapping of the driver's foot against the carpet.

"Everything's great. Just ready for the break," Lando replied with a quick smile, adjusting his tie knot.

At seven in the evening, the green light finally came. As soon as the last photoshoot wrapped, Lando didn't even wait for the team car. He ran up to his hotel suite, tossed the expensive suit into a corner, and threw on the most comfortable clothes he could find: an oversized hoodie, worn jeans, and a cap. His bag had been packed by the door for two days.

The drive to Heathrow Airport in peak traffic was a test of patience, but the rush of knowing the final hurdle of the year was disappearing in his rearview kept Lando wired. In the VIP lounge, while waiting for his direct red-eye to Austin to be called, he sent a quick text to the only person occupying his thoughts:

"At the boarding gate. Flight's taking off soon. Hope the spare key is still under the planter."

Oscar’s reply came almost instantly, short and straight to the point, just the way he preferred:

"Key's there. And I'm heading to the airport. Safe flight, sweetheart."

Inside the first-class cabin, when the lights dimmed and the plane finally lifted into the night sky over the Atlantic, Lando leaned his head back into the seat and released the breath he felt like he’d been holding all day. The Formula 1 marathon was officially over. London’s cold, the noise of the press, and the weight of obligations were left behind in the jet stream.

He closed his eyes, smiling to himself in the dark, hearing only the hum of the engines as he imagined the Texas heat, the smell of rain on dry earth, and the cowboy’s deep voice waiting for him on the other side of the ocean.

The ten-hour flight across the Atlantic felt like it took an eternity, but when the Boeing’s wheels touched the asphalt at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport, Lando’s exhaustion vanished like magic, replaced by a pure jolt of adrenaline.

It was two in the morning in Texas. The terminal had few arriving passengers at that hour, leaving the yellow-lit corridors almost deserted. Lando walked with his backpack slung over one shoulder, dragging his small suitcase behind him in a hurry. He wore an oversized gray hoodie and a cap pulled low, but no disguise could hide the eager look sweeping across the arrivals hall.

The moment the automatic glass doors slid open into the main lobby, he saw him.

Oscar was leaning against his usual concrete pillar near the exit. He wore a dark denim jacket over a white t-shirt, worn jeans, and scuffed leather boots. His cowboy hat was pushed slightly back, revealing his dark hair and attentive eyes that locked onto Lando’s the very second he walked through.

Seeing the driver, the corner of Oscar’s lips curved into that calm half-smirk, though the intensity deep in his eyes betrayed how little patience he had left.

Lando didn't even slow his pace. He let go of his rolling bag, which coasted a few feet before stopping on its own, and practically launched himself into the Australian's arms.

Oscar caught him with the ease of someone who handled heavy loads every day. His calloused, firm hands wrapped tightly around Lando’s waist, hoisting him up and flush against his body. Lando buried his face in Oscar’s neck, taking a deep breath of that unmistakable scent of leather, fabric softener, and crisp ranch air.

"Took your sweet time, sweetheart," Oscar’s voice came low and deep, rumbling right against Lando’s ear, sending goosebumps down every inch of his body.

"Blame the plane's aerodynamics," Lando murmured, pulling his face back just enough to look at the Australian.

There was no room for small talk or playful banter. Oscar gripped the back of Lando’s neck firmly, his fingers tangling into the Brit's soft curls, and pulled him into a deep, ravenous kiss.

It was a kiss loaded with weeks of built-up longing from phone screens and late-night video calls. Lando let out a muffled groan against Oscar’s lips, resting his hands on the cowboy's broad shoulders and pressing himself close. The subtle, throbbing sting from his new piercings pressing against Oscar’s solid chest only stoked the fire running through his veins.

Oscar felt Lando’s subtle flinch and tightened his grip on his waist, deepening the kiss with a possessiveness that made the driver's knees buckle. Right there, in the middle of the quiet Austin airport lobby, the outside world ceased to exist.

When they finally broke apart for air, their foreheads remained rested together. Oscar’s breathing was just as ragged as Lando’s. The Australian’s dark eyes involuntarily drifted down to Lando’s chest beneath the gray hoodie, remembering the exact image he’d seen through the camera days ago.

"The bag," Lando managed to say, his voice breathless and raspy as he tried to catch his breath, gesturing with his chin toward the luggage left abandoned a few yards away.

Oscar let out a low, husky laugh, a heavy sound that warmed Lando’s chest. He gave the driver's red lips one last lingering kiss before releasing his waist.

"Let's go home," Oscar said, grabbing Lando’s bag with one hand and lacing the fingers of his other hand through Lando’s, squeezing tight. "The truck's outside, and I don't plan on driving slow."

The drive from the airport to the ranch felt like a fraction of a second in Lando’s mind. The deep rumble of the truck’s V8 engine cut through the quiet Texas night, but the silence inside the cab was thick, charged with an almost tangible electricity. Oscar’s right hand stayed firm on the wheel, but his left rested on Lando’s thigh, squeezing through his jeans with a calm possessiveness that set the Brit’s pulse ablaze.

As soon as the old Ford’s tires crunched onto the property’s gravel driveway, Bash let out a welcoming bark from his run, but Oscar didn't even wait to let the dog out. He cut the engine, pulled the handbrake, and before Lando could open the passenger door, Oscar was already there, pulling it open and taking the driver by the arm.

Lando’s suitcase was left forgotten in the truck bed.

Oscar guided Lando up the porch steps at an urgent pace. The key turned in the lock with a sharp click, and the second the wooden door shut behind them, locking out the cold night, the Australian tossed his cowboy hat to the floor and pinned Lando against the wooden door.

The kiss was overwhelming. Gone was the caution of the airport or the restraint of video calls. Oscar’s calloused hands moved quickly up Lando’s hoodie, ripping the fabric over the Brit's head and tossing it somewhere down the hallway.

When the dim light from the living room lamp hit Lando’s bare chest, Oscar froze for a beat. The driver’s fair skin displayed the two small surgical steel bars through his sensitive nipples and the sparkling gem in his navel.

"You have no idea how crazy you drove me with this," Oscar’s voice came out so deep and husky it sounded like a low growl in the dark.

He didn't wait. He guided Lando up the wooden stairs to the bedroom, their bodies crashing together with every step.

When Lando hit the mattress of the large king bed, it sank under Oscar’s weight as he settled between his legs. Their remaining clothes vanished in swift movements, tossed carelessly onto the hardwood floor.

Even consumed by a blind desire that had his breathing heavy, Oscar’s analytical mind didn't turn off. He was surgical. He knew the exact anatomy of the Brit's body, mapped over months of memory and longing.

His mouth traced a slow, agonizing trail down Lando’s neck, over his collarbones, until reaching his chest. When the Australian’s warm lips wrapped around the sensitive skin near Lando’s piercing, sucking with precise pressure, the Brit arched his back, letting out a sharp, loud gasp that echoed through the wooden bedroom. Lando’s fingers tangled desperately into Oscar’s dark, slightly wavy hair, pulling him closer as the subtle sting of his new piercings merged with intense pleasure.

"Oscar... please," Lando begged, his voice cracking, air escaping his lungs in short pants.

"Easy, sweetheart. I told you I was checking every detail..." Oscar whispered against the warm skin of his stomach, dragging his tongue slowly up around the navel ring, eliciting a violent tremor from Lando. "You're mine, Lan. Every inch."

The rancher’s calloused hand slid firmly down to Lando’s thigh, spreading his legs patiently. Carefully and precisely, Oscar prepped him, working one finger in at a time at a slow rhythm, opening him up and tracing every fold inside. While his fingers worked to open Lando meticulously, Oscar’s other hand and mouth offered no rest: he marked every sensitive spot, sucking hard on the soft skin of his inner thigh, nipping at his collarbone, leaving hot, dark bruises that claimed ownership over the Brit's body.

To drive him even further out of his mind, Oscar dipped his head down and took Lando’s length into his mouth. The suction was warm, deep, and rhythmic, paired with the steady work of his fingers inside him. When Lando began rolling his hips, near his breaking point, Oscar pulled his mouth away abruptly, denying him the release and leaving the Brit hard, leaking, and desperate.

"Look at me, love," Oscar demanded in a possessive whisper, pressing his forehead against Lando’s.

With Lando open and pleading for more, Oscar positioned himself between his legs. He lined himself up at Lando’s slick entrance and pushed in with extreme care, driving his hips forward slowly. Lando held his breath, feeling the full, overwhelming stretch of Oscar filling him up until their hips flushed together.

Oscar’s initial pace was agonizingly slow and deliberate. He pulled back until he was nearly out, keeping the tension at a peak, before burying himself deep with precise pressure, relentlessly targeting the spot inside he knew made Lando lose his mind. When he hit the right angle, the precise thrust tore a loud cry from Lando that shattered the quiet room.

Lando’s nails dug hard into Oscar’s back and shoulders, scratching the Australian’s skin with the same intensity Oscar used to bite and mark the Brit's neck. With every deep thrust, Lando’s untouched length brushed against their stomachs, while the wet sound of skin hitting skin filled the air.

"That's it... fall apart for me, sweetheart," Oscar set the rhythm against Lando’s mouth, swallowing his desperate groans in deep kisses, using his weight to pin the driver beneath his calculated thrusts.

Oscar gripped Lando’s hips firmly, pausing deep inside. With a low growl, he rolled over onto the mattress without breaking their connection, flipping them so Lando was on top.

Lando found himself straddling Oscar’s waist, his hair messy and his chest heaving. The sensation of Oscar filling him up completely from this new angle made his entire body shudder.

"Now it's your turn, love," Oscar murmured, his voice deep and raspy. The rancher’s calloused hands slid up the Brit's thighs to grip his hips tightly. "Ride your man like the good boy you are."

The command was followed by a firm, sharp smack to Lando’s rear. The sound cracked through the room, turning his skin instantly red and catching a sharp gasp from the driver. The sting on his skin mixed with the deep pleasure inside made Lando’s eyes burn with desire.

Unsure for a brief second due to the intensity, Lando tried to lift his hips, but Oscar didn't leave him to figure it out alone. The Australian’s firm hands held the Brit's waist, guiding the movement with authority. Oscar pulled him up slowly, almost slipping out, before pulling him down in a accurate drop, sinking Lando all the way onto his length.

"Yeah, Lan... just like that," Oscar encouraged, using his thumbs to press against Lando’s hips as he helped him find the rhythm.

Lando caught on. He set his hands on Oscar’s broad, bare chest, digging his nails in as he began to roll his hips and sink down in deep, slow rolls. With every drop, Lando’s length brushed against Oscar’s abs, while the angle hit his sweet spot over and over.

"Fuck, Oscar..." Lando whimpered, throwing his head back. The sight of the Brit completely unraveling, his neck covered in dark marks and his skin glistening with sweat under the dim light, made Oscar’s eyes darken further with desire.

Oscar delivered another firm smack to Lando’s thigh, driving the driver's hips down with every rotation, setting a faster, intoxicating pace until the sound of their bodies meeting filled the room entirely.

Lando’s pace turned frantic, driven by the irresistible mix of pain, pleasure, and Oscar’s absolute dominance. The Brit rolled his hips desperately, bottoming out with every motion, feeling Oscar grinding against his sweet spot without mercy.

Oscar sat up slightly, sinking his teeth into Lando’s shoulder while pulling him into a hungry kiss. One of his calloused hands moved up from his hip straight to Lando’s chest, pinching the barbell through his nipple and tugging the metal delicately between his thumb and forefinger, applying a subtle twist.

"Ah!" Lando let out a sharp cry against Oscar’s mouth, his entire body going rigid.

"Don't stop, sweetheart... feels so good, so tight," Oscar growled in his ear, helping him take three more heavy, deep drops. "Look at you, completely taken... so obedient for your man."

Those words broke whatever control Lando had left. His inner walls began to clench rhythmically in helpless spasms. Sensing the Brit's release was imminent, Oscar took full control again: he grabbed Lando by the waist and, with a surge of strength, lifted him slightly before slamming him down, driving his hips up into the deepest thrust of the night.

The impact sent Lando over the edge.

Without anyone touching him, his denied release came like a wave. Lando came hard, spilling hot across Oscar’s chest and stomach while the Brit doubled over, biting into the Australian’s shoulder to muffle the high, crying groans escaping his throat.

Feeling the incredible tight squeeze and warmth of Lando’s climax around him pushed Oscar over his own edge. He accelerated his hips into four brutal, short, precise thrusts, filling the Brit completely before coming deep inside him, letting out a deep, gravelly groan that vibrated through his chest.

When the peak passed, silence returned to the bedroom, broken only by heavy, ragged breathing.

Lando collapsed forward, exhausted, pressing his sweaty chest to Oscar’s. The Australian wrapped his strong arms around the driver's marked back, holding them tight and staying deep inside him for a few moments longer. Oscar kissed the top of Lando’s curly head, running his fingers gently through his messy hair.

"Good boy..." Oscar whispered softly, his calm voice returning. "I've got you, Lan. You're safe here."

Lando buried his face in Oscar’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat, soap, and leather, completely surrendered and at peace in the one place in the world where he could turn his mind off.

The comfortable quiet of rural Texas settled over them, interrupted only by the occasional creak of the wooden house settling and the steady slowing of their heartbeats. Lando’s breathing still came in short, shallow gasps against Oscar’s skin, completely devoid of energy to move.

Oscar stayed still for a while, enjoying the warm weight of Lando on top of him. His calloused hands, once so firm and commanding, now stroked the Brit's back with a feather-light touch. His fingers traced the red marks his nails and teeth had left on the driver's pale skin, moving slowly up to his neck to stroke his sweaty curls.

"Can you move, sweetheart?" Oscar asked softly, his raspy voice rumbling against his chest where Lando’s face was hidden.

Lando let out a needy whine, shaking his head without bothering to open his eyes. His entire body felt like lead, the skin of his thighs and hips still sensitive and humming from the intense stimulation.

Oscar let out a quiet laugh, a warm sound that vibrated against Lando.

With meticulous care, Oscar held Lando by the waist and slowly slid out of him. The sudden loss of fullness made the Brit let out a small protest, instinctively curling his legs in.

"Easy, I'm right here," Oscar whispered. He rose from the bed with the physical ease of someone accustomed to hard ranch labor, ignoring his own fatigue.

He walked into the adjoining bathroom and returned seconds later holding a small, soft towel dampened with warm water.

Kneeling beside the bed, Oscar began cleaning Lando’s body with endless patience. He wiped away the mess on the Brit's stomach, cleaned his inner thighs, and gently dabbed around Lando’s sensitive entrance.

Every touch of the warm cloth made Lando twitch slightly, but the feeling of being taken care of like that brought an incredibly sweet wave of comfort. Lando finally opened his eyes, taking in Oscar’s calm, focused features in the dim room.

"You're ridiculous... you know that?" Lando murmured, his voice cracking and raspy from groaning.

Oscar looked up, a half-smirk touching his lips.

"Why’s that?"

"Because you can be completely insane in bed and... and then like this right after," Lando countered, nodding toward the towel in Oscar’s hand.

Oscar finished cleaning him up, tossed the towel aside, and climbed back into bed, pulling the heavy cotton quilt over them both to block out the early morning chill. He pulled Lando tight against his chest, tucking the Brit's head onto his shoulder and resting a heavy leg over Lando’s, keeping him pinned and secure against him.

"I take care of what's mine," Oscar answered simply, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Lando’s head, his calloused hand resting possessively on the driver's hip. "Get some sleep, Lan. Tomorrow’s a long day on the ranch, but you're not getting out of this bed anytime soon."

Lando smiled against Oscar’s warm skin, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep lulled by the Australian's scent and the comforting sound of the wind howling outside.

Morning light began to peek over rural Texas before the sun even showed its face. The sky was a deep shade of dark blue outside the window, and the crisp farm air seeped through the cracks of the old wood.

Yet under the weight of the heavy cotton quilt, the heat between their bodies was absolute.

Lando started waking up gradually, his brain slowly drifting back to reality as his senses came back online. The first thing he registered was the deep physical ache settled in every muscle: his sore thighs, the skin on his neck and collarbones stinging slightly from Oscar’s marks and bites, and a deep sensitivity in his lower body.

The second thing was Oscar’s hold.

The Australian was already partially awake, his body conditioned to the ranch's early rhythm, but he made no move to get up. He remained lying on his side, using his heavy frame to press Lando against his chest. His calloused hand rested firmly on the Brit's waist, fingers spread across his hip, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles over his hip bone.

"Morning, sweetheart," Oscar’s voice came in a low murmur, so raspy with sleep it vibrated straight into Lando’s back.

Lando let out a husky groan into the pillow, trying to stretch, but a sharp, pleasant ache caught the base of his spine, stopping him mid-movement and forcing out a low gasp.

"Ugh... don't move," Lando begged, his voice raspy, eyes still closed. "Feels like I got hit by a truck."

Oscar let out a low laugh against the back of Lando’s neck, dropping a warm kiss right over the dark mark he had left on the curve between the driver's neck and shoulder.

"A truck, huh?" Oscar teased, his voice dripping with quiet, possessive satisfaction. He pulled Lando’s waist an inch closer, letting the Brit feel the morning hard-on pressing against his rear. "Thought you liked speed."

"You're not speed, Piastri, you're a menace," Lando turned his head on the pillow to look at him sideways, a lazy, completely smitten smile spreading across his lips. "My back is wrecked."

"It's marked. Big difference," Oscar corrected with his signature calm, his dark, attentive eyes reading every visible patch of the Brit's skin in the dim light.

With a patience that stood in total contrast to the hunger of the night before, Oscar slid his hand up Lando’s stomach, gently twirling the navel ring before moving up to his chest, his fingers brushing lightly over the steel barbells on his sensitive nipples, making Lando draw a deeper breath.

"Breakfast can wait," Oscar whispered, leaning in to cover Lando’s mouth in a slow, deep kiss that tasted like sleep, pulling the driver right back into his orbit. "The ranch isn't going anywhere today."

Oscar’s lazy kiss slowly shifted pace. The morning heat under the heavy quilt turned initial laziness into a fresh wave of tension. Oscar wasn't rushing, but the way his tongue sought Lando’s—deep, rhythmic, and unyielding—made it clear he had no intention of letting the Brit out of bed anytime soon.

The Australian’s calloused hand moved down from Lando’s waist to his thigh, hooking his leg up and over his own hip. The shift in position aligned Oscar’s erection perfectly against Lando’s sensitive, marked entrance.

"Oscar..." Lando murmured between kisses, his voice soft and compliant, trying to catch his breath as he felt the broad tip pressing against the warm skin of his thigh. "You said the ranch could wait, but do you... do you ever tire out?"

"Tire of a lot of things, Lan," Oscar whispered against the corner of the Brit's mouth, his deep voice sending a shiver through Lando’s chest. "But you? Never."

Without breaking lip contact, Oscar used his fingers to spread the lingering moisture on the Brit's skin, ensuring a smooth fit. He positioned himself with customary precision, lining up against Lando’s opening and driving his hips forward in a smooth, steady push until he was buried deep all at once.

Lando let out a sharp gasp, digging his nails into Oscar’s broad chest. The sensation of being filled first thing in the morning, his body sore and warm from the night before, made the driver's head spin.

"Yeah... hold onto me," Oscar instructed softly, sliding his hands up Lando’s marked back to pull him flush against himself, keeping them locked together as he started a slow, heavy, impossibly deep rhythm.

With every precise drive of Oscar’s hips, the soft sound of impact and hitched breaths filled the wooden room once more. Lando hid his face in the Australian's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of skin and sleep, surrendering without resistance to Oscar’s calm, absolute control until the morning sun finally broke through the window.

Oscar shifted positions without breaking the stride, propping his weight on his forearms on either side of Lando’s head to hover over him. The bright dawn light revealed the Australian's chest and back covered in fresh red scratches, a stark contrast to the pale, marked skin of the Brit beneath him.

The view of that closeness, paired with the depth Oscar reached inside him with every thrust, shattered Lando’s self-control. The driver threw his head back for a moment before pulling the Australian down by his neck, digging his nails with renewed force into his back.

Lando held nothing back. Feeling Oscar hitting deep inside him in a relentless, calculated rhythm made his nails rake across the rancher's chest and shoulder blades. The marks on Oscar’s back deepened until thin red lines of blood began to bead, standing out on the Australian's sweaty skin as his thrusts grew heavier.

Oscar didn't pull back. Feeling the sharp sting of the scratches mix with Lando’s tight grip around him, he let out a dark growl against the Brit's ear, quickening his pace.

"Yeah, sweetheart... mark me up," Oscar muttered in a ragged whisper, using the pain as fuel to push to his limit, leaving no room for Lando to think about anything other than their touch.

Lando’s hands remained locked to his back, scratching and tightening his hold with every deep drive, carving into Oscar’s body the same brutal intensity he was receiving under the ranch roof.

Oscar’s pace turned even more aggressive, the satisfying sting of the scratches on his back feeding a raw edge that rarely came out. Every time Lando’s fingers dug into his flesh, drawing blood and leaving permanent marks, Oscar responded by driving his hips home with crushing pressure, making the wooden bed creak under the force.

"Look what you're doing to me, fuck..." Oscar growled against Lando’s throat, his voice straining from the effort, as his lips sought the Brit's neck to leave another deep bite, sucking the skin until he felt the flesh throb beneath his teeth.

Lando was in a complete trance of pleasure and pain. His legs wrapped around Oscar’s waist, locking the Australian inside him, while his hands dragged up and down his bloody back, smearing small red drops across both their sweaty chests. Lando’s untouched length leaked continuously against the rancher's abs, reacting purely to the depth of the thrusts.

"Oscar... deeper, please..." Lando begged, his words broken by sharp, crying groans, his head falling back against the pillow.

Answering the plea with his usual precision, Oscar grabbed Lando’s thighs with brutal force, lifting the driver's hips to get the most devastating angle possible. The final thrusts came fast, short, and heavy, relentlessly pounding the spot that drove Lando over the edge.

The climax hit them like a lightning bolt.

Lando screamed Oscar’s name in a raw sound that echoed through the house, his whole body going into spasms as he came hard across their stomachs without anyone touching him. His inner walls clamped down so tight around Oscar that the Australian let out a gravelly groan, sinking his teeth into the curve of Lando’s shoulder as he came deep, filling the Brit with his heat.

When the wave finally washed over, Oscar collapsed heavy onto Lando, hiding his face in the curve of the Brit's neck. The heavy, ragged breathing of both men was the only sound in the room. The blood on Oscar’s back now mixed with sweat and release across Lando’s chest, sealing their total surrender that Texas morning.

The hot water of the shower began to fall, filling the tiled bathroom with a thick blanket of steam. Oscar didn't even let Lando attempt to stand on his own; with the physical ease of someone used to hard ranch work, the Australian scooped the Brit up into his arms, hooking Lando’s thighs around his waist while the water washed away sweat, dried blood, and the marks of an intense night and morning.

Lando was completely limp, resting his head on Oscar’s shoulder, his arms looped loosely around the rancher's neck. The driver's legs felt like jelly.

With incredible patience, Oscar lathered his hands and began washing Lando. He moved his fingers carefully over his marked chest, working around the sensitive skin near his nipple bars and navel ring, before sliding the soap down his thighs and back. Then, he stood Lando up with extreme care, holding him firmly by the waist to make sure his knees didn't give out while he quickly washed himself under the warm spray. Once finished, he picked Lando up again, shut off the water, and grabbed two large towels, drying them both off calmly.

Steaming out of the bathroom, Lando gave a light tap to Oscar’s shoulder.

"You can set me down, baby..." Lando said, his voice soft and raspy. "I think I can feel my legs again."

Oscar set him down slowly on the hardwood floor. Lando tested his weight, taking a shaky step, while the Australian glanced around, scanning the room for something.

"Looking for what?" Lando asked.

"Your bag. Thought you brought it up."

Lando blinked for a second before letting out a quiet laugh, resting his hips against the bed frame and crossing his arms.

"My bag is still sitting abandoned in the truck bed, Piastri," Lando teased, a sly smile touching his lips. "Looks like someone was so worked up over my piercings they didn't even bother grabbing the luggage."

Oscar just gave a slow smirk, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. Instead of talking back, he stepped forward and delivered a crisp smack—not hard, just claiming territory—to the Brit's rear.

"Watch your mouth," Oscar muttered.

He walked to the closet, grabbed one of his thick flannel shirts, and handed it to Lando. The shirt drowned the driver, hanging loose down to his mid-thighs and smelling of fabric softener and Oscar’s woody cologne. Before Lando could button it up, Oscar cupped his chin and pressed a long, sweet kiss to his lips.

Hand in hand, they walked down the wooden stairs to the ranch kitchen. The room felt cozy, filled with the scent of old wood and morning light streaming through the windows. As Lando settled onto one of the barstools, Oscar moved with practiced ease: setting strong coffee to brew, frying eggs and bacon in the cast-iron skillet, and slicing thick slabs of homemade bread.

Lando rested his chin in his hand, watching the scene with an amused look as steam began to rise from the coffee maker.

"Is all this for me?" Lando asked playfully.

Oscar didn't turn around right away, just poured two steaming mugs and set a loaded plate in front of the driver before looking at him with his usual calm.

"Couldn't let my pretty boy go hungry after all that."

The phrase landed straight in Lando’s chest, sending heat rushing up to his cheeks in a warm, instant blush. But without losing his teasing edge, Lando took a sip of hot coffee and leaned forward over the counter.

"'Your boy,' huh?" Lando shot back with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. "Since when did I get that title, Piastri?"

Oscar didn't even blink. He set the spatula down by the stove, walked around the counter with unhurried steps, and stopped right in front of Lando. The slow smirk stayed pinned to the corner of his lips while his intense, dark eyes scanned the Brit's face.

"Since whenever I say so, Lan," Oscar answered, his voice deep, quiet, and impossibly confident. He set both hands on the counter, framing Lando’s hips, trapping the driver in his space. "But honestly? After last night... after watching you ride me like a real champion, taking every inch and agreeing out loud that I was your man... don't think we need to debate titles, do we?"

Lando felt his face burn up completely, memories of the night and morning flushing over his skin. He bit his lower lip slowly, trying to hide the smitten smile threatening to break through.

Instead of throwing back another tease, Lando reached out and caught Oscar’s hand by his calloused fingers. With a firm, charming tug, he pulled the Australian closer, forcing Oscar to step right between his open legs, right inside the oversized flannel shirt.

Lando placed his free hand on the back of Oscar’s neck, tangling his fingers into the rancher's wavy hair, and pulled him down.

The kiss was lingering, warm, and deep, tasting like coffee and the sweet intimacy only they shared away from the world's noise. When their lips finally separated by a hair, Lando kept their foreheads pressed together, feeling Oscar’s steady breath against his skin.

"Yeah..." Lando whispered softly, almost a secret meant only for the wooden kitchen ceiling. His hand moved up from Oscar’s neck to stroke his cheek, his thumb brushing the cowboy's smooth skin. "You are my man, Oscar. Every bit mine."

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, soaking in the touch, before breaking into a real smile—one of those rare ones that lit up his usually serious face. He dropped another quick, sweet kiss on Lando’s nose and squeezed his thigh through the flannel.

"Good to know we're on the same page, sweetheart," Oscar said, the warmth in his voice melting Lando’s chest. "Now eat, before the coffee gets cold and I decide to drag you back upstairs."

After a heavy breakfast, Oscar finally made his way out to the truck to retrieve the bag left in the bed. When he returned, he handed the luggage over with an amused look, and Lando took advantage of the bedroom's privacy to get properly dressed. He picked out comfortable underwear and his loosest pair of jeans—after all, any tight fabric on skin raw from Oscar’s marks would be pure torture. On top, he made a point to keep wearing the Australian's oversized flannel shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.

The plan for the morning was simple: ride horses across the property.

As soon as they walked out into the yard, Oscar went over to the run and let Bash out. The large, energetic dog bolted like an arrow across the damp grass straight toward Lando.

"Hey, boy!" Lando laughed, dropping down to the dog's level.

Bash didn't hold back on the greeting: resting his paws on Lando’s thighs, he covered the Brit's face in enthusiastic licks, making Lando burst into loud laughter that echoed through the crisp Texas air.

While Lando played with the dog, Oscar walked to the barn and brought out two saddled horses near the front porch. The Australian wore his leather boots, worn jeans, and the signature cowboy hat that completed his rancher look.

Lando said goodbye to Bash with a final scratch behind the ears and walked slowly over to where Oscar held the reins. The morning sun was starting to warm the dirt, highlighting the contrast between the Australian's calm demeanor and the playful glint in Lando’s eyes.

Being the absolute menace he always was, Lando didn't think twice: he reached out quickly, snatched the hat off Oscar’s head, and placed it over his own curly hair. The hat was a bit big, but it gave the Brit an impossibly charming, cocky look.

Oscar didn't even move to grab it back. He just crossed his broad arms over his chest, tilting his head slightly with a teasing smirk.

"You know the rule about the hat out here in Texas, don't you, Lan?" Oscar asked, his voice low and drawn out.

Lando stepped forward, adjusting the brim with his fingertips and holding the cowboy's gaze without blinking.

"The one where whoever wears the hat rides the cowboy?" Lando shot back, a sly smirk dripping with mischief. "Yeah, think I remember. Did that last night."

Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head as he uncrossed his arms. Lando’s nerve was boundless, but the way the oversized hat sat on the Brit's curls—combined with Oscar’s flannel shirt hanging loose over his thighs and the dark marks on his neck—made that cockiness utterly irresistible.

"You're something else, Norris," Oscar murmured, taking a slow step to close the distance between them.

He caught the brim of the hat with his fingertips, tilting it down slightly to look into Lando’s green eyes up close. Oscar’s free hand slid down to the driver's waist, pulling him by his loose jeans until their bodies touched in the morning light.

"Keep pushing me like this, and we won't even make it onto these horses," Oscar warned, his deep voice causing Lando’s stomach to flip pleasantly. "And I guarantee you won't be walking straight for the rest of the week."

Lando didn't blink. He kept the bold smile on his face, resting both hands on Oscar’s broad chest, feeling the heat of the Australian's body through the flannel.

"Promises, promises, Piastri..." Lando teased, though his cheeks flushed slightly. He patted the cowboy's chest and took a step back, slipping out of reach with practiced agility. "Now help me get up here before Bash decides to jump on the same horse."

Oscar let out an amused sigh, following the Brit over to the dapple-gray horse he had prepared for him. With the natural skill of someone raised on the land, the rancher held the reins and gave solid support for Lando to settle into the leather saddle.

"Adjust the stirrups," Oscar instructed, his firm hand resting on Lando’s thigh as he checked his posture. "And keep a soft grip on the reins. He's calm, he'll just match my pace."

"I know how to ride, alright?" Lando countered, adjusting the stolen hat proudly, though he happily accepted the attentive adjustments Oscar made to his footing.

"I know you do," Oscar offered a half-smirk, giving Lando’s thigh one last squeeze before walking over to his own horse and mounting with effortless grace. "But out here, I lead the way."

With a short whistle from Oscar, Bash caught the signal and darted ahead, running through the farm's open fields. The two horses side-by-side broke into a calm trot down the dirt trail, surrounded by native Texas brush and bathed in clear morning sunlight.

Lando looked over, taking in Oscar’s steady posture on horseback. The Australian was hatless, the light breeze messing up his dark hair and the sunlight highlighting his strong facial features. On his chest, beneath his slightly open shirt, red scratches carved by Lando hours earlier were still visible.

An unexplainable sense of peace and belonging washed over the Brit. The speed of the cars, the championship pressure, and the noise of the paddock felt millions of miles away. In that moment, under the vast ranch sky, Lando could only think about how lucky he was to belong to that very cowboy.

The rhythmic trot of the horses created a soft cadence over the dirt, punctuated only by the occasional thud of hooves and Bash’s distant barks as he explored the brush for squirrels.

The sun was climbing higher into the blue Texas sky, casting a warm glow across the open landscape. Lando kept his horse matched alongside Oscar’s, feeling the breeze brush his face and rustle the brim of the stolen hat.

Oscar turned his head slowly, his dark eyes sweeping over the Brit beside him. Lando looked impossibly at home in the scene: wearing his oversized flannel shirt, comfortable jeans, and the cowboy hat, yet keeping that confident, relaxed posture of someone used to mastering machines at over two hundred miles an hour.

"What are you thinking about, Lan?" Oscar asked, his deep voice breaking the quiet of the field.

Lando gave a gentle tug on the reins to keep pace and looked over at the Australian, offering a calm, genuine smile.

"Nothing, to be honest," Lando admitted, letting out a long sigh that seemed to empty any remaining tension from his chest. "It's weird. Most of the time my brain is running a mile a minute—thinking about the next race, data, milliseconds... But here? Here it feels like everything just goes quiet."

Oscar held his reins in one hand and reached out with the other, finding Lando’s hand. The rancher's calloused fingers laced through the driver's, holding tight even from their saddles.

"That's what this place is for," Oscar said softly, squeezing Lando’s fingers warmly. "The ranch is the one place you don't have to be a Formula 1 driver. You can just be my boy."

The affectionate tease made Lando laugh softly, but this time there was no witty comeback. The Brit simply turned his hand to return the squeeze, feeling the strong warmth of the Australian's skin.

"Your boy who nearly tore your back apart this morning," Lando reminded him with a playful wink, nodding toward the collar of Oscar’s shirt where the red scratches showed.

"Occupational hazard," Oscar answered without missing a beat, his eyes glinting with clear satisfaction. "Worth every second. Besides, I think we should head up to the crest of that hill ahead. View of the valley is nice."

"Nice enough to be worth the sore thighs from this saddle?" Lando joked, though he was already nudging his horse to follow Oscar’s.

"Guaranteed," Oscar smirked, letting go of Lando’s hand only to whistle for Bash, calling the dog up the hill with them. "And if your legs complain later, I'll take care of you back in the room."

Lando shook his head with an incredulous laugh, adjusting the hat as the horse began climbing the small incline. His heart felt light, filled with a simple, profound happiness that only that quiet Texas cowboy knew how to give him.

Reaching the top of the hill, the Texas landscape opened up into an endless horizon. The valley below looked washed in golden light, with low brush and oak trees spreading out as far as the eye could see. The wind blew stronger up there, cooling their bodies warm from the ride and rustling dry leaves across the ground.

Bash laid down in the shade of a nearby tree, panting happily, while the two horses stopped side-by-side, lowering their heads to graze on the short grass.

Oscar dismounted first with practiced ease. He tied his horse's reins to a wooden post nearby and walked over to Lando’s horse. Without waiting for the Brit to try stepping down on his own—knowing how sore his thighs must be—Oscar took Lando by the waist with both hands and lifted him off the saddle, setting him down slowly until his feet hit the dirt.

Lando let out a soft sigh as his weight returned to his feet, instinctively resting his hands on Oscar’s shoulders for balance.

"See? Told you the view was worth it," Oscar murmured, keeping his hands on the Brit's waist, pulling him close under the tree's shade.

Lando looked over Oscar’s shoulder at the vast valley, but his green eyes quickly locked back onto the Australian's face. The stolen hat was still on his head, casting a soft shadow over his features.

"Yeah... the view up here is perfect," Lando said, his voice soft and sincere, holding Oscar’s gaze.

Oscar gave a slow smirk, that reserved, meaningful gesture Lando loved so much. The cowboy reached up to adjust the brim of the hat on the Brit's head, then slid his thumb across the driver's flushed cheek, down to his chin.

"You look ridiculously good in my hat, Lan," Oscar confessed in a low whisper, bringing his face closer. "But you look even better when you're in my lap."

Lando let out a quiet laugh, his chest melting at the teasing remark. He closed the remaining distance and pressed his lips to Oscar’s in a calm, deep, affectionate kiss. There was no desperate urgency from the night before or hunger from the morning; it was just the steady rhythm of two bodies that belonged to each other, at peace under the open ranch sky.

When they parted, Oscar wrapped Lando in a firm hug from behind, his broad chest serving as a backrest for the Brit while they watched the valley in silence, listening only to the wind and the quiet sounds of nature. Out in the middle of nowhere, far from the rest of the world, they had everything they needed.