(IB: the movie ‘my fault London’)

The hotel room was warm from the tension, the three of you still buzzing from the podium adrenaline. You were caught in the middle, heart hammering, breaths shallow as Lando lounged on the bed behind you and Oscar knelt at your front, hands on your hips.

Oscar’s fingers slid up carefully, tugging the hem of your shirt just enough to press soft, teasing kisses along your stomach. His lips were light, warm, and impossible to ignore. You gasped softly, leaning back into him, fingers tangling in his hair as his gaze locked with yours, full of that calm intensity that made your knees weak.

Before you could catch your breath, Lando pressed in from behind. One hand found your waist, steadying you, while the other traced slow, teasing lines along your neck. His lips followed, brushing over your skin in feather-light touches that made you shiver. You tilted your head back without thinking, giving him access, all the while distracted by Oscar at your front, his lips and hands drawing a reaction that made Lando smirk against your shoulder.

“God, you’re driving us insane,” Lando murmured, voice low, teasing, warm.

“You’re not helping,” you breathed, fingers clutching at both of them as they claimed you from either side.

Oscar’s kisses traveled up your stomach, slow and deliberate, hands pressing lightly against your hips, pulling you closer to him. Every brush of his lips sent a thrill through you, and you could feel Lando responding instantly, hands sliding lower on your waist, lips nipping at your neck, leaving trails of warmth that made your breath hitch.

The two of them worked in perfect, intoxicating tandem — Oscar kneeling, steady and intentional, lips teasing and warm, while Lando came from behind, bold and playful, teeth grazing, lips tracing, fingers gripping your sides just tight enough to make you melt. You were caught between them, every nerve alive, every inch of you aware of both sets of touches, both claiming you in their own way.

You leaned back against Lando, chest pressed to him, and let out a soft laugh, breathless. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to choose between you two,” you murmured, voice husky.

“You don’t have to,” Oscar whispered against your stomach, hands sliding higher, fingers brushing lightly, “we’ve never wanted you to.”

Lando pressed his lips to your neck, teeth grazing gently, fingers tracing circles along your sides. “Yeah, you’re ours,” he said low, a grin in his voice. “And we’re not keeping score.”

The heat of them, the teasing, the whispered words, and the closeness of their bodies made it impossible to think. All you could do was melt into the sensations, letting Oscar kneel, Lando press from behind, and the three of you share that dangerous, electric rhythm that belonged only to you.

Every soft kiss, every press of fingers and lips, every low murmur built the tension higher — private, intoxicating, and far hotter than anything you could have imagined standing up on the podium.