Chapter Text
Oscar wasn’t proud of it.
Well. That was a lie. He was extremely proud of it. The angles. The lighting. The semi-sheer thigh-highs fluttering in the wind off a Monaco balcony. He knew how to pose. Hips tilted just enough to catch the light on the dip of his back, arm draped artfully over his face, concealing his identity but not his intentions.
“Femboy royalty,” someone had replied once, under a shot of his legs crossed daintily on a hotel windowsill in Montreal. “The slutty papaya is back at it.”
@papayaprince69 had been a joke when he made it. A horny little outlet. Something for himself.
He’d started it during a long, boring flyaway weekend last year—sitting in his hotel room, cross-legged in mesh tights, annoyed at the silence. He took a photo. Then another. Then one with better light. Then one in black lace, cropped just under his chin, with a caption that said nothing at all.
People noticed.
And then really noticed.
He’d become something of a minor celebrity in a certain... niche. His followers—just over 50k and climbing—didn’t care who he was. They liked his legs, his shoulders, the peek of muscle above his stockings. They liked the elegance of the photos. They liked that he didn’t try too hard. Just enough.
His selfies turned into shoots, silhouetted against city skylines, curled on hotel sofas in soft light, twisted in bedsheets like he was trying to get fucked by the algorithm. He knew his angles. Knew how to blur a hotel room just enough in the background to make it hot but untraceable. The lingerie was always tasteful. The lighting, immaculate. It was art. It was strategy.
It was also, if anyone found out, a one-way ticket to social annihilation.
But god, it was fun.
Oscar checked the account after every race. He’d scroll through the notifications like it was aftercare, something to settle himself while the adrenaline wore off. He didn’t need the compliments. He got plenty from being an F1 driver. But the thrill of seeing people want him without knowing him? That was something else.
He got DMs every day. Mostly thirst. Mostly junk. He never answered them. Not once. The account was a one-way mirror. He looked out. No one looked in.
Until one night, post Shanghai quali, when he posted a backlit mirror photo—his silhouette in nothing but briefs, the skyline foggy behind him—and someone did more than look.
He was skimming his inbox on autopilot, legs still stiff from the car. It was the usual—old guys, bots, the occasional OnlyFans cross-promo.
Until one message made him pause.
The account was weird. No name. No banner. The handle looked autogenerated. @mc1r0nlegend. The profile picture was of a car. Sleek, low, silver.
He tapped it on instinct. McLaren F1.
Like the F1. Not the team. The car. 1992. V12 engine. Collector's wet dream. The kind of thing Lando wouldn’t shut up about if it showed up at Goodwood.
Odd choice for a horny alt. Probably a bot that scraped his tags and spat out vaguely relevant DMs in broken English.
@mc1r0nlegend
do you like f1
He should’ve blocked the account. That would’ve been the smart thing, the safe thing, the thing he usually did when randoms showed up in his DMs. But instead:
@papayaprince69
yeah. why?
@mc1r0nlegend
just saw some of ur pics
looked like u’d been to a race
thought that was cool
Oscar sat back, eyes narrowing slightly as the faintest ripple of unease slid down his spine.
He’d been meticulous. Always. All image metadata wiped. No branded merch, no circuit signage, no reflections in glass that could give away the shape of a track or a paddock. Hotel rooms were generic by design, and city skylines blurred together unless you’d already been there a hundred times. The Monaco photo had been cropped on purpose. The one in Montreal was angled to miss the banners on the street below. If anything slipped through, he fixed it in post.
So maybe this guy was guessing. Maybe he was just one of those super fans—loaded, lonely, and deeply online. The kind who knew what the hotel balconies looked like in every race city, and assumed Oscar was just another F1 groupie with a lingerie budget and a decent eye for lighting.
Still. His thumbs hovered.
@papayaprince69
you a fan?
@mc1r0nlegend
hell yeah
whats ur team?
@papayaprince69
mclaren all the way of course
@mc1r0nlegend
nice
i figured ur handle was a reference
ur taste is immaculate
not just in teams either
been following you for a while
never thought id find someone here who likes f1 too
Oscar’s breath caught. He stared at the words, reread them three times. Been following you for a while. That could mean anything. Could be flirty. Could be dangerous. Could be—
@papayaprince69
you say that like we’re in a secret society
@mc1r0nlegend
we kind of are
horny twinks who can tell the difference between softs and mediums
@papayaprince69
how long have you been following me?
@mc1r0nlegend
long enough to know u have a favourite mirror
and that ur left leg always pops when u pose
Oscar stared. Not at the message, but at the reflection of himself faintly visible in the black screen of his phone. He did do that. Without thinking. Like clockwork. One leg forward, one back, head tilted just so to elongate his neck and soften the jawline. He told himself it was for composition.
@papayaprince69
so you’re a fan of my legs?
@mc1r0nlegend
im a fan of the whole thing
legs
lingerie
the whole orange motif u got going on
its giving personality
Oscar bit the inside of his cheek. The robe he was still wearing had slipped even lower now, trailing down the curve of his collarbone like it knew where this was headed. He hadn’t flirted with anyone off this account in ages. Not seriously. Not without irony and three layers of detachment. This? This was—
Too easy.
@papayaprince69
you always flirt like this or am i special
@mc1r0nlegend
only for u
x
That did it. He barked out a laugh, quick and startled and genuine, shaking his head as he curled further back into the couch. A British femboy-chasing car nerd with a private account and zero shame. Exactly what he needed after a day spent wringing his body out in a quali session and pretending he wasn’t vibrating out of his skin in the cooldown room. This was what got him flushed.
Not the podium. Not the points.
A faceless Twitter egg. He should log off. Delete his account.
@papayaprince69
alright. prove it.
what's my best post
@mc1r0nlegend
hotel window. black tights. skyline behind you
the one where u said nothing and let the lighting do the work
hot
classy
a little devastating
Oscar swallowed.
That one hadn’t even gone viral. No tags. No caption. Just a quiet post in the middle of the night after Vegas, when the world felt fuzzy and a little too bright and he couldn’t sleep for all the noise in his head. It was barely a thirst trap. More like a mood.
But apparently it had made an impression.
@papayaprince69
you’re trouble
@mc1r0nlegend
not yet
but im working on it
do u have a discord
The guy asked for his Discord.
Just like that. Bold as hell. No shame in it.
Oscar stared at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He should’ve blocked him. That would've been the smart thing to do. Hell, he should’ve deleted the account entirely—wiped the whole thing clean and pretended this phase of his life had never happened. He’d been riding the high too long anyway. Getting cocky. Stupid.
Instead, he opened the Discord app on his burner and made a fresh account. No profile picture, no personal info. Just the same old handle.
papayaprince69
He typed back slowly, deliberately, but with a weird tightness in his chest. Like he was already regretting it and doing it anyway.
@papayaprince69
yeah my discord tag is the same as my handle
you want me to be your discord kitten or something
lol
He watched the three little dots appear. Then stop. Then blink again. And when the reply finally landed, he let out a short, helpless laugh, shoulders shaking like he couldn’t quite believe any of this was happening.
@mc1r0nlegend
oh fuck all the way off
maybe
His burner buzzed a second later.
mc1r0nlegend has sent you a friend request.
This was the part where he was supposed to walk away. Shut it all down. Delete the alt account, torch the Twitter, chuck the phone in the minibar freezer, and go take another cold shower. Again. But instead, he accepted the request. Like a complete idiot. Like he didn’t have the impulse control of a wet napkin.
Christ. He was definitely thinking with his dick. There was absolutely no way this was going to end well.
mc1r0nlegend
oh shit you actually accepted it
now i gotta be charming for real
Oscar snorted under his breath, half a smile curling at the edge of his mouth before he could stop it. He was curled up at the foot of the hotel bed now, thumb swiping across the screen, the glow from the phone the only light in the room. He still hadn’t bothered to fix the robe that was cinched lazily at the waist, not even tight. His hair was still damp from the post-quali shower, and the whole place smelled faintly of hotel-brand shampoo and whatever mystery sauce had come with his room service dinner.
He should’ve been asleep. Or stretching. Or running media notes. Instead he was here, trading DMs with some mystery guy whose icon was a JPEG of a car from three decades ago. Great. Totally normal behavior. Nothing unhinged about this at all.
papayaprince69
nah i prefer emotional damage
keeps me grounded
mc1r0nlegend
fuck i can do that too
but only if you promise to keep bullying me with your thighs
He blinked. A slow, startled laugh escaped him, unbidden. Jesus.
papayaprince69
u really like my thighs huh
mc1r0nlegend
dude
they haunt me
i saw one pic where ur garter strap was just barely showing and i genuinely had to take a walk
Oscar flushed. Full-body. The kind of blush that crawled up his neck and burned at his ears. That post hadn’t even been one of the risky ones. Cropped within an inch of its life. No hashtags, no thirst trap caption. He’d only left it up because it felt like more of a vibe check than anything. Apparently, it had been a spiritual experience for someone.
papayaprince69
bit dramatic
mc1r0nlegend
im british
we live for drama
papayaprince69
i could tell
nobody else punctuates their sentences with x
mc1r0nlegend
cant help it x
u british too?
Oscar’s heart stuttered, skipping just enough to make him sit up straighter.
There it was. A trapdoor waiting to swing open beneath him. He hesitated. He could still shut this down—mute the chat, block the guy, vanquish the burner accounts into the void where all dumb ideas go to die.
But instead, his thumbs were already moving.
papayaprince69
no
i’m american
rah eagles and what the fuck is a kilometer shit
There. Close enough to be plausible. Offhand enough to pass.
The lie sat heavy on his tongue, even if he hadn’t said it out loud. It was the first one of the night, and it rolled out disturbingly easy. Just a tiny, stupid shift—but it reoriented everything. He wasn’t just anonymous anymore. He was someone else entirely. Some faceless, femboy superfan from the States who flew to races on a whim and posted thirst traps from balconies in designer tights.
He had to watch every word now. Double-check every sentence before hitting send. Make sure no "mate" slipped through, no weird vowel sounds or British-isms snuck past his guard. It took actual effort not to drop a casual reckon. His thumbs hovered before every reply like they didn’t quite trust him not to blow the whole thing.
mc1r0nlegend
thats cool
surprised theres so many f1 fans in the states
anyway not to be dramatic again
you should surprise me with other pic
a new one
papayaprince69
you're bold
any requests
Without thinking, Oscar’s thumb drifted toward the camera app. It opened for only half a second before he shut it.
He was still in the pink robe, one leg tucked under the other, the sash knotted loose at his waist. His thighs looked fine. Great, even. But his calves were patchy. He could already feel the stubble pushing through again, coarse against the inside of his knee. Nothing was posed.
The lighting was awful. The angles were unforgiving.
He wasn’t about to give this guy some half-assed, grainy leg shot and call it content. If he was going to indulge him—and he already knew he was—he’d do it right. In daylight. In front of the mirror at home, with the good light and the blank wall at home that never gave anything away. He had standards.
mc1r0nlegend
a leotard
nylon spandex latex whatever
u can do some real damage with that
papayaprince69
like the sight of my thighs doesn't already make u lose it
no promises
listen i gotta go
mc1r0nlegend
maybe i just like to live life on edge
also was gonna say the same
see u whenever my sweet price
Oscar stared at the screen. The message lingered too long for comfort. My sweet prince. He could feel the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, stupid and traitorous, even as his heart thudded out a steady beat of what the fuck are you doing, man.
And the worst part?
He liked it.
He didn’t let fans down. Not the ones at the track. Not the ones in the comments. Not the ones with usernames like mc1r0nlegend who sent flirty little Discord messages like they had no idea who he really was.
He set the phone down next to him, breathing slow. Let his head fall back against the bed, eyes slipping shut for a moment.
He was going to hell. That was the only possible explanation for why this felt so good.