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Oscar knew Sunday wasn’t going to go his way since the moment he got in the car. Charles had gotten pole in qualifying which, yes, was disappointing, but at the end of the day Oscar knew Mclaren would inevitably pass the Ferrari, likely without much effort, so that wasn’t a large stressor for the race. No, he knew the weekend wouldn’t end in his favour because Lando was starting P3, right behind him, and he knew the team would prioritise Lando if it came down to it. It was easier to avoid when he was in front, but if he was behind Charles then keeping Lando at an ideal distance would be slightly more difficult.
So, yeah, he didn’t expect great things from Hungary. But this was still pretty shit. Placing P2 wasn’t the worst thing, he tells himself. Especially in comparison to most of the grid this season, he has nothing to be upset about when he’s still leading the championship for fucks sake. But still. Being so close to a win and losing it from a bad team strategy prioritising Lando instead…it feels like shit, basically.
Suffice to say, being stuck in an interview, uncomfortable and disappointed, is not exactly his ideal place to be now. And yet here he is. To make everything five times fucking worse , so is Lando. And just to add to the torture the universe is throwing his way, Lando has been pointedly ignoring him all weekend.
Oscar wants him so bad. Fuck. That is not what he is supposed to be thinking right now. But, god , who can blame him? The last time he had Lando alone was a week ago, when Lando had fucked him in the motorhome, and then again at his hotel, and—well. And then Oscar had admitted it hurt afterwards in the car, a good sort of pain, he justified, but Lando apparently had become so guilty about it that he refused to fuck him during a race weekend again. Oscar had refrained from pointing out that he had literally won the race, despite the post fuck ache through his entire body, but even if he had , Lando was ever the fucking moralist when it came to making sure Oscar was comfortable. He was pretty sure he would have ignored his protest anyway.
But…it isn’t really the race weekend anymore. The race is over. Oscar swallows. Fuck.
He snaps out of his thoughts at the exact moment the interviewer reaches out towards him. Her hand lands on the side of his torso, entirely well intentioned.
Still, he finds himself leaning back instinctively, acutely aware of the difference between the slender, feminine hands on his side, and Lando's hands, that he desperately wants on his skin. The interviewer pulls away instantly, clearly respecting his response, and he’s ready to forget all about it. But he’s not the only one there. And Lando doesn’t seem so eager to forgive—ironic, considering he’s been pointedly not touching Oscar for the past three days, and yet here he is, mad at somebody else for doing it. He’s staring at her, fucking glaring daggers like she’s personally offended him. The kind of look you’d expect from him if she’d touched his property without—
Oh. Thats—Oscar can feel drool pooling in his mouth. Oh .
He isn’t entirely sure what Lando does after that. Clearly at some point he tears his eyes away from the interviewer and turns them back to Oscar, because now he’s looking right at him. Oscar swallows, too thick, obvious . He curses internally. Fuck.
Lando drags his gaze down Oscar’s entire body and flicks it back up to his face. Oscar can’t look away. He can’t. He feels dizzy, like his head is swimming. Lando nods.
“You okay?”
I want you to manhandle me over every surface in the paddock and fuck me stupid , he almost says. Really, what is he supposed to say? Fuck .
“Yeah,” He eventually manages, a little too breathless to pass for normal.
Lando stares for a bit longer. His eyes are dark, unreadable in that way that makes Oscar want to crawl out of his skin. It feels like being pinned, dissected. When he glances away, back to the interviewer and to safer ground, Oscar has half a mind to speak, to say something along the lines of please don’t stop looking at me or please touch me . He doesn’t.
His heart doesn’t get the memo. It’s still hammering, lodged somewhere in his throat. He wets his lips without meaning to, drags his gaze sideways just in time to catch Lando’s fingers tapping on his thigh, sharp and restless. No one else would notice that, but Oscar is hyper aware of every movement Lando is making. God. Fuck.
The interview wraps up, albeit painfully slowly. And then the interviewer is ushered away, focus shifted elsewhere. Oscar moves on autopilot, nodding and smiling when he remembers to. What he doesn’t immediately realise, is that now he’s left there alone, with Lando. And. Well. Fuck.
His brain is spinning. Oh god. He wants it so fucking bad. Fuck. He should say something. He’s staring like an idiot. His pulse is impossibly loud in his ears, and it feels like he’s underwater, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach and god . He bites back a feral little sound. He can’t stop his feet from moving, carrying him forward, and suddenly Lando’s hand lands low on his back. Oh god . Oscar’s skin is burning.
Lando leans in.
“I know you want it,” he murmurs, his hand on Oscar’s waist, and Oscar feels like his brains have been scrambled. “Just be good until we get back to the hotel, yeah?”
The world has been shoved into a blender and turned into a jumbled, dreamy mess. Oscar feels syrupy hot inside, unable to process any of this past the implication that Lando will fuck him, later. Apparently he goes too long without replying, and Lando’s other palm slides over to cup his jaw, thumbing over his bottom lip.
“Come on, baby, can you wait until we get to the hotel for me?”
Oscar's mouth drops open instantly. Fuck. When did he get so greedy for it? Fuck . That earns him a small, amused smile.
“Baby?”
Oh god. Oh God . A pathetic sound crawls out of his throat.
“Yeah,” he says, dumb.
“ Good ,” Lando smiles wider, and lets go of him instantly, turning to leave.
Oscar starts after him instinctively. Something stops him in his tracks, and he turns to walk the other way. It’s fine. He can wait until he gets to Lando’s hotel later. That’s fine. It’s not like he’s burning up at the mere prospect of getting fucked, or like his head is filled with soaked cotton wool. Fuck.
It takes too much time, in Oscar's opinion, for the evening to come around. As soon as he’s given the go ahead that the press and meetings are all over, he finds himself at Lando’s hotel. Lando texted him a few hours earlier with his room number “ 408 ”. Every flick of a number on the elevator screens has Oscar’s heart rate rising.
He stands outside Lando’s hotel door for what feels like ten straight minutes. It’s stupid, this is far from the first time they’ve done this, but this time he feels sticky inside, hot and golden. He’s never been this desperate for it before. Fuck. Fuck .
He’s so fixated on it. Even the knock he does on the hotel room door feels obscene. It feels like anybody who saw him right now would know exactly how he feels. Exactly why he’s here . He imagines someone who knows who he is—a fan, a journalist, someone —seeing him like this and posting about it. He can only picture the headlines. And it’s, embarrassingly, doing a lot for him.
Lando coughs. Wait, what? Oh . Lando’s coughing because he’s opened the door and he’s just standing there while Oscar has a fucking crisis in the doorway. Oh. Right. Oscar’s mouth is dry. His thighs twitch together on instinct. Fuck . Lando must have just gotten out of the shower, or something, because he’s leaning against the doorframe without a shirt on, and his hair is damp, falling over his eyes. FUCK.
Lando raises an eyebrow, amused.
“So,” he says, barely repressing a laugh. “Are you gonna come inside, or just stand there all night?”
“Unh,” Oscar says intelligently.
Lando rolls his eyes and reaches out. He grips Oscar's shirt in one hand and tugs him into the room with ease. The room itself is entirely swallowed in shadow, all the lights off. Oscar is thankful for it, because it makes the trembling of his entire body less obvious, every fucking nerve ending alive and aching. His breath is barely even coming, just shallow little uneven bursts as his heart thumps inside his chest, so loud he’s certain Lando can hear it.
He’s so turned on . Has been all day, all weekend . His mind is dazed and swimming and his body barely even feels tethered to the floor. Heat pools in his abdomen as a small, feral sound catches itself against his teeth.
Fuck.
Fuck .
Lando’s gaze drops, filthily slowly, to Oscar’s mouth, and Oscar’s breath dies in his chest. It’s all he can think about now.
Kiss me. Fuck. Kiss me now. Please .
Oscar opens his mouth, ready to say something, anything, something to break the suffocating silence, and then—
Lando is kissing him. Oh.
Lando’s mouth slams onto his like he’s starving, his tongue demanding as he kisses him stupid. Oscar’s breath hitches into a ragged sound, feral and high, every inch of him set alight with the feeling. He’s lightheaded and hot and all he can do is arch into Lando’s body, his fingers curling into his shirt and clutching like it’s the only thing he knows. Lando backs him up against the wall with one hand on his waist while the other tangles in Oscar’s hair and shoves him closer.
It’s feral and hungry. Oscar can’t think. He can’t fucking think .
Lando’s hand pulls at Oscar’s waist, dragging him flush against his body, and Oscar’s legs go fucking weak. He’s pretty sure his heartbeat is going to break his ribs. He loves getting kissed, he always has, but god , if Lando doesn’t make it one hundred times better. He never stood a chance. It’s wet, and messy, and he whines into it, helpless to the instinctive arch of his body.
Lando only pulls away to move his mouth down, mouthing against Oscar’s jaw and down his throat like he can’t tear himself away. Holy shit. Oscar is going to die like this. Fuck. He’s going to die because his skin is burning and he’s on fire and Lando’s mouth is on him.
Lando pauses, mouth lifting from Oscar’s skin now, just to breathe out a rough “fuck.”
Oscar can only nod. His brain is blanking out, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t even think before he sinks to his knees. The sound of his knees hitting the floor barely resounds in his head. He just looks up, right into Lando’s eyes. Lando looks fucking pained.
“Fuck, baby… ”
And that . Fuck. Oscar whines through his teeth. Lando’s hand winds into his hair, and Oscar’s lashes flutter, head instinctively leaning forward. Lando nods down at him, his voice slightly strained.
“You gonna ask for it?”
Oscar wants to. He wants . But nothing comes out at first, his throat feeling tight and caught.
“Please,” he manages, the word cracking like it’s been torn out of him. His fingers flex against Lando’s thighs, restless, his entire body thrumming with need.
Lando’s grip in his hair tightens, tilting his head back a little more. Oscar’s lips part.
“Please.”
Lando nods, encouraging in a way that feels overly condescending.
“Please what, baby?”
Oscar’s brain is filled with thick, stifling fog. His words stumble clumsily out of his mouth.
“Please let me suck your cock.” It comes out more whine than words. Lando shuts him up with his other hand, thumb dragging across Oscar’s cheek before pressing against the corner of his mouth. Oscar opens up and takes him in like a reflex. Lando groans, low and appreciative in his throat.
“God, look at you, Osc,” he mutters, his composure slipping just a fraction. “You’re so fucking eager for it, huh?”
Oscar shivers. His knees are biting into the floor, but he doesn’t care. His whole body is humming, wired and waiting. His head tips forward into Lando’s touch, mouthing over the tip of his thumb like it’s his dick. He nods, dazed and helpless. His throat feels scraped raw from how hard he’s holding the sounds in, but they leak out anyway, in soft, choked little noises he can’t stop. His breath spills hot against the inside of Lando’s wrist.
“I want— please . Please, let me.”
Lando hums in reply, low and a little mocking. His thumb smears over Oscars bottom lip, dragging it down before letting it go entirely. Oscar’s eyes follow his every move, addicted like a junkie to a fucking drug. He’s seeking the hit straight from the source, fuck dilution.
“I’ll do anything,” his voice cracks on it.
That finally pulls a hiss from Lando, who looks away like he has to take a moment. A second passes, Oscar’s lashes fluttering.
“Okay,” Lando nods, a little out of breath. “Fine. You want to suck my cock that bad, baby?”
Oscar’s heart slams. He nods too fast, the words tumbling out raw and blurted.
“Yes. Yeah.”
Lando curses under his breath and tightens his grip on Oscar’s hair. His other hand is moving, shoving his pants and underwear down in one go. Oscar’s mouth is dry and wet all at once. It’s heady and intoxicating, and he’s making some feral sound in the back of his throat. He tries to move forward, but Lando is holding him back by his hair, clicking his tongue disapprovingly and murmuring:
“Come on, baby, be patient. I’ll give you what you need.”
Fuck. Oscar moans.
He guides him forward gently— deliberately . Oscar goes pliant instantly when his cock gets in his mouth. The weight of it makes his eyes flutter shut, a broken whine catching in his throat. His whole body trembles with relief, with the dizzying rush of finally .
“Fuck,” Lando breathes, sharp and ragged above him. His other hand braces against the wall. “Good boy. Just like that.”
Oh. The praise hits Oscar harder than anything. It always does. He moans around him, desperate and greedy, his hands clutching at Lando’s thighs as he works him in deeper, messy and uncoordinated but so fucking eager .
“Jesus Christ , you’re—” Lando cuts himself off with a stuttered breath, his hips twitching despite the effort to stay controlled. “You’ve been thinking about this all weekend, haven’t you? Couldn’t wait to get on your knees for me.”
Oscar muffles a frantic yes around his cock, and the vibration pulls a choked groan from Lando’s chest. His grip in Oscar’s hair tightens, his hips rolling shallowly, testing. Oscar is so, so fucked. He’s dizzy with the sheer force of it. On some spur of the moment, abrupt decision, he shoves forward, burying his nose in Lando’s navel as he takes him all the way down into the back of his throat. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and fuck , it’s so good .
Lando’s hand impossibly tightens in his hair. Oh. Oh . Now he can’t move. It took him weeks to suck Lando’s dick all the way down, and now Lando is holding him there so he couldn’t pull off to take a breath if he wanted to. He feels lightheaded. Fuck .
Everything is white noise and static and the dull roar of blood in his ears, and everything is compressed into this one point of unbearable tension. His chest aches with it, that thin sharp burn of holding his breath, but it’s nothing compared to the ache lower down, to the throb of his dick in his pants, pressed too tight against him.
He can’t—he can’t think . Can’t think about anything except Lando, Lando, Lando . The way his hand feels like a vice in his hair, the weight pressing inside him, the humiliating, intoxicating knowledge that he’s being kept there. It should feel like too much. It is too much.
I can’t breathe , a panicked thought flares, sharp and electric. But underneath, louder: don’t let go. Don’t stop. Fuck .
He feels cracked open by it, hollowed out and overflowing. Lando is in his lungs, in his chest, in his head. He’s everywhere.
Oscar thinks, wild and half delirious, that he could die like this and it would make sense. Lando's hand moves, appreciative, soft little massaging movements in his hair. Soothing.
“—yeah, you can come, don’t worry,” Lando is saying. Oscar moans, filthy and wet. “Come on, baby, it’s alright.”
Only now does Oscar realise just how hard he is. The threat of it feels destabilising. Lando drops his hand from the wall to fit it around Oscar’s jaw, pressing his fingers into the sides of his cheek. And— oh . He can probably feel the press of his own cock through his skin. Oscar moans. Fuck . He moans, over and over , and suddenly he's coming in his pants like a fucking teenager, wave after wave of life ruining, hot, hot, hot pleasure crashing over him.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Lando murmurs, grinding his cock implausibly deeper into Oscar’s throat. “There you go. That’s perfect.”
Fuck. Fuck. Oscar chokes on his need for a breath, and Lando laughs , finally relenting. He pulls back, inch by inch, and Oscar vaguely questions how he managed to fit Lando’s entire cock down his throat, because it feels like it takes so long . He takes a shaking, high breath as soon as he can, his vocal chords scratching at the sound, completely fucked up.
Lando gives him maybe a second of reprieve before he's pulling him up to his feet. Oscar stumbles, feeling overfull and messy and wet, and he's being shoved onto the bed, bent over the edge with his cheek pressed down against the covers. He tries really, really hard not to moan, and completely fails.
Lando smooths one hand up his spine, pushing up his shirt and fuck , Oscar realises, he isn’t even going to take off his clothes. He just shoves the polo up above Oscars pecs and tugs his pants halfway down his thighs.
There’s the unmistakable click of a small bottle. Oscar whines and goes still, waiting, waiting . He can feel the exact moment Lando realises.
Everything goes quiet for a moment. Then Lando’s finger presses against his hole, gently bearing down against the slick heat of it.
“Oh my god. You—”
Oscar giggles, high and insane. “Yeah. I’ve—’ve been prepped all day,”—he breaks off to whine, arching against the press of one of those big fingers into his body—”Just in case you wanted to fuck me in the paddock, I dunno, I—”
Lando pulls his finger out slowly, exhaling shakily. And then the head of his cock is pressed up against Oscar’s entrance and he’s talking.
“Can’t believe you’ve been fucked open all day,” he’s rambling, pushing in gradually. “You’re such a fucking slut, you wanted me to fuck you in the paddock? In front of everybody? Jesus , I tell you I won’t fuck you before the race once , and you can’t think of anything else, huh?”
“ Oh ,” Oscar says, slurring. “I—’s big .”
It isn’t a surprise, Lando has always been well above average, but fuck . Every single time it sends heat straight into the pit of Oscar’s body, filling out his cock instantly. Somehow Lando’s size completely bypasses Oscar’s refractory period.
“Yeah?” Lando half laughs as he finally bottoms out. “We don’t have a race next week, baby. I’ll fuck you as much as you want, fuck. Every day. I’ll keep you on my cock during the fucking meetings too, yeah?”
Landos hand is on the back of his head now, holding him down against the bed while he fucks into him. Oscar can’t help himself. He can’t stop. He’s on an automatic loop, moaning and moaning and moaning , full and good and so overstimulated he can’t fucking think. Fuck.
Lando slides one hand under him to cup over his pec, fingers pinching delicately over a nipple. Oscar gasps, sharp, and twitches. It’s cruel. He says as much.
“That’s,” he moans. “That—that’s mean.”
“ Aw , honey,” Landos fingers tighten, hips fucking particularly hard into him this time. “Am I being too mean?”
Oscar makes a noise, high and thready. He’s shaking. Oh god. He nods as best he can against the bed, a vague, pathetic movement of his head. He can feel Lando’s cock fucking in, so deep that it makes his stomach bulge on every thrust. Lando hums.
“Fine,” he lets go of Oscar’s chest and soothes his hand down the underside of his torso. “This better?”
He presses his palm into Oscar’s stomach, trapping his prostate between his fingers and the head of his cock.
Oscar wails . The sound traps itself in the sheets and becomes a sort of twisted moan. Fuck. Fuck. He whites out for a moment, and when he zones back in, he realises he just came all over himself. Lando groans.
“Fuck, baby, you look so fucking good right now. God .”
Oscar gasps. His head is swimming with sensations, two orgasms thick in his mind and muddling everything else up, all together into a mess of thoughts.
“Please,” he manages, and fuck his voice is wrecked. “Come in me. I want— please , Lando.”
Lando leans over, pressing his mouth against the back of Oscar’s shoulder to muffle the feral sound that claws out of him.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Fuck, okay. Whatever you want.”
Oscar nods, almost hysterical, nodding and nodding and nodding, drool spilling over the side of his mouth and onto the bed.
Lando is still fucking him, still holding him by the stomach with one hand on his hip, and Oscar feels so fucking drunk off the pleasure he thinks he might go fucking insane. Fuck. Lando presses his hand up into his body again, dragging another moan out of Oscar’s fucked up throat.
“You gonna come a third time for me?”
Jesus Christ . Oscar whines.
“I can’t , ‘s too much.”
“Yes you can,” Lando reassures, sounding so out of it himself that Oscar shouldn’t be listening to a word he says. “You can, and you will, won’t you? You’ll come one more time for me?”
Yes. Yeah. Yeah, Oscar guesses he will. He can feel it. His tongue is thick in his mouth, come all over his thighs, sticky and messed already, but he knows he’s going to come again, even if there’s nothing left. Lando’s hand moves down, finally, finally , wrapping around Oscar’s oversensitive dick.
“No,” Oscar mumbles, instinctively protesting. “No, no, I can’t, no—”
Lando strokes down once, thumbing over the slit, and Oscar feels his third orgasm hit like a fucking freight train. Oh god. His vision flickers, dotting with stars, and he can feel his body clenching up around Lando’s cock. Oh god .
He dimly registers the heat pouring into his insides with every weakening thrust into his body. All he can think about is how good he feels. Fuck. It’s delicious, the heat, the weight of it, fuck . He isn’t certain how much time it lasts. Lando must have finished, because now he pulls out, slow, and Oscar whines.
Lando laughs, a small, fond noise, and ruffles Oscar’s hair.
“It’s alright, baby. I’ll fuck you again later, okay?”
Oscar huffs.
“Promise?” he half slurs.
Lando nods, leaning back in to kiss the back of Oscar’s neck gently.
“I promise. But you’ve gotta let me clean you up first. You’re all messy.”
Oscar lets him turn him over onto his back and glares up at him, though it’s weak and drowsy and carries no sense of hostility whatsoever.
“Who’s fault is that?”
Lando shrugs with a knowing grin and leans down to kiss Oscar on the mouth. Jesus. Oscar's arms wind up, hooking around Lando’s neck and pulling him down to kiss him better. Lando smiles against his mouth. The moment he leans his body further down and touches the mess between Oscar’s thighs, Lando pulls back, shaking his head.
“I’ll happily make out with you after that is cleaned up. Some of us here have standards, you know.”
Oscar laughs and looks up at him, his lashes fluttering purposefully.
“Please?”
A beat passes. Lando groans, relenting, and leans down to kiss him again.