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It feels good. It feels more than good.
The sweat-slick skin, the damp hair stuck to his forehead, the indescribable itch at the base of his spine, and his thoughts that keep straying towards one specific person in his mind.
“Oh— fuck,” he whines.
He can’t stop making small, hurt, broken keens at the back of his throat, no matter how hard he tries. The trophy beneath him is soaked; the cool metal that made stings of pleasure shoot up from the apex of his thighs towards the ends of his fingers, was growing warmer. All from the sweltering heat of his pussy. If he looked down, he could see the reflective surface fogging up. And he can’t- fuck, he can’t stop thinking about him.
About the way Lando’s hand engulfed his after getting out of the car, about looking down on him from the top step, about the brilliant smile that shone on his face as he looked up at Oscar. The same step he stood on just the year before. Oscar won Lando’s maiden race.
And he’s really fucking close to cumming just from the thought.
There was no preamble. He finished the race, high on adrenaline, and as it sank in, the thought that this was his third consecutive win of the season, he could feel himself getting wet. The familiar feeling of slick between his thighs only made stronger by Lando’s presence next to him.
Then came the fucking presser.
Oscar’s breathing turns erratic, throat clicking as he tries to swallow around nothing. Saliva practically dripping down his chin from where he can’t close his mouth around the pitiful mewls, “Ah, Lando.”
Him on that cheap white couch. Legs spread, welcoming, almost as if inviting Oscar to stand between them. When he entered the room and made his way over to Lando, he was struck dumb—couldn’t move for a few seconds. A few seconds during which Lando had smiled at him with that awful knowing look. The one that let him know just how much Lando truly bought into the indifference Oscar was trying to sell everyone.
His teammate was practically draped over the couch—spine curled, languid in a way that could only be attributed to confidence bordering on cocky. The one that oozed out of Lando in waves after every good race. Bastard knew how good he looked, and he was letting Oscar know how aware he was of it. When Lando felt satisfied by the visible effect he had on him, he simply closed his legs, arched his back, and let the mocking tone of his voice curl around Oscar, “You alright mate?”
Voice breaking, too high to pass as normal, he sat down, and they both knew.
“Yeah”.
He sat too close.
Close enough that he could smell the stale, acrid sweat drying on Lando’s skin.
It was disgusting.
His hips stuttered.
Oscar wanted to lean over and lick it from behind his ear. From that secret spot hidden by matted tufts of hair, where they lay flat from the balaclava pressing on for hours. He wanted to make Lando lean back again, gather his wrists, and put them behind his head so he could bend down, breathe in, and suck on the damp fabric where moisture collected below his underarms. Oscar wanted to get down on his knees, slowly peel the fireproofs off him, and push his face into the crease where Lando’s hip meets his thigh. He wanted to stay there for hours, floating. Brainless.
Now, in the late hours of the night, strung up from the team celebrations and the ineradicable need to fuck his teammate Oscar cannot help himself. He knows it’s depraved, the way his hips can’t seem to stop moving, needy little thrusts, almost mindless in their irregularity.
Everything is wet.
“Hngh-”
He’s so overstimulated, and he hasn’t even cum yet. His clit keeps catching onto the engravings covering the trophy, pushing him closer to the edge. The little bundle of nerves, cherry red and engorged, just begging to be touched.
However, Oscar doesn’t want that. No. He wants to come like this. Humping the trophy that connects him to Lando in the most biblical of senses.
The first. Lando’s first.
The sob that crawls out of his throat can probably be heard three rooms down, but he can’t seem to find it in him to care. Tears are pricking the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision, thighs burning with divine fury, but he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He doesn’t.
Penitence finds him on his knees, in the middle of a generic queen-sized bed at the Hilton in Downtown Miami. It’s glorious in its perversion. Lando is probably still out, celebrating, grinding on some blonde model bathed in kaleidoscopic strobe lights. Head thrown back, liquor pouring from his mouth down his neck, pooling at his collarbones. He could be drinking from Oscar instead. There is no strength left in his legs, and so he collapses onto his bed in a heap of limbs and slick wetness dripping down onto the crisp white sheets. He wants Lando here, but most of all, he wants to cum. The trophy fell forward with him, and there isn’t anything he can do now besides pathetically grinding his folds against the metal. Rivulets of tears make their way down his cheeks as the sounds of his hitching whimpers fill the room. He’s so fucking empty. He’s never felt this empty in his life. There is an ache low in his belly, and no matter how hard he tries, his lithe fingers can’t get close enough to fill that void. Oscar needs him here—Lando, with his broad palms and thick, long fingers. His big cock, which Oscar never got the opportunity to see properly. He has seen the outline, though. Oh Christ, the outline.
“Fuck- Oh fuck. Fuck Lando, please.”
It’s all because Lando can’t help himself. He walks into every room Oscar’s in, cock first. It must be on purpose, the way he spreads his legs and immediately makes eye contact with Oscar, the way his gaze always seems to catch on Oscar when he’s adjusting himself in his fireproofs, hand too far down, staying there for far too long.
He wants to take Lando between his lips and stay like that for hours. Keeping Lando warm and soft in the yielding give of his mouth. Oscar would be so good for him. He would stay on his knees and wouldn’t whine; he would be perfect. And afterwards, Lando would reward him, because Lando is nice like that. He would let Oscar sit on his face and let him grind against his mouth before opening him up on his broad fingers and fucking him. Lando would give it to him exactly like Oscar wants—with rough thrusts and loving hands. In all his fantasies, the first time they fuck, they’re always face-to-face, Lando kissing away his tears, cooing at him, taking him apart and putting him back together on his cock.
He wants it now.
Oscar feels himself starting to slip into that wonderful, fuzzy headspace. It never happened when he was playing with himself before, but he is so pent up that thinking is becoming increasingly more difficult. He wonders what the time is; his phone should be somewhere on the bed, he left it there, he’s sure. But even the thought of time starts to slip away from him. There’s nothing but his wet cunt, the trophy, and his thoughtless ruts against it. More animalistic than human. With the singular need to cum.
To breed.
The idea of being filled to the brim, then plugging himself on Lando’s cock to keep it inside for as long as possible makes his hips stutter against the trophy. Only after satisfying the urge to keep himself rounded with Lando’s cum, would Oscar make him pull out—feel the warm stickiness seeping out of him, whining to make him understand. To make him scoop the leftovers and fuck them back into his battered pussy.
The urge is intolerable now; he can’t help but bring his hand down to stuff three fingers into himself. He’s soaked, and there’s absolutely no resistance, barely any pleasure; the digits keep slipping out from the sheer wet of everything. He can’t hear anything but the squelch of his pussy as he pumps his fingers with increasingly more speed. He’s so close. He’s been close for hours, but he’s standing on the precipice now—he can cum like this, three fingers full, clit grinding against the trophy between his legs.
“AH- ah, please,” he gasps into the crook of his arm. Blood is rushing in his ears, wild and erratic and-
His phone is ringing. His phone is ringing?
“Mngh, no no no.”
It sounds like it’s somewhere on his left. Maybe right? Fuck he doesn’t know. He could ignore it, but they have an early flight out of Miami back to London tomorrow. Maybe there was a change in the schedule. He needs to pick up.
Patting the mattress with the hand that was just fingers deep inside him, he can’t stop the pitiful thrusts of his hips. There is another sob clawing its way out of his throat, but he swallows it down. He can be good.
Finally, he grabs it. But just as he’s turning it around in his palm, it slips on the slick coating his hand and falls back down on the bed. As he leans over to grab the phone, a particularly rough press of his clit against the edge of the shiny trophy makes him arch of the bed and moan helplessly. This time, he can’t control it.
The moan fades into a breathy gasp as he turns the phone to face him, where he finds a wide-eyed Lando Norris staring back at him.
“I-” his teammate starts, words interrupted by a sharp mewl, leaving Oscar as he takes him in. Hips stuttering against the trophy, he sees his own face in the small window in the corner of his screen. Red, tear-streaked cheeks, mouth open, chin wet, eyes pathetically glassy.
“Lando- hngh.”
At the sound of his own name, Lando finally seems to wake up from whatever daze he was in. Oscar can’t even see him properly through the wells of tears collecting on his lash line.
“What are you doing baby?”
Baby, baby, baby, baby
He can’t string a sentence together, hips now practically humping the air “Lando-”.
“Fuck look at you. You are so gone for me, aren’t you?”
Oscar plunges back into the blurry headspace. Hiccupping through his sobs, he tries to nod, but his head feels too heavy.
“That’s ok, baby, you don’t have to talk. Can you prop your phone on a pillow for me? I want to see you.”
He will kill Lando for asking later; he’s barely holding the phone as is, but fuck if he's not going to be good for Lando anyway. Feeling around for the big pillow that he tossed to the other side of the bed, he props it against the headboard and tries to stabilize the phone on it with shaky hands. It’s probably going to fall over with how hard he’s thrusting. Looking down between his legs, lifting his hips, he tries to find the trophy that slipped from his when he picked up the call.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
His head snaps up to the camera.
Lando looks pretty. He looks pretty, but his mouth is open, and Oscar can’t seem to find the beautiful sea glass green of his eyes through the black completely swallowing it. He tilts his head and asks dumbly, “Hm?”
“You- God. Have you been trying to make yourself cum on our trophy?”
“Mhm.” Even blinking feels difficult right now, and he just. He wants Lando to make him feel good.
“Ok baby, show me.”
Oscar is good, and so he stuffs himself with three fingers again and positions the trophy in a way that makes his clit catch on it just like before.
It feels good, it feels more than good. But Lando stopped talking, and Oscar can’t tip over like this. He needs Lando to tell him he can. He wants to be perfect. He won’t cum without permission. So he starts whining and tries to bring his head up from where it fell onto the mattress. Lando is looking at him like he wants to eat him whole, and he also seems to be moving? The screen is shaking with it. A particularly harsh thrust of his fingers makes him whine high in his throat.
“Lan-”
“Fuck.” Lando’s head tips back, the long lines of his throat bared for Oscar. Bottom lip snagged between his teeth. Oscar can’t stop the jealousy from taking over; he wants to kiss Lando, he wants to feel his teeth all over—the irrational possessiveness over Lando’s own body. He wants to own him; he wants to be owned.
“Please.”
“Oh fuck, you sound so pretty. I wish I could touch you and help you properly, but we’re going to have to do it like this, aren’t we? You keep touching your pretty pussy, and I will talk.” He sounds frantic. Oscar has never heard him sound so beside himself.
“I called you because I was worried, you know. You dipped so early, I thought something had happened. But no, you were too pent up, weren’t you? Winning got you all strung up. I bet you wanted to do this right after the race, too. Were you already this wet in the presser? Baby, if I knew, I would’ve fucked you right there against the couch in front of everybody.”
His spine jackknifed against the trophy. He feels like an open wound, the drool on his pillow is smearing all over his face, and everything is hazy, “AHH-”
“Ohh, you like that. But of course, you do. Couldn’t even stay for the celebrations cause your slutty cunt needed to be filled. I bet it’s not enough. Do you feel empty Osc? Are three fingers not enough?”
He's trying to shake his head. No, no, no, it's not enough. Nothing is enough. He wants Lando. He wants him in his mouth, in his pussy he wants him everywhere.
“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Add another finger for me.” Oscar hadn’t even realized he had started sobbing again. Tears and sweat mingling on his face, stinging his eyes. He has never gotten past three fingers, but when his pinky slides in without any resistance, he knows this is how it should be. This is how he should be. Always filled. Full.
“There you go. Isn’t that better? We’ll get you to all five in the future, but for now, four is perfect.” Lando has started panting, and Oscar wants to see if he looks like he does when he climbs out of the car. Winded, sweaty, shining like the sun—glorious.
“The next time, I will take my time with you. I’ll spread you out and make you cum on my tongue until the only name you remember is my own. Then I’ll open you up. What do you think Oscar, are two of my fingers going to be enough?”
He’s trying to shake his head again. It won’t be enough. It won’t. He wants them all.
Lando’s answering laugh reaches his ears, “No? You greedy little thing. I’ll give you three the first time around, I don’t think I’d be patient enough for more.”
He’s so tired, he’s tired, and he wants to cum. He’s been at it for at least an hour, edging himself constantly, the climax slipping between his fingers. Hips starting to move faster and faster, he tries to bring his other hand down to properly touch his painfully stiff clit when Lando stops him.
“No. You don’t need that baby, you can be good and cum from grinding your pretty clit on our trophy alone.”
The Brit needs to stop emphasizing the fact that it's theirs. In the future, Oscar will make Lando cum on his Miami trophy from 2024 just so he can lick it all up.
“I want you to ride me the first time. Want to see your tits bounce as you make yourself feel good on my cock.”
Oscar is right there; standing on the edge, he can cum, he is going to cum, he even tries to warn him, “Lan-”
“I would take you raw.”
That’s enough. Blind euphoria overtakes him as he finally tips over. He can’t hear or see anything. Floating around feels so mind-numbingly good it takes him eons to come back down. He doesn’t know. His hand is wetter than it was before. Fuck he’s squirted all over the trophy. Even the sheets beneath turned translucent. His throat is raw from crying out, and he can’t feel his legs.
Lando seems to be saying something. It sounds nice, “Oh baby, you’re so pretty. Fuck you did so great for me. So perfect.”
Seconds turn to minutes when he finally starts to come back into his body. Stretching his arms and back, straightening his legs, he can’t help but grunt. He’s going to be sore all over tomorrow.
“You with me Osc?”
Well fuck.
“Uhm, yeah.” Maybe avoiding eye contact will help him get over the embarrassment. “Ah, yeah, I don’t even know what to say, mate, we can forget this. I’m sorr-”
“Do you mean that?” No avoiding eye contact then. He looks at the Lando on his screen—disheveled, glowing with a thin layer of sweat, flushed cheeks. And he can’t lie. Because Lando is looking at him like this means something. Something more than just an accidental phone sex. What the fuck does accidental phone sex even mean? Lando could’ve ended the call the second he’d seen Oscar’s face, but it’s the fact that he didn’t that makes him wonder.
“Oscar, if you mean that we don’t have to talk about it anymore, I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut and move on.” And that’s just the problem, isn’t it, the fact that Lando is being sincere. He’s so good, he’d truly try to forget, and he’d try to salvage their friendship at the same time.
But Oscar has been pining for too long, and now he has been presented with the perfect opportunity.
“I- I am sorry for how it all happened, but I don’t want to and won’t forget it.”
“Ok. Would you like to stay over at mine when we get to London? We should talk.”
And maybe he won’t survive this. But there is nothing in the world that would make him regret the “Yes,” he uttered that night.
If Lando wants to talk, they can talk.