hi im eve :) half on hiatus (trying to work on my brain w/o guilt) half off (still chronically online and will post abt it).
do NOT put anything from my blog or ao3 on twitter/tiktok/instagram/wherever the fuck else that's insanely public and known to be used by drivers and their families. if i find out i WILL pull everything down from here and ao3. don't be the fucking narc who ruins the party.
tags and such are below the cut for ease !
tags
drivers and associates tagged by first and last initial (i.e. esteban is eo. unfortunately some people have the same initials, so los is logan and las is lance)
pairings tagged by car number, larger number first (i.e. lando/oscar is 8104, george/alex/lando is 632304, etc. pairings involving someone without their own number use initials instead i.e. lando/max f is 04mf)
mine.ww - web weavings i've made
mine.vid - video edits i've made
mine.fic - fic i've written
mine.snip - snippets of fic i'm writing
mine.fill - short fills for prompts that aren't part of a larger wip
mine.primer - deep dives i've done
art - fan art that im obsessed with (all of it)
ww - web weavings that make me Crazy
vid - video edits that make me feel things
fic rec - literally anything i've read that's brought even a modicum of joy
lore - old stuff unknown to me that i like to go back and look at. funny or interesting old facts, cute karting photos, primers, etc
meta - people's meta; sometimes fic/characterization related, sometimes real thoughts about contracts or whatever. but mostly fic/characterization related, tbh
neither created nor invented - my self indulgent hand tag, from a julio ramón ribeyro quote ("...we find only one tool, neither created nor invented, but perfect: the hand of man.")
where might have lived a world - my drivers being cute with kids tag, from the poem reprise by maya c. popa (“you were a child, and i will never have a child with you, that wasted tenderness where might have lived a world.”) except the full poem is kinda sad and that’s not the vibe. i just wanted a pretentious tag abt baby fever i won’t lie
a whole block of dandelions - my wedding vibes tag, from the poem let’s get married by josé olivarez
follies and nonsense - regency vibes tag, from jane austen's pride and prejudice: "Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can."
queue turn towards meteor showers in august - queue tag! but im including it here because it's from the same poem my url is from (jane hirshfield's the falling) and i love talking about it and how i feel like it fits the f1 vibe. ("You turn towards meteor showers in August, wishing yourself like that: bright and burning wholly out.")
when i was at the scottish pub saturday there was a scottish guy in his 50s who i ended up talking to after the game who like. bought me a drink, asked if i wanted to go to a second bar (which i declined for f1 reasons and also bc i was unsure what exactly he was looking for but p sure i wasn’t down for it), whatever. anyways he was like “for a supposedly scottish pub this hasnt met my standards, do you have any other recs?” to which i suggested an irish pub that i’d seen a LOT of scotland fans at that week. anyways, went to lunch today at said pub to celebrate our intern’s last week. guess who was being interviewed for a tv special on our way out the door.
my manager kind of annoyed w Me that someone else put a meeting on my calendar to explore some research questions... girl i can’t control that other people see me as someone to collab with even though that’s not our ‘official channel’ for working with others
kink prompts landoscar + body worship PLEASEEEEE (I have been so obsessed with you kink prompts they're so fantastic please never stop)
for my kink prompts
notes/warnings: thank u so much! i hope you enjoy, this got really tender-hot lol. also includes some praise kink, went more than way than body worship in the end, I’m sorry idk what happened
24 — BODY WORSHIP — LANDOSCAR
Lando is soft. That’s something people don’t realise about him — or something they get wrong about him, at least. They’ll say it like it’s an insult; that there’s an inherent wrongness stemming from how free he is with his emotions. How much he cares. How much he wants.
It’s not a weakness.
Oscar knows that better than anyone.
Lando’s heart bleeds red over his sleeve and Oscar thinks that should make all of this easier, maybe, that he knows what Lando’s thinking, that he can make an educated guess as to Lando’s deepest desires no matter the circumstances — but it doesn’t. It never does.
Despite everything, Lando’s softness manages to feel harsh. It digs behind Oscar’s ribs, piercing his epidermis, scorching each and every one of his nerve endings until he feels raw.
From between his legs, Lando grins at him; teeth glinting and eyes warm.
“Hello,” he says.
Oscar wants to hit him, a little bit. Wants to roll his eyes, scoff at the silliness of it all.
“Hi,” he half-whispers back, instead.
It sounds too quiet; too careful. Immediately he regrets it, stomach rolling as he squirms against the mattress, discomfort obvious. Lando brushes a hand up his thigh to still him, soothing and gentle. Always fucking gentle.
Lando’s face cracks open and takes Oscar’s breath with it — smile smaller but somehow more real. Oscar feels like he’s looking at him through rose coloured glasses, everything hazy at the edges and subdued. He can feel the heat of Lando’s body, so thick it feels tangible, waves undulating around him, through him.
“You’re so hot, babe,” Lando presses his face into Oscar’s thigh, words muffled against the sensitive skin there. Oscar shivers, teeth flying into his lip to ground him even as he feels like he’s unravelling already beneath Lando’s touch.
“Lando,” he manages, embarrassment clouding his tone. He knows his cheeks are red, knows the colour is traversing the expanse of his neck, further still down his chest. He’s never been able to hide it.
It doesn’t feel like such a terrible thing, not with Lando marvelling at the sight. Mouthing along the hot skin of Oscar’s thigh, blood blooming beneath the surface even in these most intimate parts of Oscar.
“What?” Lando pulls back to flick his eyes up, catching Oscar’s eyes with his own. Unyielding, surety held there with no shame beneath. “You are.”
The squirmy feeling is back, dipping low under Oscar’s abdominal muscles. He barely resists the urge to let it take over, control the movement of his body; holding his own, a boat anchored at the harbor.
“Come here,” he murmurs instead of forcing the point. He knows how it’ll end — Lando saying it again, saying it over and over into the curve of Oscar’s neck until he relents, accepting the compliment through gritted teeth.
But Lando doesn’t resist. He exhales a puff of air against Oscar’s thigh, the skin prickling in its wake. Climbs his way up Oscar’s body until they’re face to face, passing breaths between them, close enough for their lips to touch but not quite.
“Gorgeous,” the sweet-sour of Lando’s breath fans across Oscar’s face, intoxicating.
“Lando.”
“No,” Lando shakes his head minutely. “Not shutting up.”
They know one another well now — too well, Oscar thinks, if they can pre-empt each other's thoughts and moves, so much certainty held in so few words.
He rolls his eyes and Lando laughs softly, knocking their foreheads together. Oscar feels white hot and cold, all at once; the sensation prickles along his skin, body arching up into Lando’s without consent. Like he can’t control it. Like they’re magnetised to be like this, bodies pressed from top to toe, the sharp bone of Lando’s hip digging into Oscar’s stomach.
And he doesn’t care. He wants to feel it, wants to feel all of him. Wants things he didn’t know he was ever capable of wanting.
Lando thumbs across the highest point of Oscar’s cheekbone, touch scorching, eyes like liquid. “So good for me.”
It’s unfair, the advantage he has. He knows that Oscar can’t resist, not like this.
Oscar swallows down a whine, stomach twisting a tornado of want and shame.
But Lando knows — his eyes harden at the edges, the tiniest furrow between his brows.
“No,” he tuts, digging his thumb into the hollow beneath Oscar’s eye, firm and grounding. “Don’t do that. Stay here,” he accentuates the point, trailing his other hand down Oscar’s side; fingers curling around his waist, possessive with it as he tugs Oscar closer, slipping his knee between Oscar’s legs. “With me.”
Oscar nods, doesn’t trust himself to speak. But it’s not enough, Lando staring him down, so he forces some liquid into his throat, swallowing around the lump.
“Okay.”
Lando mouths along Oscar’s cheekbone, following the path his thumb took. “My good boy.”
This time, Oscar bites back the shame that surfaces. He shudders, lets his legs fall open wider, accepting Lando into the space between them; breath catching on his teeth, a sound not held back.
“There you go,” Lando murmurs against his cheek. His hand gets between them, a thumb pressing to Oscar’s hole that has his body wracking with it.
He feels open already; lube dripping onto the sheet between them, into the crease of his arse. Lando likes to take his time. Likes to spend torturous minutes stretching Oscar open, usually when he’s on his front, his belly soft and pressed into the mattress. Tilting his hips up when Lando reaches a slick hand around, coaxing him into the position he wants him in.
The memory of it is hazy, even though it was only moments ago, ten at most. He feels himself clench, his body aching to take what Lando will give him.
His own blood rushes in his ears, flooding everything else out, and he’s so grateful for it; grateful that he can’t hear the bitten off sounds that he knows are leaving his lips, the pleas he’s sure to be making.
Lando groans in response, thumb dipping in, hooking around Oscar’s rim and tugging.
“Guh,” Oscar gasps, hands clutching ineffectively at the sheets.
“Always so good for me,” Lando sounds reverent, leaning back so that he can look down at Oscar and Oscar wants to die, wants to crawl into a hole but he can’t, he can’t —
“My good boy,” Lando says again.
And Oscar melts, boneless. Every one of his muscles finally relaxing, like sinking into a hot bath after a day on the race track. There’s an ache low in his back that feels good rather than bad, and then Lando’s taking his hand away and Oscar whimpers.
Christ.
He hates hearing himself, hates hearing how wounded he sounds at the loss.
But Lando shushes him, tone low and soothing and oh so gentle and then Oscar can feel the nudge of his cock. It wipes out everything else, the only point of focus suddenly; the air stripped from the room, Oscar’s thighs straining with the effort he’s taking to hold them apart.
Lando’s always been the more flexible of the two. But Oscar tries. Oscar thinks he’d split himself in two if Lando asked.
The press in is slow and torturous, inch by inch as Lando holds himself above Oscar with so much control. The lines of his face are held tight, fingers bullying Oscar’s hips with one hand, the other somehow suddenly entangled with Oscar’s, pressed to the mattress beside his head.
“Almost there,” Lando’s voice is a growl in Oscar’s ear. “You’re doing so well.”
Oscar can’t say anything — can’t do anything. He squeezes his eyes shut against the weight of it, all-encompassing and terrible. He knows when Lando’s bottomed out, the bump of his hips against Oscar’s arse — even before that he knows, because he’s fuller than he’s ever been, made new. Made for this.
A sob rises in his throat, cresting like a wave.
“Can’t believe I get this,” Lando’s murmuring into the side of Oscar’s throat. A drop of sweat falls from his head to Oscar’s face, lingering at the corner of his lip.
He flicks his tongue out to catch it, Lando moaning at the sight.
Oscar wants to laugh, a terrible, aching sound. He doesn’t know what Lando sees when he looks at Oscar, but lately he’s had his suspicions.
Because he knows what he sees when he looks at Lando. And maybe they’re not so different, in each other's eyes.
“Please,” his voice cracks.
Lando likes to take his time but he’s never cruel; always giving Oscar what he wants, what he needs. He knows, usually, what that is before Oscar can even think of it.
He pulls out slowly, rocking back in with force that has Oscar’s nails catching in the sheets, his chest pushed up towards the sky by the force of the arch of his back. Punching a noise of him, desperate and breathless.
“Take it so well, babe,” Lando’s voice shakes, a sign that he’s as affected as Oscar is and Oscar has never been more grateful to hear it now. To bear witness to it. “Wish you could see yourself — fucking perfect, Osc, so good for me.”
It’s agonising, the rock of Lando’s hips, the slow pull of each withdrawal, inch by inch so that Oscar can feel it all. Then the brutal push of it, the grind of his hips getting as deep as he can, relentlessly pounding against the spot within Oscar that has his tongue thick in his mouth, spit collecting at the corner of his mouth. Head devoid of all thought, the dizzying pleasure the only thing he can focus on even as Lando keeps saying these awful, beautiful things to him.
“Love your arse,” Lando groans, the muscles of his arms shaking. “Love your smile, your teeth — your perfect little cock,” he gets a hand around Oscar to punctuate his words, hand still slick from lube, sliding along his length with ease. “Love you.”
The wail comes up from nowhere, threatening to suffocate Oscar if he doesn’t release it into the wild. So he does, mouth open and eyes rolling back, the orgasm taking him by surprise and yet somehow expected all along. A part of him hates it, hates that Lando knows what to do and what to say, reads Oscar like an open book.
But mostly —
“Love you,” he gasps, sinking back into the mattress even as he feels Lando’s pace quicken, erratic, all about the end result and only hitting Oscar’s prostate every handful of thrusts now.
He digs his nails into the meat of Lando’s shoulders, pulling him down and forehead. Pressing their foreheads together, air thick and hot between them. Suffocating in the best way.
“Your turn,” he swallows a choked laugh. “Doing so well.”
Lando groans, biting his lip so hard that Oscar tastes metal when they kiss next, when Lando’s still pulsing inside of him, emptying himself, keeping Oscar full, as full as he can be. He wishes he could stay that way, plugged up full of Lando for days; weeks even.
“So fucking hot,” Lando looks at him through his lashes, face open and voice sleepy.
