rando prompt for landoscar if u want it - lando not remembering which room is his in the new motorhome, he ends up in oscar's and oscar walks in on him doin... smthn 🙂↕️
hi hello, thank you for the prompt! here you go!
landoscar / 1.5k words / post Monaco gp / explicit
Monaco has a different tone to it this year. It isn’t like Lando hasn’t been expecting it — the season’s been disappointment after disappointment save for Miami — but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. The knowledge of winning this same race just a year ago only blunts the blade so much; back to back wins here at Monaco would’ve been the dream, of course.
Instead, he doesn’t even get to finish the race.
The frustration of it all comes and goes in waves as he’s finally set free of his duties; a wry smile in front of the cameras and an interview he treats with as much levity as he can muster. This part he’s gotten better at. It’s taken a few years, and sometimes he still puts his foot in his mouth, but it doesn’t happen quite so often anymore. He knows most of the right words to say, in what order they should leave his mouth, with which inflection each should have.
And it helps, actually — joking about it, making a silly comment about being happy to be out of the race. It’s easier to believe when he says it out loud, earning himself a polite laugh from the reporters.
The race is almost over by the time he’s heading into his drivers room to freshen up, the last few moments of it playing out with a few surprises, though the winner is all but written in the stone since qualis the night before. Lando’s happy for Oscar — for making up three positions, for the p3 that might even be his if the FIA rules in favour of a penalty for Hadjar. There’s pity there, of course, for the potential heartbreak for the young Frenchman; but Lando’s always rooting for Oscar to succeed, even more so now after the way the last year panned out for them.
He figures he has time, and it’s completely unintentional when he barges through the door to Oscar’s drivers room instead of his own.
Without Oscar there, it takes a moment for the mistake to become clear. There’s the same set up — the same mirror on one side, the same too-small sofa, the same spare racing suits hanging in the open wardrobe. Except they aren’t the same at all; wider where Lando’s are narrower, smaller around the groin, emblazoned with an ‘81’ where there should be a ‘1’.
“Oh,” Lando says aloud, immediately feeling stupid for it.
There’s nobody here to see his blunder. All he has to do is back his way out of the room, open the door on the opposite side of the corridor.
But for some reason he feels glued to the spot, his eyes hungrily drinking in the things that Oscar doesn’t usually let anyone see. The mess of clothes tossed haphazardly in the corner; the half-drunk electrolyte drink sat on the table; the brush that’s probably only half heartedly been combed through his hair at best.
He takes a few tentative steps into the room, guiltily looking back towards the closed door, like he’s worried an alarm might sound. Intruder! Something is out of place here!
Nothing happens, obviously.
It buoys him, gives him the last push he needs to explore properly. There’s nothing interesting about the room in theory — the layout is a perfect mirror to his across the way. But it’s Oscar’s, and Lando has never spent much time in Oscar’s drivers rooms, so it’s altogether fascinating to him.
There’s an illicit nature to it, too; a feeling that sends a thrill up Lando’s spine, buzzing with electric energy.
He runs his fingertips along the cold, white plastic of the dressing table as he moves alongside it, inhaling the air that smells like chocolate and spearmint, a scent so inherently Oscar that he’s surprised it didn’t hit him as soon as he opened the door; that it took him so long to recognise this wasn’t his room.
Tossed over the back of the sofa is a hoodie, warm and soft. Lando can’t resist touching it, caressing the fleece-lined insides, and its pure animal nature that has him pressing it to his face. An instinct he can’t ignore. He’s breathing in deeply, that scent so much stronger woven into the threads of cloth than it is in the air.
Fuck, and it smells good. Oscar smells good.
Lando’s always known that — has commented on it in public, a moment he’s never likely to forget and will forever be mortified by. But he doesn’t usually get the opportunity to truly experience Oscar’s smell, not like this. A brush of his nose against Oscar’s throat when they clasp hands and bro-hug after a race; the faintest trace of it when they sit besides one another in meetings and debriefs.
It’d be too obvious if Lando purposely sought out chances to sniff Oscar, so he doesn’t. He’s not a weirdo.
This feels like a gift from god though. Like maybe he was meant to walk into the wrong room today. He’s aware of how crazy the thought is, even as he feels himself start to chub up where his dick is pinned uncomfortably to his thigh in his fireproofs, still not having had a chance to rid himself of them.
Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Lando casts a furtive glance back towards the door again; towards the corridor beyond. He can’t hear any movement no matter how hard he strains his ears, and he knows it’s dangerous, knows it’s plain stupid, but he’s reaching down — to adjust himself, only to adjust — and it feels ridiculously good, that rough tug of his own hand through a thin layer of material and —
Time seems to speed up.
Really, honestly, he has no idea how it happens — how he gets from standing there to sitting on the sofa with his dick out and his face buried in Oscar’s hoodie, but it does happen and it’s a little too late to worry about it all now.
“Fuck,” he moans breathily, voice half stifled by the fabric of the hoodie in his hands as he breathes in greedily, ravenous suddenly for it. He wants to commit the scent to memory until it’s the only scent profile he can remember; wants to get it bottled up in some laboratory somewhere so that he never has to go without it.
It’s fucked on a lot of different levels, really. Mostly though, he’s too turned on to care about any of it. He’ll psychoanalyse himself later, after he’s finished getting off to Oscar’s smell.
He treats himself roughly, tight and fast jerks of his hand, knowing distantly that time isn’t on his side. It doesn’t matter; his orgasm is building quickly, the molten gold feeling of it pooling at the base of his spine, his toes curling into the soles of his driving shoes, and oh god, he’s really doing this, he’s really going to come like this, in Oscar’s drivers room —
The door swings open on its hinges, banging into the wall next to it before shutting again, but it’s already too late. Oscar’s already inside.
“Lando?” he’s frowning.
“Oh god,” Lando groans, mortification settling in even as he shoots his load into his hand at the sound of his name falling from Oscar’s lips. “Shit.”
Oscar’s eyes are wide, flickering between Lando’s lap, his dick softening and glistening with cum; Lando’s face, post-orgasmic bliss giving way quickly to guilt; Lando’s hand, still clutching Oscar’s hoodie like a lifeline.
“Uh,” Oscar swallows. His cheeks are scarlet, balaclava lines still pressed into them.
“I thought this was my room,” Lando blurts out.
There’s silence for a moment, and then Oscar is squinting at him, seemingly more concerned about Lando’s words than his actions.
“Right,” he says slowly. “That’s my hoodie though, mate. And my racing suit,” he nods towards the wardrobe, arms folded across his chest and Lando could swear he’s smirking a little.
But he can’t — it makes no sense.
“Yeah,” Lando agrees, tongue heavy and head cotton-y. “Looks like it.”
Oscar hums. “Should’ve waited for me,” he nods towards Lando’s lap nonchalantly, with a pointed gaze at the hoodie. “Could’ve had the real thing.”
Lando thinks he must be dreaming; actually pinches himself through his fireproofs, and ouch, definitely awake.
“Anyway,” Oscar grabs the electrolyte drink off the table and makes his way to the door. “Only came back to grab this. Media duties.” He pauses just before he leaves, tongue wetting his lips. “Next time, make sure I’m here, yeah?”
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
janainaart
titsay
