thinking about rookie oscar watching lando bounce on his cock in reverse cowgirl for the first time ever in his driver’s room and coming way too quickly and only being able to say sorrysorrysorrysorry while lando is almost passing out from how turned on he is. um anyway. send post
Lyra, my beloved cat of 13 years, passed away this year on Father's Day. She's been by my side through very difficult times and was my little rock of steady and unrelenting love. I struggled a lot drawing this, and struggled a lot posting it, but I know I would've wanted to read a comic like this that validated my grief for her when I lost her.
Wherever you are, Lyra my little summer star, I love you always! Thank you for being the best thing in my life.
My darling baby boy passed away on tuesday and I am absolutely devastated. He was the most precious little soul to ever exist. George Fluffington, I will miss you forever. I love you.
thinking about audhd lando who struggles with object permanence completely forgetting about oscar's existence over long breaks, then when he finally sees oscar again after weeks without contact, he has the most intense moment of realization like "ohhhh fuck. that's why it felt like something was missing" and they pick up right where they left off
meanwhile autistic oscar spends the whole break hopelessly yearning, connecting everything back to lando. like "there's a golf thing happening, i wonder if lando is watching." it never crosses oscar's mind that he could literally like, send lando a text and talk to him
notes/warnings: thank u for this! hope you like it :) ft. oscar being an absolute Freak, lando matching said Freak, unrealistic depictions of the male refractory period lol, light d/s, mildly dubious consent but everyone is exactly where they want to be, trust.
7 - OVERSTIMULATION / FORCED ORGASMS - LANDOSCAR
Lando’s barely over the aftershocks of his first orgasm when Oscar suckles his oversensitive, spent head back into his mouth.
“Osc, fuck,” he whimpers, even as he feels his dick kick, a valiant effort to harden once more.
It’s too soon.
Oscar’s lips are loose around the tip, gently swirling his tongue around it. Nothing like a real blowjob, the tight vacuum of a grip he’d treated Lando to just moments ago. But it still feels like too much, a knife edge of pain-pleasure that has a sob rising high in Lando’s chest.
“Doing so well baby,” Oscar murmurs, not even bothering to pull back fully, words slurred softly around Lando. Each one seems to vibrate though him, cock twitching despite itself.
Oscar slides his palms up Lando’s aching thighs; massages his fingers into the soft skin where leg meets groin. Dips his tongue into the opening of the slack foreskin. “I know you can handle it. Always do, don’t you?”
Lando whimpers desperately. His fingers are curled so tightly into the pillow above his head that they’re starting to cramp already, but it’s a secondary distraction when compared to the attention Oscar is plying him with.
A broad swipe along the underside has his legs jerking, more pitiful sounds spilling from his lips. He doesn’t even try to stop them, not when he knows how much Oscar likes to hear him. Has to dig his fingers into the pillow even more, feeling the feathers inside bunching up in his grasp.
He has to keep his hands there. Oscar told him to, gave him a direct order, and he hasn’t said it’s okay yet for Lando to stop. It’s that simple, really. Even though it’s starting to burn. The ache in his upper arms from the positioning is deliciously tender; he’s been stretched out like this for the better part of an hour, Oscar taking him apart with his mouth painstakingly slowly.
Should’ve known that one wouldn’t be enough for him. That he’d want more from Lando.
It’s not a surprise when he feels his dick filling again, fat and ready for more. They’ve done this enough times now for him to know that Oscar is right; he can handle it. His body is desperate for it every time, knows its limits and then some — has been pushed beyond those on more than one occasion by now, the goal posts shifting further every time.
It’s a wicked kind of torture and Lando likes it so much it makes him sick sometimes.
Oscar likes it, too, though. Oscar likes it even more, Lando thinks, because his pleasure is twofold: there’s the taking Lando apart, having him begging and pathetic underneath him, and then there’s the other thing. The thing he’d been so embarrassed about at first, until Lando had convinced him it was fucking hot. Hottest thing he’d ever witnessed.
The way Oscar loses himself when he gives head; retreats into his own mind, almost becomes someone else. As desperate as Lando is, Oscar is too: would lie between Lando’s thighs with his cock in his mouth for hours at a time if he could, even long after Lando’s spent and soft and the chance of him getting hard again is a total impossibility.
Yeah, sometimes it feels like too much. More than Lando can handle, the amount that Oscar wants from him. But he offers it up every time anyway, hopeless to his desire to give Oscar whatever he needs.
“There you go,” Oscar’s looking at his newly hardened cock like it’s something beautiful, tongue flicking across his lip, an almost predatory gleam in his eye. “Such a good boy for me, babe.”
Lando’s weak to it, really. Can’t do anything but whimper and whine like a bitch under Oscar’s attention, head sinking deeper into that fuzzy feeling with every term of endearment spoken in Oscar’s voice. It’s embarrassing, how much it gets him there, something familiar and intense building in his gut already.
Too soon, yet he knows it’ll happen regardless.
The only warning he gets is a reminder. “Keep your arms up,” Oscar says, firm and tapping Lando’s side.
Then he’s sinking back down onto the rigid length, enveloping Lando in the excruciating wet heat of his perfect mouth once more.
It takes all of Lando’s effort not to drop his hands to Oscar’s head: to push him off or keep him there, he doesn’t know which. The muscles of his stomach clench fiercely, back arching from the bed, the sound he makes something that can only be described as a wail.
Every muscle on his body is on fire with the effort of being held taut. Beneath his head, he hears the snick of a thread in the pillow being torn, nails burrowing in enough to pierce fabric.
“Osc, Osc, Osc,” he chants, weak and breathy even to his own ears. He’s still hinging at the waist, shoulders almost curved over the shape of Oscar’s upper body. “I’m — I can’t —“
Oscar presses his thumbs into the indents of Lando’s obliques, holding him in place. Opens his throat even more, the smooth velvet of Lando sliding in until he feels the head hit the soft palate. Throat fluttering around him, strangled gagging that’s entirely for Lando’s benefit because Oscar takes the entire length of him so easily these days like it’s nothing more than muscle memory, but he knows the white hot jolt of possessive satisfaction Lando feels when Oscar chokes on it a little and —
That’s all it takes before Lando’s spilling again — it’s nowhere near as much as the first time, but Oscar still moans gratefully around him, guzzling his release down like it’s ambrosia sent directly from the gods.
He loves it so much. Lando forgets, somehow, how much Oscar fucking loves this.
“God,” Lando whines eventually, arms still overhead but grip relaxing now. His thighs tighten, legs trying desperately to close, but Oscar stays put between them, an immovable object.
“So good,” he whispers into the sensitive skin of Lando’s inner thigh, lips brushing against the smoothness there. “So good for me.”
Lando’s body is trembling when he falls back against the mattress, aftershocks rolling over him in waves. His muscles spasm with it; knows he’ll be aching to his bones come tomorrow, the kind of deep, intense soreness he only ever gets after a session like this with Oscar. It’s not dissimilar from the day after a race: more pleasant, just as marrow-deep. He shivers at the thought.
It’s only a few moments before he feels Oscar mouthing his way up his thighs, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on every inch of bare skin. Takes his time to pay attention to both until Lando’s wriggling beneath him, everything feeling intense and overwhelming again.
He noses at Lando’s perineum, just beneath where his balls lie low and empty. Lando feels Oscar’s deep inhale as much as he hears it, shame curling in his navel desire the hot knife of arousal that cuts through it.
He crooks his knee, digging it into Oscar’s side. Stupidly fond when he says on a sigh, “weirdo.”
Oscar just groans, voice abused and hoarse. “Smell so good. Fuck.”
Lando squirms, jolting at the press of Oscar’s nose down there, so close and yet so far. He always feels — off kilter about it. Not as shocked as the first time when Oscar had all but buried his face in Lando’s balls, sniffing in a way that had Lando feel self conscious. He still feels that way now, but it’s vague, usually. Easily chased away by the darkness in Oscar’s eyes whenever he eventually stops nuzzling, meets Lando’s gaze and looks as out of it as Lando himself feels.
Oscar grips both cheeks in his hands, spreading him apart suddenly, Lando wheezing at the sensation. There’s an exhalation of air against where he’s newly exploded, eliciting a full body tremor: vibration of strong it almost hurts this time around.
“Osc,” he pants, eyes panic-stricken as he looks down at Oscar’s head between his legs. “Osc, no, I can’t —“
“One more,” Oscar says and Lando doesn’t know which one of them sounds more desperate, which of them is pleading the most. “Just one more, Lando, I know you can — wanna be good for me, yeah, baby?”
Lando keens, back arching, tendons flexing along his arms. But he nods, jerky and frantic, the sharp thrill of it fizzing through his veins, half terror and half exhilaration.
He always wants to be good, always wants to give Oscar what he needs.
Oscar is on him in an instant, mouth slick and torrid against the tight muscle. Face all but buried between the curves of Lando’s arse, hands still spreading him open, the grip of them strong and stable. Pinning Lando in place, leaving him with no choice but to stay put. His body fights against it anyway, just like he’s sure Oscar had known it would: can’t tell whether he wants to writhe away from Oscar’s tongue or force himself further into his face.
Somewhere in between, heaven and hell.
Lando isn’t even hard, doesn’t think he could possibly get it up again. But he still feels like he could come again: like he will come again, just from this. Oscar’s licking stripes across his hole, sloppy and unashamed with it — Lando can feel the spit lathering up his skin, the wetness of Oscar’s chin. Everything about it is filthy, and he loves it — more when he can hear the loud moans Oscar emits against him, falling out like he can’t stop them. Like he’s exactly where he wants to be.
Because he is. Lando knows that by now but it still manages to shock him.
There’s a nip of teeth around the rim. Lando hollers about it, everything feeling too sensitive. It’s almost unbearable. He has to uncurl his fists, bracing himself across the headboard as well; doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop himself from reaching down to push or pull at Oscar otherwise.
“Oh shit, Osc,” he sobs, vision blurred. Tears unspent but he doubts they’ll stay that way for long. “Please — hng — too much, I can’t, fuck —“
Oscar just hums against him. Starts dipping the tip of his tongue past the initial resistance. Lando’s vaguely aware of the wailing sob he lets out, the crunch of the headboard beneath his hands, the salt dripping down his cheeks just as he’d predicted. Everything fades away until all he can zero in on is this: Oscar between his legs, Oscar’s tongue fucking him relentlessly, Oscar’s fingers bruising into the flesh of his arse.
One of those hands moves finally, just to get under Lando’s thigh. Oscar pushes and pulls until he’s able to maneuver the limb where he wants it — over his shoulder, evidentially, the position somehow more exposing. Lando can feel himself relax around the intrusion of Oscar’s mouth, even as every inch of him strains. It’s an almost sobering thought, like his body is at war with itself. Unsure of what it wants. What he needs.
Oscar presses a sucking kiss against him and Lando’s back bows, hips lifting off the bed. He feels like he’s floating, anchored to earth only by Oscar’s hands and lips.
Against his stomach, his still-soft dick spurts pitifully, the release clear and watery. He feels boneless when he sinks back down, Oscar finally withdrawing. He’s quick to climb up Lando’s body, pressing their lips together, tracing gentle patterns along his quivering sides. It can hardly be called a kiss with Lando too out of it to really participate: he lets Oscar lick into his mouth, moaning weakly at the sweat-salt-musk taste of himself on his tongue, lips mostly uncooperative.
Oscar doesn’t seem to mind. He never does, content with this lax, empty-headed version of Lando he gets after they do this. Proud of it, Lando thinks, that he gets to be the one to do it. Like anyone else ever could.
“So good,” Oscar murmurs against his lips, reaching up to untangle Lando’s fingers from the headboard, kneading into the stretched muscles of his arms. “Such a perfect boy. My perfect boy.”
It settles warm and pleasant somewhere beneath Lando’s rib cage. All he can do is blink hazily up at Oscar and whine his agreement as he swipes tenderly at the tears stains on Lando’s cheeks.
running, sprinting, out of breath coming from your kink prompt post
landoscar or nortrell (or all three 👀) somnophilia plssss 🤲
surely I’ll return with more yet, that one was just urgent lol
also love the kink prompt idea! <3
for my kink prompts
notes/warnings: hello rat my beloved. blacked out writing this insanity, hope u enjoy…….. extremely dub con! both parties are very into it but like. dub con by its very nature. the kink is incredibly under negotiated lol
16 - SOMNOPHILIA - NORTRELL
Like most things between them, it starts off as a joke and ends up somewhere in the middle of ‘not funny at all’ and ‘actually kind of fucked up’.
Like most things between them, it starts off as a joke and ends up somewhere in the middle of ‘not funny at all’ and ‘actually kind of fucked up’.
Max can’t remember how it began, not really. He’d made one half-arsed, off the cuff comment about Lando not even being able to shut his mouth when he was sleeping, and it had escalated from there.
“I don’t sleep with my mouth open,” Lando had protested, his voice taking on that whiny edge that Max knew meant he was ten seconds away from trying to kick him in the balls. Max reached a discreet hand down between his legs instinctively. “I’m not a mouth breather.”
“You do. You are,” Max said absently, too busy trying to catch Lando by the ankle before he made contact. “S’not a big deal, Bob. Cute, innit?” Instantly he wanted to take it back. He didn’t mean it like that — except he didn’t not mean it like that, either. Lando was kind of adorable when he slept, his mouth popped open and wide, features slack in rest. Cute was the only word for it. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
Lando pouted, but he’d finally given up on trying to get at Max’s balls, at least. “Don’t believe you. How come nobody’s said anything before?”
“‘Cause it’s not a big deal,” Max repeated, rolling his eyes. He still had Lando’s foot trapped in his hand, digging his thumb gently into the socked arch of it. “I was just making a joke, Bob. Relax, yeah?”
Lando had still grumbled, still denied the truth of his open-mouthed sleeping habits, but it had been half-hearted at best; too busy settling back into his seat, trying and failing not to look like he was enjoying the impromptu foot massage too much. Max had taken it as a win, filed the faux argument away in the back of his mind for future use, and the conversation had moved on to the organisation of their next stream together easily.
He’d only remembered the whole thing weeks later, when he was staying with Lando in Monaco for a few days.
They’d been golfing all day beneath the heat of the summer sun, both sweat-drenched and equally determined to win. Max had won in the end, because he was a better golfer than Lando even if the other would never admit it. Later, after a few too many beers and with pasta settling in their stomachs, they’d been lounging on the sofa in Lando’s apartment, too full and lazy to pay any real attention to the Netflix series playing out on the wide screen.
Lando had fallen asleep twenty minutes into the first episode, splayed across the sofa with his legs stretched to one side and his head resting on Max’s shoulder. The positioning was nothing new; Max was careful with his movements so as not to jostle him, whilst simultaneously ensuring Lando’s neck wasn’t at an odd angle. From experience, Max knew the amount of bitching there’d be the next day was never worth it.
He’d watched a few episodes mindlessly like that. But the next time he’d hazarded a look down, Lando’s face was turned up towards him, mouth soft and open. Max had only intended to snap a photo, obtaining evidence that he could show Lando to prove the point.
He really didn’t know what he was thinking when he slipped his thumb past Lando’s lips, into the wet heat behind.
With his phone camera, he’d taken a few photos. His thumb rested lightly on Lando’s lower lip; pressed into the hollow of his cheek; Lando’s tongue curled around the tip, chasing salt from the skin. The whole pretty picture was absurdly obscene. With his eyes closed, long lashes resting on the tops of his cheeks, the creases of his face soft and flat — he looked peaceful, like that, with Max’s thumb in his mouth.
The next day, Max had shown Lando the first photo. Just the one, hardly incriminating at all, his thumb barely in Lando’s mouth yet. Made a big deal about his open lips, how he hadn’t even flinched.
“Honestly, mate, I think you could sleep through anything,” he’d said without really thinking it through. “Reckon I could’ve got my whole hand in there if I tried.”
Lando had gotten all red in the face, like he usually did when he was irritated with Max and trying to figure out how best to turn the tide in the other direction. Except he didn’t seem all that annoyed. He’d looked at Max with a sharpness around his eyes, blue-green even more striking against the flush of his skin.
“Yeah, you reckon?” He’d asked lightly, tone almost musical. “Maybe you should. Try. Next time.”
Then he’d left Max there choking on his own tongue, Lando laughing his entire way down the hall. The twat.
The more Max has turned it around in his head, the more it sounded like a challenge. Naturally, he’d risen to it. Added an extra digit each time, saliva coating each one, dripping down into his palm. It was almost clinical at first, seeing how much Lando could take when he was at rest. How much he seemed to like it, even in sleep; opening up further for it, making these soft little sounds, tonguing the intrusions like second nature.
Max had built his way up to the fist. Lando had taken it beautifully, in the end. Jaw popping just slightly, enough so that Max was sure Lando would wake — but he hadn’t, had just kept breathing through it, teeth barely grazing skin, a whistle tone around the sight of Max’s entire hand in his mouth.
It was erotic, Max half hard in his joggers, painfully aware of how fucked the whole thing was. But he couldn’t really bring himself to feel bad about it; not when he’d shown Lando the photos, had seen that high flush on his cheekbones, the obvious interest in his breathy voice when he’d asked Max what it had felt like. If he’d been good.
It should have ended there. Max is distinctly aware of this. It doesn’t stop him from standing over the arm of the couch, Lando’s head tilted like an offering, lips parted almost humorously wide. It’s not funny, though, not really. Now when Max is sporting a chub and naked from the waist down, wondering whether he’s officially mad; whether he’s really going to go through with this.
Already knows he is. With Lando looking like that, positioned like he’s waiting for it, like he’s ready for it. It’d be a shame not to, wouldn’t it? For both of them. Max is only human.
Even with the way Lando’s positioned, it’s not as easy as he expects it to be. He has to bend his knees slightly to line up, hips tilted forward so he can start to feed his dick between Lando’s lips. It’s a little dry at first, until the intrusion has Lando’s mouth filling automatically with saliva, slicking the way for the rest of Max’s length. He takes his time, careful with it; doesn’t want Lando to wake up, at least not yet. It’s pain-staking, the way he has to pause after each inch, eyes tracking the rise and fall of Lando’s chest, the way he switches to breathing through his nose like he’s been expecting this somehow.
Max can feel himself begin to firm up properly in the heat of Lando’s mouth. It’s not even a blowjob, not really. Lando isn’t doing anything and his lips are lax around Max so there’s no seal. But something about it has Max agonisingly hard anyway; the wrongness of the situation settling into pure arousal in his gut, the edge of shame he feels adding to the molten heat already building there.
Lando shifts at the same time as the spongy head of Max’s dick touches the back of his throat, and he’s momentarily frozen, hands reflexively coming to Lando’s head. He stops them just before they land, hovering awkwardly. It’s tense for a second, Lando making a noise between a moan and a sigh, but. He doesn’t rouse.
In Max’s chest, his heart beats a tachycardic rhythm, the pounding of it jackhammering against bone and tissue. His dick twitches, lips parting on a breathy noise.
After a moment, he starts to — not panic, exactly. But he doesn’t know what his endgame is here. He can’t get off like this, with his dick just kind of — resting in Lando’s mouth. At the same time, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life. He thinks about it — can only imagine the picture they’re painting right now, the view someone would have if they entered the room. Decides the best course of action is to take the photo, just like usual, and then escape to the spare room where he can jerk off until his balls are empty and shrivelled.
He forgets, in the dizzying insanity of the situation, to check that the flash is off on his camera.
It feels like time slows down; the burst of light illuminating the room, bathing Lando’s face in harsh white; the flicker of his eyelids; the moment they open, wide and alarmed as they meet Max’s gaze. Concerningly, it does nothing to flag his erection; if anything, it’s the opposite.
Then that fear gives way into a haziness that has Max swallowing audibly, throat clicking. He opens his mouth to say something — anything, honestly — but can only manage to moan when Lando seals his lips around the velvet hardness, cheeks hollow and throat relaxing to take Max down deeper. The angle makes it easy for him to slide in, hand dropping to Lando’s curls in surprise.
“Fu-ck, Bob,” he hiccups through the shock, groaning guttural when Lando hums around him. “That’s so hot.”
The sparks at the base of his spine intensify, a stark reminder of how long he isn’t going to last here. He curls his fingers in Lando’s hair, tugging as a warning, but Lando just doubles down; sucks harder, one hand reaching up over his head to dig into Max’s thigh above him, muscle tense in his grasp.
Max comes with a gasp, this deep, shuddering thing that has him whiting out for a moment; spilling hot and long down Lando’s throat.
When he withdraws, Lando is licking his lips, eyes piercing even through the cloudiness. “That’s one way to wake me up,” he quips, rolling his eyes like it’s normal. The roughness of his voice has Max’s stomach clenching, legs shaky as he props himself up against the arm of the couch.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, a little winded, hand brushing through Lando’s hair softer now. “That was —“ he trails off, unable to find the word.
“Hot. Mind-blowing,” Lando offers through a grin. “Fucked up?”
He’s not wrong, is the thing. Max can only nod dumbly, his laughing breathless.
Pushing himself up to a seated position, Lando takes one look at him over the edge of the sofa, grin turning devilish. “Hope you got a good pic, at least.”
notes/warnings: this is maybe a little rancidtender!!! mostly tender i think but?? anyway. dub con by nature but very consensual. first carlando, hope i have done them justice for u <333 wrote this one so quickly actually like whew i was INSPIRED
14 - WINNER’S ROOM - CARLANDO
“You came,” Lando says and he sounds a little breathless with it. “I didn’t — I wasn’t sure if you would.”
He’s flushed a lovely shade of golden rose, those unruly curls that Carlos knows so well already half in disarray. Eyed slightly rimmed in red, drying rose water in the air even though he’s clearly tried to tidy up a little; racing suit disposed of, a heady mix of deodorant and cologne just bordering on overpowering. Lando is all wide-eyed jubilation, the jut of his chin still managing to look the edge of arrogant even with the disbelieving energy that simmers around him.
He looks — young. If Carlos squints, he can still picture Lando at nineteen, following him like a lap dog, begging for attention and treats.
He doesn’t look like a champion, not really. But that will come in time, Carlos thinks.
“I did not have much of a choice, no?” Carlos quirks his lips to show that he doesn’t mean it, not really. “Though I must admit, I am surprised. I did not expect…” he trails off, gestures around the room.
Lando’s flush deepens. He looks away. “Yeah? Why’s that?” Aims for confidence but doesn’t quite hit the mark.
It tugs at something in Carlos’s chest that he’d maybe convinced himself was dormant. “It has been a while,” he says lightly. “I thought maybe you had someone else.”
The last time — he remembers it, of course, because it was here. Abu Dhabi, almost a year to the date. It feels like a cruel twist of deja vu, to be another turn around the sun and yet back to the same place as they began. The room is the same. The conditions are the same. Their roles are the same.
The only thing that’s different is them.
“Yeah, no,” Lando’s laugh is right and a little sour. The smile he forces is more of a grimace. “I don’t — it’s — anyway.” Swallowing, clicking his throat. “Wanted you, didn’t I?”
Carlos wants to believe him. He wants to believe him so much that he’s willing to accept it here and now at face value.
“Yes,” he agrees. And then: “so, you have me. What are you wanting to do with me?”
The words have the same instantaneous effect of a lit match to gasoline. Lando bounds across the room in long strides until he’s in front of Carlos, until he can get those impressively large hands on either side of Carlos’s face, forcing his head down for their lips to meet. It’s messy and inelegant. It reeks of desperation, the way Lando licks into his mouth like a starved man, barely gives Carlos a moment to remember to kiss back. He lets Lando have it, like this. Let's take the control he so clearly needs right now, lets him tilt Carlos’s head this way and that until he finds the angle he wants, until he’s mapped every area of Carlos’s mouth like it’s new found land and not a place he’s simply forgotten.
Before, it was never like this. The urgency. How Lando’s fingers dig almost bruisingly into Carlos’s cheek and jaw, like he’s afraid he might disappear if Lando doesn’t hold on tight.
It is funny, Carlos thinks. That’s how he used to feel.
Lando pulls back, beautiful and breathless, “I want to suck you off.”
Carlos opens his mouth to reply — to say something like this is supposed to be about you, Landito or I will do you, come here but there’s something resolute in Lando’s eyes. The blue-green gaze is intense enough to burn a hole through Carlos’s heart. Lando holds his jaw tight, like he’s waiting for the refusal, expecting it, and — Carlos knows better, in the end.
He brushes Lando’s curls back, letting his fingers tangle the way he knows Lando likes. “Yes,” he says. “Whatever you want, campeón.”
Beneath his hands Lando’s body shudders at the drop of the word, a breath hitching loudly in his throat. He already has Carlos’s t-shirt bunched between his fingers; the grip only tightening, fabric stretching unforgivably. Carlos leans down to kiss Lando again, softer this time. He uses the hand on Lando’s waist to spin him, satisfaction pooling in his stomach when Lando goes easily, turning like it was his choice all along.
Carlos takes the opportunity to lead them to the plush, gaudy golden sofa. Sets a guiding hand on the small of Lando’s lower back, and then, after, on his shoulder. Enjoying the way Lando’s knees almost buckle immediately, how eager he is to drop to them, how lovely.
“You have missed this,” Carlos observes. Careful to make it sound casual when it’s anything but; when it stokes something deep at the base of his spine. I have missed this, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue. Some semblance of control must be kept here, at least.
Despite it, Lando just whimpers and nods, hands already creeping up Carlos’s thighs, across the fabric of his trousers. “So much,” he whines breathily, a familiar haziness clouding his eyes. “You have no idea, Carlos.”
Because you haven’t told me, Carlos wants to say, firm and a little harsh with it. Because we stopped and I thought that was what you wanted. Because we stopped and I still think that is what you want.
But he can’t. He won’t. This is Lando’s night. Lando’s night to be adored, just as he always craves. Carlos can give him that at least.
“So beautiful,” he catches Lando’s jaw in his hand, caresses the skin there, fingers catching where it’s still sticky with spilt rose water. “So good, Lando. My campeón.”
It’s a little cruel, perhaps, when he knows so well what that will do to Lando.
Powerless against the praise, against the ownership, Lando’s desperation is inflamed. His fingers scramble clumsily to unbutton Carlos’s trousers, graceless as he pulls them down. It is almost amusing to Carlos; except he’s impossibly hard now, wants nothing more than to let Lando get on with it. Stil, he takes his time — lifts his hips to help Lando remove his clothing, shushing the pathetic little moans he makes every time, caressing along every part of Lando’s face he can touch.
As soon as Carlos is exposed, Lando moves as though to duck his head, mouth already popping open. But Carlos catches his jaw again, tutting admonishingly. “Careful. You know how you get when you are, ah — eager, yes?”
Countless times he’d borne witness to Lando’s bitching and moaning about a bruised soft palette afterwards. It used to be enough to get him hard again, the idea of Lando being marked inside by him where nobody would know.
Now, he’s only thinking about what Lando wants; what he deserves.
He’s stubborn at the best of times, but Lando simply nods like he understands the wordless instruction, a glint of something cutting through the dazed nature of his gaze.
It’s enough for Carlos.
Lando moves in slower this time; suckles at the head of Carlos’s cock immediately but doesn’t try to take it any further just yet. His eyes track Carlos’s the entire time as he pokes the tip of his tongue into the slit, emitting a sound that goes straight to Carlos’s groin. It’s difficult to control himself with Lando looking at him like that, when all Carlos wants to do is shove Lando’s head down, down until his dick is hitting the back of his throat.
Being with Lando was always a lesson in patience. Carlos is pleased to know that some things never change.
Eventually, Lando gets bored of playing with him, sinking himself lower, inch by inch. He gets halfway down and pauses there for a few dips, large hand easily encompassing the rest. It’s almost torturous, the pace. But Carlos has always enjoyed the torment.
“You are so good at this still,” he muses, unable to stop himself. “You are getting a lot of practice, eh?”
It shouldn’t be the thing that has Lando suddenly sinking lower, gagging and drooling around his cock. But it is. Carlos feels the moan reverberate around him, has to release a groan of his own. Gets his hand in Lando’s hair and keeps him down, just the way Lando has always liked it. There’s spit dripping down the length of Carlos, out of the stretched corners of Lando’s pillowed lips. When he releases his grip and lets Lando back up, a line of it connects them still.
“Fuck my mouth,” Lando demands. No, begs. Carlos isn’t sure which. “Please, Carlos, I want it.” His voice already sounds like he’s swallowed razor blades, hoarse and guttural.
Carlos wets his lip. “Whatever you want.” As though this is a prize for Lando still, and not a gift for Carlos. Maybe it is — there’s something about the way Lando’s pupils blow imperceptibly that has Carlos second guessing himself.
But then Lando’s back on him, taking him in his entirety, the velvet of his throat fluttering deliciously around Carlos’s dick. He uses the hand already on Lando’s head to set up a pace, tugging and pushing however he sees fit, Lando so willing to be puppeteered for Carlos’s pleasure.
Carlos feels the hot splash of tears before he sees them, eyes screwed shut and head tilted back as he chases the pressure with its nucleus at his core. The wetness has him back in the moment, own eyes widening when he takes in the large, bulbous tears streaming down Lando’s cheeks; Carlos moves his hand, hips faltering but Lando shakes his head — as best he can with an occupied mouth — digs his own fingers into Carlos’s thighs like he wants to keep him there.
“Cariño,” Carlos gasps before he can think better of it. His hips thirst jerkily in time with the movement of Lando’s head, his mouth impossibly hot. His throat seems to get tighter with every motion, like it is being remade to be perfect for Carlos. “You are perfect, a dream for me. Taking my cock so well, always so good for me. You are going to swallow, yes? Keep me in your stomach, take a part of me with you.” He knows he is rambling incessantly now, any grasp of control he has lost, the way it always eventually is around Lando.
Lando whines, high and keening at his words. Grazes his teeth accidentally along one side of Carlos’s dick, and it’s enough — his whole body tenses as he comes down Lando’s throat, the pressure finally releasing, leaving him lax and boneless against the couch. Lando takes it all, drinks it down greedily like it’s the elixir of life, looking at Carlos like he’s just granted his every wish, and Carlos really has no choice but to drag him up by his collar and press their lips together, filthy and slick.
There’s a power in being chosen, Carlos thinks. Everyone assumes it’s only the winner that has any at all. It’s never felt like that to him, not when it’s Lando.
KINK PROMPT: plushophilia (could + failed orgasm to that potentially 👀) with Jendo, Landoscar or whichever pairing you feel works with that 🫡
for my kink prompts
notes/warnings: ellie. i need u to know this is the most insane thing i have ever written and i can’t believe i have somehow written almost 2k of it. and i’m thankful to u (i think). i hope this is at least a little bit of what u had in mind. includes: horny, hard up lando, dom/sub dynamics, some humiliation, and a ruined orgasm lol
Lando is downright miserable. And horny; unbearably so. That’s the whole reason he’s so miserable in the first place, after all.
It’s been — fuck, he doesn’t even know anymore. Can’t really remember the last time he got to come. The memory of it is hazy, unsubstantiated. Feels like a fever dream. It’s not like he hasn’t tried to remember, to bring it back into focus; he’s been trying for weeks, thinking maybe if he could picture it, if he could remind himself how it felt, that it would — help, somehow. Stave off the intensity of the itching underneath his skin, this all encompassing irritation that makes him want to claw his way out.
But it doesn’t work. Probably because it’s been so long that his last orgasm feels like something that he imagined. Something that didn’t even happen. Which sounds fucking crazy, he’s not stupid. He’s been wanking ever since he became aware of his own dick like that, has had countless orgasms over the years, knows that he’s come, that he can come. But this is different, isn’t it?
He’s not allowed to wank.
Sometimes, when he gets really desperate about it, when he’s alone late at night, legs restless and cock hard and heavy between them, when there’s molten lava pooling in his stomach just at the mere suggestion of the fabric of his boxers tugging lightly across the tip, when he thinks he might actually die if he doesn’t get to come rightfuckingnow —
Sometimes, he thinks about it. About saying fuck it. About getting one of his huge hands around himself, hot and strangling. It would only take a few jerks, he knows. He’s so hard up for it these days he thinks a strong wind could tip him over the edge, so a hand — even just his own — God, it’d be so fucking easy, so quick. And it’s like — he wouldn’t know, would he? Not unless Lando told him, which would be pretty stupid even by his standards.
But he can’t. He can’t bring himself to do it. It feels like — cheating. Like failing. Lando doesn’t want to do either of those things.
Tonight is the worst he’s felt in a long while, though.
The car’s — not shit, exactly, but it’s not fucking great either, and he can only pretend not to care about that for so long. Free practice went tits up both times around, he feels like he’s barely gotten wheels on the track this entire time because he hasn’t and he’s been half-chubbed up in his fucking racing suit all weekend. The eyes on him should be a deterrent, should do something to help him flag, but they never do; they make it worse. Lando’s always been a little messed up like that.
Bad enough that he knows all of that.
And it’s that thought, really, that pushes him into the pool of temptation. It’s either sink or swim, then, and Lando’s tired of fucking swimming.
It’s not against the rules, he tells himself, if he doesn’t actually touch himself. He didn’t specifically say Lando couldn’t come, not really. It was always no touching yourself. No wanking. Maybe the not coming thing was unspoken, but he’s too desperate to let himself be bridled by rules that might not even exist.
He’s not doing anything wrong.
The voice in the back of his mind knows he’s lying to himself. Luckily, Lando’s practiced enough by now at shoving that voice into a box, kicking it to the curb.
Head clouded by pure lust, it takes him a moment to clear the haze for long enough to make a plan. No touching. No touching. It’s easier said than done; he doesn’t think he’s ever gotten off without touching himself, not unless someone else is doing it for him and that — that’s definitely not an option. That’s one rule Lando won’t push or bend or break. Not ever.
He casts his eyes around the room a few times, gaze finally landing on — and fuck, it would be — it’s categorically wrong. There’s nothing right or normal about it, but his dick is straining painfully against his boxers and he’s pathetic enough to let that win. He ignores the sick, slick heat that buzzes along his spine at the thought of doing it, tells himself it’s not because of the medium he’s chosen, it’s just because his body knows, it knows he’s going to let it come and it’s so ready, it’s priming for it.
The cuddly toy is lurid pink and ostentatious, because of course it is. He can barely remember where he got it from — passed over the barrier at the track by a fan whose face was immediately lost in the crowd — or why he even kept it. He doesn’t usually, can’t keep everything people give him, especially not all the plush stuffed animals that he could fill a room with if he did.
Another shiver careeners down his spine when the word fate enters his mind, shocking enough that he laughs; this hiccuping, delirious little thing. Quiet but not quiet enough when it’s only him and the emptiness of the hotel room.
“Jesus,” he mutters to himself as he clasps the toy in his hand, fingers clenching around its centre. It’s some sort of bear he thinks, though obviously not realistic. Pink bears don’t exist. He knows that. Still, looking at those plastic, beady eyes gives him pause. For all of five seconds he really thinks about it, the madness he’s considering, and then his dick kicks in his boxers and that’s the end of that, really.
Still. He places the toy face down on the bed. He’s not a monster.
His fingers shake as he clambers out of his boxers, wincing when his cock slaps up against his stomach. Even that is enough to have his thighs trembling, so fucking sensitive, a whine high and pleading in his throat that makes him grateful he’s alone.
It takes him a moment to position himself. Because he hasn’t actually done this before, that would be — crazy. This is crazy. The fact he hasn’t come in a month is crazier though, and more than damning. Nail in the coffin when he finally remembers how long it’s been. He drags himself onto the bed, legs trembling as he holds himself up over the toy, settles it between his thighs, and then — tilts his hips down, tentative, slow, and —
It’s like an electric shock, the way his whole body shudders at that first brush of velvet, rigid skin against soft fur.
He loses himself in it in an instant. Can’t stop himself from thrusting his hips like he’s fucking it, humping this stupid pink toy, one hand on its head to hold it in place, the other twisted into the bed sheets. It’s awful. It feels magic. Each slide of plush fabric against his cock is pure heaven and hell, so sensitive that it’s on the edge of painful. He’s leaking profusely, can feel it spilling from the tip, over the sides of his dick; slicking the way of every trust of his hips, ruining the poor stuffed animal beneath him. He feels the material of it get increasingly more knotted and grubby with each motion; can’t bring himself to care enough to stop, not when the pressure in his gut is building so, so quickly, that he knows — he knows it won’t be long, he just needs —
The door of the hotel rooms slams shut. The sound echoes; Lando’s body tensing, a high pitched gasp emitting from his chest, shocked and boarding on fearful.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here, then?”
He sounds like a cartoony villain from the sort of soapy drama Lando’s mum likes to watch on weeknights. And yet, Lando’s whimpering immediately, eyes squeezing shut, hips stopping suddenly. Not even gyrating even though he’s close, so close, it would only take a little more but —
“Lando.” Jenson says, and Lando knows he’s well and truly caught. Can’t do anything but go with it too easily when he feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him onto his back on the bed, bear discarded to the side. “Look at me.”
Lando whimpers again, shakes his head, eyes screwed so tight now he can see little dots all across the backs of his eyelids.
“Lando.”
And he can’t, he can’t, but he has to. Blinks his eyes open, vision watery as he finally gets a look at Jenson’s face, and he looks — gorgeous, obviously, Lando’s dick giving out a hopeful little spurt of pre-cum that makes his breath catch. Jenson doesn’t look mad, is the thing. He’s smiling, even.
It’s not his nice smile, though.
He reaches down and Lando feels himself move instinctively up towards his hand, but Jensen bypasses him completely; pulls back with the disgusting toy in his grasp, lips quirked in amusement as he looks down on it. “Fucking hell, Lando. Desperate much?” He shakes the toy at him, face forward so it’s beady eyes stare directly into Lando’s once more and he feels sick to his stomach and still fucking hard.
Jenson throws the toy back at him, Lando’s reflexes kicking in as he grabs it out of thin air. He looks at Jenson questioningly, can’t bring himself to use his words yet. Doesn’t know what he’ll say. He probably can’t embarrass himself more than this, really, but Lando’s really great at proving people wrong, including himself, so. Best not to take the risk.
Jenson lifts his chin at the toy. “Go on then. Don’t let me interrupt.” He smiles something wolfish. “Finish what you started. This way around this time.”
“Wha—“ Lando starts, stupid with it. He looks between Jenson and the toy, opens his mouth to protect weakly. “No, I — I wasn’t, I just —“
“Do you think I’m stupid, Lando?” Jenson raises his brow. All good natured, conversational. Then he leans forward, tongue wetting his lip. “Finish. What. You. Started.”
It’s a tone that leaves no room for argument.
It’s a tone that sends champagne fizzing throughout Lando’s bloodstream.
He moans, “Jesus, fuck,”; pushes the toy down to his groin and starts fucking up without abandon, unable to hold back now. He can feel his balls tightening up, can feel that pressure in his stomach building again, simmering into something more powerful. Too out of his head to be embarrassed by the clinical look in Jenson’s eyes as he watches him get off on a cuddly fucking toy, too close to care that all of that is just making him harder and hornier.
“Oh, oh,” he whines, breath hitching, hips faltering as he starts to come and —
The sound of the slap hits him before the slap itself, somehow. The way it sounds, sharp and violent. And then he feels it, the shock in his testicles; his back bowing and stomach clenching through it, distantly recognising that he’s still coming but he can’t — he can’t feel it, can only focus on the sting in his balls, the keenness of the pain.
It leaves him winded when he falls back on the bed; he knows his face is doing something stupid, mouth slack and eyes wide so fucking blurred that he knows he’s going to cry but can’t stop it, trying to blink the tears away as he gazes up at Jenson in brainless shock.
And Jenson — Jenson is already unbuckling his belt, mouth a thin, pressed line when he says, “I’m going to fuck you now, just like you want, baby, but you don’t get to come. You can go longer this time, can’t you? Six weeks, I think.”
At the moment when Lando held the letter in front of his face, it felt like Oscar was standing in front of him, and Lando was attacking him with that look up through his lashes.…
what if i say this is landoscar coded, expect oscar wouldn’t think lando is too chatty and instead would be more turned on and in love with him during each blowjob?
I totally see Oscar paying full attention at first, but getting more and more distracted by Lando’s lips getting swollen and wet with spit at each suck or flick of tongue on his cock, or maybe by Lando’s smile when telling a funny story while having his big hand wrapped around his dick.
By the end, Oscar being completely gone, with only half-assed replies going out of his mouth, totally lost in the sensation of lando’s touch, lando’s mouth, lando’s voice.
And after he had come, buried deeply in lando’s throat and once they were again cuddled up in bed, Lando would ask with a shit-eating grin on his face “Did you even listen to what i was saying?”, already knowing the answer.
Oscar blushing hard and stuttering “Actually no, but I would love to hear it about it now, if you don’t mind saying it again.”
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