proudly insufferable

Nic | they/he | 30s | often NSFW fandom sideblog 🔞 my art | my fic | AO3 also known as existentialcrisistime (main) & pityroadart (sfw art)

[nicbutnasty]

hi hello here's a pinned for the mobile users etc:

often nsfw fandom overflow sideblog for @existentialcrisistime (main)

also known as @pityroadart (sfw art)

multifandom but I tag extensively — you may find MotoGP, F1, Star Trek, DnD Honor Among Thieves, and Good Omens, among others :)

my art tag | my fic tag | AO3

[potatowyy]

First time posting on tumblr, here's some sharks n roses

Both of them have had such terrible luck this week it's kind of romantic

I might post more art in the future :>

[hanquality]

drinking games - 2021 landoscar slow burn piss fic

"Just tell us. C'mon Osc. It can't be that bad. What, you into piss or something?" Oscar blinked. Then, he blinked again. Lando realized, Oh, fuck. He's not denying it. And that could only mean one thing.

[moonshynecybin]

i think often about rosquez feminisation (when you said vale would use feminine terms of endearment 😵‍💫) so… vale who thinks he’s learning the ropes of being an alpha quite nicely and is acclimating well enough to these new dynamics (his charisma doing the bulk of the work lol) learning about mpreg and all of a sudden things are once again Not fine and he has like 5381 new kinks (tho one in particular) all involving marc fricking marquez

not about abo rosquez sorry but i was thinking. about marc’s lucky underwear. thinking about them being blue and red. thinking about vale learning about this because marc flashes him his ass after getting asked about his pre-race superstitions as he has been known to do. thinking about vale going omg haha that’s so funny. you know what else would be so funny. dropping off a couple sets of blue and red race weekend panties for marc to wear as a JOKE. frilly, lacy things. designer. expensive. just a prank. he doesn’t even leave his name on the box just has someone drop them off. and he expects marc to realize they’re from him and laugh, maybe get a little embarrassed, push the side of vale’s shoulder the way he does when vale says something that really gets him. just BUDDY stuff. but when he sees marc later he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even react. he’s happy and normal and maybe a little pink at his cheeks. but he just says hi. yammers about his late race pace. and vale thinks maybe he just didn’t get the joke, maybe he threw them away. didn’t notice. so he tries to forget about it, stop thinking about it, wait for a good moment to bring it up and REALLY make the moment land, and it never does.

but the thing is. for some reason it keeps sticking. in his brain. every race weekend— he knows exactly what marc is wearing under his clothes. blue for practice, red for races. and he can’t stop thinking, would he. would he let me tell him what to wear. is he wearing them right now? playing like a loop on his head. just the thought of marc swinging a leg over his winning (2014, i THINK !) honda with a scrap of bright red lace tucked up inside his leathers… marc’s good luck charm being chosen by VALE…. it starts being genuinely all he can think about, and he starts to realize it’s a PROBLEM when he’s behind marc for warm ups staring at his ass like UH OH…

anyways it’s all very. horny but abstract. a fantasy. lingering over panties in store windows like hm. hm. hmmmm. thinking about marc in silence. some half repressed thoughts while he’s getting himself off, how easy it would be to call marc and just. ask him what he’s wearing. keep a hand on himself when he talks… until they’re in the hall after a press conference doing terrible unfunny bits and somebody drops something… and marc bends over to pick something up… and record scratch. freeze frame. comical double take. he’s actually fucking wearing them.

[vroombeams]

5 + 22 Valebez ?💖💖

personalized kink prompt list ✨

˙⋆ cnc+cheating - valebez ⤷read on ao3

---

Marco hasn’t spread his legs but Vale still says, “You’re a terrible actor.”

It’s a game they’ve been playing for ages. Marco pretends to recoil, Marco pretends to resist. Marco pretends he doesn’t want Vale on him and in him as desperately as he wants a championship. 

Vale shoves a hand between them and pops the button on Marco’s shorts, and Marco remembers the rules of the game in time to squirm halfheartedly away. He’s supposed to not want it. He’s supposed to push back, writhe like he’s afraid. He’s up against the wall. Vale is skinny as a haunting, taller than Marco by a lot. The spareness of his body is still all muscle, and it makes it so easy for him to bully Marco into a corner like Marco doesn’t want to be there. 

“You want it so bad,” Vale says. He grins like a hyena. His teeth are a precise, shiny-white stab in the dark. He’s a good actor, Marco thinks. He’s so good at making it seem like it’s a bad thing that Marco wants it. He’s good at being forceful, pushing Marco deeper into the corner and jerking his shorts down without unzipping them. The fly makes a noise like marbles dropping. Probably the zip is broken. 

“Don’t,” Marco says feebly. It comes out so weak that it almost sounds real. 

Vale twists him around, shoves him into the wall. Marco’s face ends up tucked into the corner. His nose ring grinds against plaster and cartilage but he doesn’t try to adjust. He pushes back against Vale’s hold and it could, generously, be considered another attempt at escaping rather than Marco trying to offer his ass up for Vale to fuck. 

Vale spanks him, the sharp crack of one big hand against the meat of his asscheek. It hurts a lot. Vale’s very good at it. 

“Stop, please,” Marco says. This time it’s a little closer to honest. He doesn’t like hurting, not really. He likes it when Vale pins him, holds him down, stuffs him full. But he likes it because it’s Vale, not for any other reason. 

Vale bites him, teeth sharp at the back of his neck, a parody of scruffing. Marco folds into it anyway, even knowing what it looks like. He’s not technically supposed to give up so easily but he’s figured out what Vale really likes after all this time. Vale likes the chase. Vale likes to have things. Vale likes it when Marco finally gives up, because Marco never, ever gives up, not anywhere but here.

Vale’s shorts don’t have a zipper, so Marco listens to the rustle of polyester whispering down skinny hips, feels the static of fabric catching at the backs of his own thighs. Vale’s dick is hard, nestling into the crack of Marco’s ass. The tip is wet, pushing up the back of Marco’s t-shirt. 

“What would your girlfriend think,” Vale wonders. His breath is hot against Marco’s neck. Marco still feels cold. It’s a pit in his stomach; the heaviness of a glacier calving, carving space in his gut. He listens to Vale spit, and he doesn’t say, what would yours think? Because he doesn’t want to know. 

This is the first time he’s thought about Vale’s partner while they’re doing this. Does that make him a bad person? That he’s only thinking of her now that he has a girlfriend of his own? 

What would your girlfriend think? Marco, if he’s honest, doesn’t care. 

They’ve been doing this long enough that Marco makes a point of fucking himself before he goes to the Ranch, every time, just in case. So that when Vale only slicks himself with saliva it’ll still go in easily enough, so that Vale won’t get frustrated, so that it won’t hurt so much. He likes this kind of pain a little, at least. The wet at the tip of his dick smearing around Marco’s asshole, the pressure-burn of Vale making a slow space for himself inside of Marco’s body. 

“Please,” Marco pants, but even he can admit it doesn’t sound right—he’s not saying please, stop. It’s not the point of the game, but for Marco it’s always please, more, when it’s Vale. 

“You’re not even trying,” Vale says as he rocks his hips. His voice is acid enough that Marco can’t be sure if he’s breaking character. If it’s part of the act or if he’s actually annoyed that Marco’s given in without much of a fight at all. 

Vale’s hand winds into his hair. His mouth finds his ear. His teeth catch Marco’s earring, tugging sharply as he grinds Marco’s face into the wall, grinds his cock into Marco’s body. It’s less an act when Marco yips like a kicked dog, bucking, the hitch of fight instinct surging up in a moment of weakness. Even then it’s not enough. Even when he does fight back, when he does mean it, Vale is still stronger than him. Vale is still taller. Vale is still Vale.

The blunt edges of Vale’s teeth dig into his earlobe so that when Vale starts to fuck him properly, Marco’s earring clicks rhythmically inside of his mouth. When he lets go, it’s to lick an awful wet stripe up the side of his neck, to whisper, “You give up too easy,” and “Not gonna beg me to stop this time?”

Marco, because he knows it’s what Vale wants, says, “Stop, please.” He gets his elbows against the wall for leverage, tries to make the hitching of his hips more of an escape attempt than an appeal for more.

Vale laughs, sickly sweet. Vale says, “No,” and Marco sags. From the outside, he hopes, it’ll look like a reluctant surrender. 

Inside, he is so, so relieved. His mouth shapes out stop, please. But Marco never wants it to stop. 

[rotatedracoon]

Drawing this was so fjejejwdjdjwjs (also pst I do commissions now)

[heyredacted]

Just tequila

[foxlaren]

can i say something uncouth… it may or may not involve maxf cumming on lando’s bathing suit tan line and taking a picture of the mess

[theboschvroom]

nike call me

[vroombeams]

4 + 26 + 29……. landoscar………. please and thanks

personalized kink prompt list ✨

˙⋆ sex pollen+virginity+hotdogging - landoscar ⤷read on ao3

------

Lando thinks his dick should probably be hurting by now. Stripped raw, maybe, or at the very least limp in his own grip.

It’s not, is the thing. He’s still as rock-fucking-hard as he was an hour and six orgasms ago. 

The alarms are still going off in the MTC. In all the years he’s been a driver for McLaren, this has never happened—the whole facility locked down, sirens whooping overhead, emergency lighting casting awful red shadows over everything. A fucking chemical attack. Like they’re an airport or an embassy instead of a racecar team. 

As far as he knows, he’s the only one left stuck in here. Him and the lingering gas in the vents and the more insistently lingering erection that won’t go down no matter how much he beats off. 

It’s as he’s starting on round seven that he gets a text. He fumbles his phone up off the floor and thumbs it open, wincing as he fists his dick too tight. He’s sweaty all over. His thumb leaves a streak on his phone screen that makes it difficult to make out the message, but—

Are oyu  still inthe building

From Oscar. 

Fuck. Holy fuck, they’re both in here.

Lando calls him. He can’t be arsed trying to type one-handed, and his texting isn’t great on a good day. If Oscar’s fucking up one sentence, what hope does Lando have?

“Hi,” Oscar says when he picks up. His voice is shaking. Lando’s dick throbs. 

“Where are you,” Lando grunts. He hasn’t stopped touching himself, he realizes. He’s wanking, still, even as he tries to focus on Oscar’s voice, on the information that he actually really needs quite badly. It’s just—Oscar’s panting through the phone, breath stuttering, the echo of the sirens tinny down the line. Lando lets himself think for one second about Oscar, in another room in this same building, dick out and hard. The smooth pink of his skin, how he’s probably sweaty like Lando is and covered in his own nut like—

Lando groans. Comes across his bare stomach. He’d ditched his shirt an hour ago. 

“—ndo,” Oscar is saying, moaning. Saying his name, saying a number over and over that Lando has to shake his head to realize is a room. They’re on the same fucking floor. Oscar’s just down the hall.

“Don’t move,” Lando croaks. He drops his phone and bee-lines for the door, hiking his sweats up over his dick. He hadn’t been wearing underwear; it’s obscene, even to himself, the way his cock bounces under grey fabric. It feels nauseatingly good even to look at it. 

He nearly brains himself trying to get through the door down the hall. He thinks he’d tear the fucking thing off its hinges if it were locked but it’s not, thank fucking God.

And in the room, there’s Oscar. Sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, joggers tight around his flushed thighs. His dick is hard and pink and leaking in his hand. 

“Fucking hell,” Lando says, and he’s on him in seconds. 

The first touch of skin on skin nearly has him shooting another load. Even before he can get his pants down he’s losing his mind, clawing at Oscar’s waist, opening his mouth wide to suck the sweat off of his chest. Oscar arches under him. Keens, hot lips against Lando’s ear. Lando feels him come; feels it spatter between their stomachs, cooling rapidly against fever-hot skin.

Oscar says his name again. Lando writhes out of his sweats. 

“Turn over,” he says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice. The way it comes out of him is animal, harsh as a car crash. Oscar looks up at him with blown pupils. Parted lips. Lando wants to fuck his face until he pukes. 

“Can’t,” Oscar says, and for a second Lando thinks he’s going to refuse, and for a second Lando thinks he might not care. That he might flip him over himself and do it anyway. But Oscar drags his nails in sharp lines of sensation down Lando’s back, squeezing at his lats. Lando’s cock bobs, slaps against the mess pooled on Oscar’s belly. 

“I haven’t,” Oscar tries again, breathless. “I can’t—I haven’t.”

Fuck’s sake. He hasn’t—okay. Whatever. Oscar’s a butt virgin, whatever.

“Turn over,” Lando says again, and he rears up and rolls Oscar over between his knees. 

His arse is a work of fucking art. It’s criminal that it’s never been fucked before, Lando thinks, and then startles himself by drooling about it. A long string of spit drips from his gaping mouth, runs between Oscar’s arsecheeks and over his hole when Lando spreads him open. It’s probably only because Lando’s come so recently that he has the presence of mind not to just, like. Fuck inside. He knows, from somewhere deep and far away, that that would be bad. 

As much as he wants it.

He spits again, shuffles up until his dick is nestled in the cleft of Oscar’s arse, and then manages to spit once more until everything is shiny-wet. Oscar says his name again. His nails are digging into the short office carpeting. Lando’s back twinges where he’d scratched him before—he thinks he wants more of that. He thinks he wants more of fucking everything.

He squeezes Oscar’s cheeks together around his dick and starts to fuck between them. 

He starts to moan immediately. It feels so much better this way—his skin on someone else’s skin, the heat of a body, the noises Oscar makes back at him. It’s an awful, keening feedback loop, both of them pitchy and hoarse and absolutely horrifically desperate. 

Lando thinks some of it might make it to words. Nothing coherent, just endless streams of feels so good, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck.

He comes like lightning—hard and fast. He doesn’t get soft, though. So he just keeps fucking. 

Eventually, the space between Oscar’s arsecheeks is a mess of come. Eventually, it’s so wet that it sounds like fucking a girl. Eventually, Lando pitches forward, exhausted, to bury his face in the back of Oscar’s neck. He doesn’t stop. He keeps humping Oscar’s arse, obviously, listens to Oscar’s ragged breathing. Lando thinks he might be crying. Maybe they both are.

“H-urts,” Oscar says. He’d wormed a hand under himself a couple of orgasms ago, but the carpet has to have rubbed him raw. Lando tries very hard to care. 

“S’okay,” he slurs, licks Oscar’s neck and then keeps licking. He tastes so fucking good. The salt of his sweat makes Lando’s mouth water until he’s drooling again, dripping spit down Oscar’s jaw. “You’re okay.” 

He sits back up. He’s dizzy, nearly falls over when Oscar suddenly jerks around underneath him. His dick twitches and spits just a little, just at the way Oscar looks—the raw shade of rugburn on his chest, his tight nipples, the flush of red all the way from his hairline down to where it goes purple at his dick. He’s arched up off the floor high enough that when he drops down again Lando can hear the splat of his back into the pool of spunk he’s made below. 

“Fucking sucks,” Oscar gasps, grabbing his own cock and squeezing tight. “This is fucking—fuck.” His face crumples. He comes again, shoots so hard it spatters over his chin. Lando dips. He has to lick it off. He has to. 

Somehow his tongue ends up inside of Oscar’s mouth. It’s not kissing, not really. He just chases the spit that’s already coating Oscar’s chin to its source, plunges inside to find more of it. He tastes so fucking good. The sharp edges of his teeth are bright points of pain. Oscar bites down on his tongue, and Lando tastes metal. 

He doesn’t bother pulling away when Oscar grabs at his arse. Doesn’t bother trying to resist when he feels the wet head of Oscar’s cock pressing against his hole. He’s tense all over, everywhere but there; he opens up for Oscar easily, takes him inside and starts to come again immediately. 

It gets blurry. For a while, he thinks, all he does is whine and wail into Oscar’s mouth, hitching his hips back to take it and take it and take it. Oscar comes inside him over and over until there’s nut dripping out of his hole, down the back of his tight balls. It comes to him in flashes. The feeling of being full, of being pressed to Oscar’s body, of Oscar fucking up into him rabbit-fast. 

What could be years later, Lando is upright, hands spread wide over Oscar’s chest. He’s fucking himself now. Oscar is just laying there, making noises, face wet with spit and come and tears. Lando, when he thinks about it, is exhausted. It’s the first thought he’s had in hours that isn’t about coming.

His hips slow. Oscar’s dick isn’t quite as rigid inside of him. His own cock is drooping, fat and long and wet, the tip of it dragging sadly over Oscar’s belly. The emergency lights have stopped, he realizes. The alarms have stopped. Everything is unnervingly quiet outside of their ragged breathing, the squish of their soaked skin.

Lando kneels up and rolls over onto the floor. He’s fucking exhausted. There’s an extremely distant part of him who knows how bad this is going to look—that eventually someone’s going to come into the building, that they’re going to be laying here in puddles of their own splooge when a bombsquad of guys in hazmat suits wanders in. 

He can’t make himself care.

[darkisms]

rough unedited first draft snippet from my new wip because i’m so excited about this one hehe (i have to thank @merclando for birthing the idea in dms hehe)

It takes a moment for the image to truly settle in, evaporating into Oscar's skin until it becomes a part of him. Etched into the darkness when he closes his eyes, bright and fiercely imposing. Something he can't forget; something he can't possibly ignore, either.

A ticket. A ticket for a plane scheduled to leave Nice in six hours time.

Not a jet, but it's still business class. Ridiculous for a flight that will take less than two hours, barely enough of a journey for him to bother settling in.

But Lando's always had a flair for dramatics.

He doesn't even want to know how Lando managed to get his passport details, who out of his closest (and apparently most spineless) friends he'd managed to charm the information out of. He doubts it would have been difficult, and he can't really fault them for it, either. Nobody is immune to Lando.

Tries not to think about how Lando even knows anyway. Fewtrell, if Oscar had to hazard a guess. P and Lily have been closer lately.

It isn't like he was expecting to be able to keep it quiet for long. Still, this feels too sudden. Too fast.

But none of that really matters anyway. It’s all inconsequential, information to be forgotten in an instant considering everything else.

What matters is that Lando's apparently booked him a plane ticket straight to Ibiza, where Lando currently is; with friends and international dj's and influencers Oscar doesn't know the name of.

Where everyone currently is if Instagram is to believed.

A ticket and an address, that's all Lando's emailed him.

It's not enough. It's not nearly enough. Not to mention the flight leaves in less than half a day, giving Oscar no time to get his affairs in order.

Not that he has any. No pet to leave in someone else's care; no family here in Monaco expecting him to be home.

No girlfriend, not anymore.

Logically, there's really nothing stopping him from going at all.

He tries to wrack his brain for an excuse anyway.

Ibiza has never appealed to him before. Not the late nights and the party culture, the posers with blown pupils and fake-white smiles, there for a multitude of reasons: none of which being the music.

But he looks at his phone, eyes burning with the effort of his stare. Like he might shoot lasers from them, carve out a hole in the centre of the screen.

Lando’s not going to be expecting a reply, so Oscar doesn’t give him one. He tosses his phone on the bed and pulls a suitcase out from under it instead.

[prokrastinartiya]

ao3 link

[oranttta]

love me, make my lungs explode

all I need is your love

i want it to c h o k e me

⛓️ alexandra capitanescu / choke me

[alboinz]

7. "well. this went horribly wrong." - this screams 2019 rookies. to me

you're right, it's so them

“Well. This went horribly wrong,” George says.

“How so?” Lando asks, a dazed smile on his face. “I had a great time.”

“Lando, I’m having a crisis.”

Lando can see George’s naked chest rising in tandem with his shallow breath, and when Lando shuffles closer to him on the bed, George’s throat moves as he swallows nervously.

“George. It’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything. You know, we can just move on—”

“He can’t.” Alex’s voice pipes up from behind Lando. George groans again, while Lando outright purrs as he feels Alex’s wandering hands on his body.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!” George whispers erratically, referring to the three of them and their naked bodies in a queen-sized bed. “I was supposed to flirt with that guy at the bar and—and—ah, fucking—”

“I’m quite sure that guy was straight,” Alex interrupts.

George throws a giggling Lando a seething death stare, which would perhaps scare Lando if he didn’t know what faces George makes when he comes, and that he likes to kiss more than getting head, and that he’s quite ticklish at the crook of his neck. Lando kisses that spot on George’s neck right now and when it makes George shiver, Lando bites him gently, as a treat.

“Stop biting me, you gremlin.”

“Oh, are we biting? D’you wanna go again?” Alex joins in. Lando can feel his warm body behind him, Alex’s lips working their way up his spine, which makes Lando shiver as well. Turns out they’ve learned a lot about each other the last twelve hours.

“I do not wanna go again, I am having a crisis!”

“I know the cure for that,” Lando grins and kisses George, playful and demanding, hoping that George will sink down into the mattress and finally relax for a moment.

[hibiscussoupbowl]

Just like this, yeah?

Alternate ending to Just like that comic

[ashferr]

yes, it's Mark's old T-shirt

[lx-25075]

sleepyhead