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

[einisgood]

8163

[snakesunfish]

[rirwick]

papayas

[astronicht]

humbly requesting cele/bez + the office/at work

(which i guess extends to off the paddock bc of sponsor commitments and training at the ranch)

Ok full disclosure, I’m cheating because this has been a wip in my gdocs for literally over a year. They are at work in that they are at the ranch for most of it and at a hotel for work briefly (first two paragraphs not so much but I promise after that it’s more workplace-oriented)! Sorry it’s less perfectly on-topic and i hope it still works for you <3 <3 if it's too off-base feel free to submit another one!! because of when i drafted this, think more early 2025/late 2024 cele/bez

It’s a difficult routine to keep up on his own. When they were younger, Pecco helped a little, but now Pecco doesn’t do stuff like this anymore. Which is fine, just makes it trickier. But it’s worth it. It’s worth it, Marco tells himself, jaw clenched hard. He’s been in the shower for thirty minutes and he’s barely lathered up, can still smell himself, the too-bitter funk of leathers. He hasn’t been able to stop to wash himself yet.

His whole body is a tight line and his hand is around his cock, slick with conditioner. He breathes shakily. Just another minute. His strokes have gotten so slow, his hand shaking. His sternum aches, but like this a collarbone is nothing. His other hand is clenched in his hair at the crown of his head. He blinks his eyes open, water running into his mouth. It’s—fuck, he shouldn’t have looked. It’s his own cock that does it to him, looking at his own cock, the needy way the head has gone red, the rub of his own foreskin, fuck—

Marco lets go and slaps his balls, quick, which sometimes works. It doesn’t this time; all it does is ruin the orgasm, a half-felt ripple of a thing, leaving him torn up and with jizz on the shower curtain. Fuck, he thinks, he fucked it.

So that part sucks.

*

He mentioned it once to Cele, because Marco thought it was pretty widely understood. Cele did not.

Cele had started it, actually, had said, “Okay, I’m gonna go jerk off,” and started wandering around Marco’s hotel room looking for his stuff.

“Before a race?” Marco had said, before he realized Cele must be just— saying stuff.

But Cele had blinked at him, placid. “Yes, Marco,” he said.

Marco squinted. “That’ll fuck with you a little,” he reminded Cele.

“Um, no it won’t,” Cele said, confused and not really fighting. But if he had decided something, he had decided something. Even Vale couldn't talk Cele out of half his shit.

Marco had sighed, big, trying to crack open the tight feeling in his chest. He fiddled with the hotel pillows. “Okay, okay. Whatever you say, Celin.”

Cele podiumed. Marco was happy for him, shook his shoulders, kissed his cheek. Lay in bed that night still dry-mouthed from the plane home, aching and hard, even though he’d sort of implied it was a race thing and the race was over.

Two months later, Cele was sitting hunched like a big bird under one of the bottom bunks at the ranch, leaning against Marco’s shoulder, hand down Marco’s shorts. They were supposed to be heading out at the end of the day. Instead Cele was jerking Marco off for the third time ever, an honor apparently randomly bestowed twice in one year now, quick and tight and kind of very awkward in Marco’s underwear, while Marco panted against Cele’s neck and stared at Cele’s ignored boner in his track pants.

“Oh god,” Marco whispered, “Oh god, oh god.” He bit Cele’s neck just a little, trying to make this reciprocal, before he remembered that was something he liked that Cele might not. But Cele just grunted and took his hand back to lick it — he should stop bothering, he never remembered to lick it often enough to really get Marco wet, it was probably better to just rub Marco’s precome all over him, slide his foreskin. “Celin, please,” he said, “Please—“

Cele groaned and said, “Okay,” and changed nothing. “Wow, you’re so hot, Marco.”

The door swung open before Marco could give away how well that worked on him. It didn’t even swing open slow like a horror movie, but quick and normal and Pecco stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder. They all froze. Cele specifically froze with his hand down Marco’s shorts.

Pecco glanced at them sitting there on the official for-riders-and-guests VR46 bunk bed. He grabbed his watch and wallet off a spare table where neither of them had noticed it. He looked again. Cele was bright red but unapologetic. Marco was holding his breath.

Pecco stiffened his shoulders and swallowed. His chin came up. “Play with his balls more,” Pecco said to Cele, who just stared at him. 

Cele, actually, was glaring at Pecco. Pecco was a little drunk, Marco realized, after the ranch dinner with a few of Vale’s special guests. Marco hadn’t been paying attention to Pecco’s wine glass. He was flushed, and holding himself too steady, overcompensating. Cele’s stubborn jaw worked. He stared straight at Pecco, and thrust his hand down to grasp Marco’s balls.

Marco forgot the wine glass. He tried not to move, or breathe. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Pecco nodded jerkily, something straining towards jocular, and closed the door a little hard on his way out.

“What does he even know,” Cele mumbled, sullen.

“He—um—“

Cele blinked at Marco, mood shifting. “Oh, I know” he said, drawing a knee up on the bed and hugging it with his free arm. “I didn’t notice until your second year, but—“

“That was when it started,” Marco said quickly.

“Oh. Well. I see.” There was a very strained pause, for Marco, with Cele’s hand still on his dick. “I was always mad. I wanted it so bad too. And then we became friends but you’d stopped. Doing it with friends I mean.”

“Celin—“ Marco started, thinking he should explain, thinking he should say ‘I’m mostly straight.’ But Cele’s loose grip on his balls transformed into a little roll of the fingers. He thought about Cele— Cele wanting it bad. Cele rolled his balls again. Heat spiked through Marco. Sweat sprung up in his pits, on his face.

“Tell me—“ again that you wanted it.

“What?” Cele said, rolling his balls in his big hand. “What, Marco?” he asked, intent, face close. He could bite Marco’s neck, if he wanted.

Marco had bigger problems. “Cele, Cele, ‘m gonna come,” he admitted, suddenly lit up with it, unstoppable. He humped up into his underwear.

“Oh,” said Cele in his low voice. “Wait, uh. Here.” His thumb and forefinger circled Marco’s dick and held tight. The orgasm built with nowhere to go. Marco shuddered, stomach flexing like he was coming, hot and sweet and full with it, balls a sharp ache. But Cele was good at it, actually, and just held on as Marco bucked. 

“Fuck!” Marco said, “please, please. Oh god. Oh, oh god.” He was shaking, full, full. There were voices somewhere distant; dinner had broken up. Cele wouldn’t let it out. Marco heaved for air like something was on his chest, like he’d fallen and had it knocked out of him.

“Oh, you’re good at this,” Cele rasped, surprised, focused. Marco couldn’t focus at all. “Marco, you’re really good at this.”

It ratcheted up higher, a last push, his body singing and desperate, feet planted on the floor, legs spread, cock straining, held at bay by Cele’s sweaty fingers. He bit Cele’s shoulder to muffle it when he wheezed something like a scream.

“Oh my god,” Cele said. “Oh my god, Marco.”

“Don’t let go yet,” Marco said, grabbing Cele’s wrist.

“Um,” said Cele after a long minute of silence. “Can I maybe come back to yours.”

[fastestfrogs-deactivated2025111]

give that guy erectile dysfunction. make him want it so bad but physically not able to get it therefore perfectly mirroring his experience of frustration with his body from sex to sport and back and back and back and back

[fastestfrogs-deactivated2025111]

he's getting fucked completely soft not because he's horny but because he needs release so bad he's crying and whimpering and never quite getting there 👍 just like his championship results or whatever

[darkisms]

for the sexy prompts:

99+100 landoscar 👀

spicy prompts

listen this is a categorically insane and ridiculous fill but whatever, let’s just have fun.

landoscar / accidental stimulation & grinding / 2.5k words

It’s the hottest day of the year so far, the rays of the sun punishing even in the early morning, and the prospect of spending an hour and a half crammed into the back of someone’s car with people he barely knows has Oscar feeling about ready to throw the towel in already.

The whole thing is Logan’s fault and he doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to be apologetic about it, grinning manically whilst Oscar throws daggers in his direction, wishing he could pulverise his friend with the power of his mind.

Oscar saw the sense in spending the weekend at the lake with a few friends, cooling off in the chill of the water, overcooking meat on the portable barbecue and drinking more beers than would be strictly wise — and he’d been happy to agree to that, pretty much. But of course Logan had to go and hook up with some guy in his French class two days before they were due to leave, and now he’s ditching Oscar to travel down with his new beau in another car instead.

“It’s full,” Logan had said, a slight wince the only sign that he was feeling sorry at all. “But it’s okay, I’ve hooked you up with another ride — it’ll be great, don’t worry about it.”

But Oscar can’t not worry. Small talk isn’t his strong suit — the thought of having to make conversation with practical strangers makes him physically cringe. He’d tried to argue it; had made a comment about not really wanting to go that much anyway, but Logan wasn’t happy with that, of course.

So now he’s here, waiting to be picked up at the doorstep of the apartment block which houses both himself and Logan; Logan already having left twenty minutes before.

The car that pulls up is a faded red colour, being driven by a tall, tanned guy that Oscar vaguely recognises from around campus. In the passenger seat sits another dark haired man, who looks to be about the same height, with very bright blue eyes.

The driver rolls his window down, looking at him expectantly. “You Oscar?”

“Yeah, hi, um —?”

“Alex,” the guy says, as he pops the trunk of the car open from the inside. “Just toss your shit in the back, mate.”

Oscar does so, dubiously balancing his duffel bag on an already stacked pile of luggage. As he’s ducking his head down, he notices two more passengers in the back, a suitcase taking up the space of the third seat between them. He recognises them both instantly, and fuck Logan. Fuck Logan so much.

He should’ve known, really. Logan had looked far too happy about the whole thing, but Oscar had put it down to him having gotten laid — not this, which he’s now convinced is all part of some hare-brained scheme concocted by his best friend.

“Alright, mate?” Lando chirps at him, offering a blinding smile that absolutely does not make Oscar’s heart start beating rhythmically in his chest.

He’s going to kill Logan for this.

Then he realises he might have bigger problems.

“Um,” he says, looking between Lando and the other guy; his mate Max, Oscar knows. “There’s no room.”

Alex swears from the driver's seat. “Fucks sake, did Logan not tell you? I told him to warn you.”

“We’ll have to squeeze,” Lando explains. “It’ll be fine. We do it all the time.”

A drip of nervous sweat tracks its way down the valley of Oscar’s spine as he closes the trunk, opening the door on Lando’s side with clear concern.

“Look, it’s no bother, I told Logan I was happy to stay behind—-“

“Rubbish,” Lando says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You sit here, I’ll perch on your lap.”

Oscar’s mind whites out for a second.

“Excuse me?” He asks, voice hoarse.

“Watch out, his arse is proper bony,” Max pipes up, grinning at them both as Lando flips him the bird.

“It’ll be fine,” he nods earnestly at Oscar. “I’m not that heavy.”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” Oscar rushes to say, glancing worriedly at the seat. “But —,”

Lando nudges him towards the door. “Seriously, mate, we do this all the time. I’d sit on Max’s lap but he’s going to fall asleep about five minutes into the drive and I’ll end up stuck in the footrest or something knowing my luck.”

“Can you both just get in?” Blue-eyes snaps impatiently from the front passenger seat.

“George,” Alex reprimands lightly, flicking his eyes to meet Oscar’s in the rearview mirror. “He’s right though, we need to make a move.”

And it’s not like Oscar has any choice then, is it? He’s cursing Logan’s name silently as he folds into the car, buckling himself just in time for Lando to crawl in after him. For all of Oscar’s reservations, it doesn’t seem like Lando has any; he’s straight into Oscar’s lap, getting himself comfortable with his back pressed to Oscar’s chest, his weight warm against Oscar’s thighs.

“Ready,” he says cheerfully, reaching forward to close the door. He tilts his head backwards, his curls brushing against Oscar’s nose. “You’ll have to hold onto me to make sure I don’t fall.”

He doesn’t even wait for a response before tugging Oscar’s arms around his waist, holding them in position until he seems sure Oscar isn’t going to drop them.

“Alright, are we all in?” George asks.

“Yep,” Lando grins, wriggling dangerously in Oscar’s lap. “Fire her up, Alex.”

The car roars to life beneath them, the vibrations of the engine doing little to still the minute movements of Lando’s body and Oscar prays to a God that he doesn’t really believe in, begging for an end to this drive that doesn’t end in total embarrassment for him — or worse, a reputation as a total pervert.

——

He’s fucked. Like actually severely fucked.

True to Lando’s word, Max is out like a light within the first few moments of the journey, head lolling back against the seat in a way that is sure to give him a crick in his neck. In the front of the car, Alex and George have the volume of the radio turned up to deafening as they squabble over the directions, leaving Oscar pinned beneath Lando quite literally.

It wouldn’t be so bad, except his dick is twitching in his pants every time Lando moves and he’s moving a lot. Squirming away like a worm, overexcited and apparently intent on ruining Oscar’s life.

“Um,” he winces at the way his voice comes out; high and sort of squeaky.

“Huh?” Lando tilts his head back, pressing his arse further into Oscar’s lap as he does. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Just, um,” Oscar clears his throat as he tries to subtly move Lando forward. “You’re, like, moving a lot?”

“Shit, sorry,” Lando pulls a face. “Always been useless at sitting still.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

Oscar tries to think about anything other than the warm pressure of Lando’s body against his own. He thinks about his professors, Vettel and Webber, fucking; he thinks about the mouldy yoghurt his housemate left in their fridge last year; he thinks about the guy in the gym who always insists on taking his shoes and socks off on the weight training platform.

None of it works.

He can feel the way his body is reacting without his consent, utterly powerless to prevent it. It feels like a horror movie — like watching a car crash in slow motion. There’s no way Lando won’t feel it eventually, and then — what? Oscar swallows a miserable sigh, resigning himself to a fate best not thought about too long. He’s ready for the floor to open up and swallow him whole; contemplates opening the car door and diving out of the moving vehicle just to free himself from the insane situation he’s found himself in.

At that exact moment, Alex drives the car over some sort of pot hole in the road, causing Lando to half lift up off of Oscar, crashing back down directly onto the practically rock-hard bulge in his jeans. A noise breaks in Oscar’s throat, startled and undeniably turned on — something that might have been a moan had he not bitten it off in time.

“Er,” Lando mutters, frozen in place suddenly.

“Sorry,” Alex shouts over the music, grinning. “All good back there?”

“Yeah,” Oscar coughs, heat flooding his cheeks. “Fantastic.”

He feels Lando shifting like he’s trying to turn his head towards him; the weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, boring a hole into the side of Oscar’s face which he’s sure is bright red by now.

Luckily, nobody else in the car seems to have noticed anything untoward happening in the back. Max is still snoring lightly, and George is admonishing Alex for his driving, voice almost drowned out by the music echoing through the vehicle.

It’s no easy feat, keeping his eyes trained resolutely to the back of Alex’s headrest in front of him. Lando still hasn’t looked away, is still seemingly paralyzed in position on Oscar’s lap, and Oscar still has his arms around his waist, and god, he’s never wanted to die more. He’s half expecting Lando to start causing a scene — one that Oscar knows he’d very much deserve —, demanding that Oscar be dropped off on the side of the road immediately. Or even for him to make a comment, something sly and low that will make Oscar’s stomach roll with more than just embarrassment, because he’s a freak.

What he’s not expecting is for Lando — still looking at him, still with his head turned to the side, breath fanning across Oscar’s temple with their proximity — to purposefully grind back against Oscar’s bulge.

The effect is instantaneous. Oscar hisses like he’s been burned, thighs tensing up and jaw slamming shut so fiercely that he thinks he hears it click somewhere at the back of his teeth. His arms tighten their circle around Lando’s waist, involuntarily squeezing him back and holding him in position.

His head spins. He tells himself it’s an accident, immediately dropping his arms — as far down as possible, lax against the seat behind him.

And he hears the distinctly frustrated sounding breath that Lando huffs, the hot blast of the air on his face.

Lando turns his head back to the front of the car, and Oscar’s so sure that it’s done. That it was a mistake, something done without intention.

At least until Lando does it again, his lower back arched over the swell of his arse as he forces it down.

Oscar’s finger scramble at the fabric of the seat, curling over the edge where his legs are bent at the knees. Blood pounds in his ears, a rush of sound that somehow blocks everything else out so that he’s only aware of that. That and the sound of his own breaths, fast and heaving.

His teeth ring where he gnashes them together too roughly, swallowing down a groan as Lando starts grinding backwards, his hips a slow circle of torment. And it’s ridiculous — it’s insane. His best friend is sleeping with only a case separating them; if Alex or George turned around now —

Oscar stifles a moan, biting his lower lip so hard he tastes the metal of rusty coins.

Without looking back, Lando gets closer, his back hot through the cotton of his shirt where it touches Oscar’s chest. He’s got his phone out now, and Christ, Oscar didn’t even notice him shimmying that out of the pocket of his shorts. He’s so turned on he can barely think, and Lando’s —

Lando’s just grinding away, the tip of his tongue poking through the corner of his pink, spit-glossed lips, eyes staring down at his screen like he’s intently focused on that and nothing else.

Fingers flexing, Oscar chokes on a breath when he feels the head of his cock graze between Lando’s clothed cheeks, the fabric between them both thin and he curses the heat not for the first time, for forcing him to wear so little —

“You alright?”

George is frowning at them in the rear view mirror, expression mildly concerned.

“Hm?” Lando looks up from his phone lazily.

“Oscar looks a bit hot,” George explains; he reaches forward, like he’s playing with the controls, and Oscar feels a blast of cold air through the centre of the car. “Better?”

It feels like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Hng,” Oscar manages to croak. “Y-yeah, thanks, that’s —,” Lando chooses the moment to ‘readjust’ his position on Oscar’s lap, one great hand coming down onto Oscar’s thigh.

“We’re good,” Lando confirms, shooting George a toothy grin.

Christ. He might actually be evil.

Makes sense, Oscar thinks distantly. He’s always liked them a bit fucked.

When George turns back around, Lando ducks his head, eyes focused on his phone but his words clearly intended for Oscar.

“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Unless getting caught is your thing.”

Oscar’s mind short circuits, an appliance left plugged in for too long and overloaded with electricity. Lando’s still pushing back and down, his hips moving in this circular motion that has Oscar feeling mental with each brush over his cock, and he can feel the arousal building. The pressure in his stomach that feels hooked somewhere deep.

Knows he’s going to come in his pants in a car with four other guys in it.

It should be an embarrassing enough thought to make him put a stop to it. But it only seems to escalate his desire; the way he’s helplessly bucking forward minutely against Lando’s plush arse.

He gets one hand on Lando’s thigh when he comes, grip bruising; clamps his teeth down into the back of his neck as he feels himself spill over into his boxers, the sticky warmth coating the front and uncomfortable against his softening dick. Lando gasps, breathy and high in his throat, and Oscar feels vaguely satisfied at being able to get a traction, the shiver down Lando’s spine that reverberates in his body.

It takes him a moment to realise what’s just happened, nausea settling in the pit that once contained his arousal. There’s going to be a wet patch on the front of his shorts and he won’t be able to explain it away, and everyone’s going to know and —

“Chill out,” Lando whispers in his ear, mildly teasing. His tongue flicks out, Oscar shuddering as it makes impact with his skin. “You can tie my jacket around your waist.”

It’s — sweet, almost. Not a perfect solution by any means, and Oscar still honestly has no idea what the hell is going on, but he nods, dumb from his orgasm.

“I’ll need something in return, though,” Lando continues, pulling back just far enough for Oscar to see his wicked grin. “Reckon we can work something out.”

[onadarklingplain]

Apropos of nothing: Alex and George are coworkers who have to go and see a remote client and guess what…there’s only one bed 👀

Alex has been asleep for the past 45 minutes, head lolling onto his shoulder in a way that’s surely fucking up his neck. He looks soft, peaceful, his mouth relaxed, lips a little parted. His hood is pulled up around his tragic yet somehow still attractive bleach job, and it’s actually a little hard to see his face, but George has glanced over more than he strictly should anyway, considering the fact that he’s driving, each time his eyes catching on the perfect slope of Alex’s nose, on the few strands of hair peeking perfectly out around his forehead. 

Alex’s legs are stretched out in front of him, seat pushed right back to give him maximum space in the footwell, and when George thinks about the way his shorts are riding up, he feels like a criminal — like someone should report him to HR. If Alex were awake, he’d surely be tugging them down so that George couldn’t see quite so much of his upper thigh. As it is, the sun spilling through the windscreen is turning all the soft hair there golden, and the car feels very hot, sweltering.

It feels inexcusable to wake him up, but.

“Alex,” George says, reaching over the gear stick to poke at his side when he doesn’t reply. “I need you to check my phone.”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Alex says automatically, even though the way he jolts is a dead giveaway, evidence enough without even factoring in the way he instinctively stretches, arching his back up from the seat obscenely. George really needs to stop looking, or he’s going to get into trouble — into more trouble.

“I need you to check my phone,” George says again. “Toto keeps messaging me on Teams.” His watch has been bussing incessantly for the past 15 minutes with notifications, but whatever Toto wants, it’s too long for George to read on the preview. He had tried, in desperation, to get the angle just so, but the roads were too twisty for it to be feasible. Also, he didn’t really fancy crashing into a cow. Alex would never let him live it down.

“Mate, I’m not even checking my own emails,” Alex says, sounding genuinely dismayed. “Is that really what you woke me up for? Jesus. He knows we’re travelling today, just tell him that you didn’t have signal or something.”

“Alex,” George says again, and he hates the way he sounds so needy about it. He always tells himself that he’s going to be more like Alex, seemingly unbothered about work but somehow still successful, still taken seriously. And yet. “Please, it’ll just take a sec.”

“You absolute maniac,” Alex says, grumbling as he fishes George’s phone out from the centre console. “There’s something so wrong with you. Give me your face.”

George angles himself so that he can keep one eye on the road while Alex holds up the phone to unlock it. He still feels a little tense after, waiting for Alex to sort through his apps.

“Okay, Toto says that he needs some report for his 3 o’clock, and he’s asking where it is. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he sounds stressed,” Alex says, frowning at the screen.

George had sent the report to Toto yesterday, obviously. He wasn’t incompetent. There was even a printed copy sitting on his desk, which George had printed off and carefully colour-coded before he and Alex left. He breathes out sharply, trying to quell the irritation threatening to rise up inside of him.

“Okay,” George says. “Can you go to Outlook and open my sent folder?”

Alex mutters something under his breath, but he does what George says. “Fine, but I’m adding in a quick, go fuck yourself at the end of the email, okay? I still can’t believe he sent us out to the arse end of nowhere.”

“Alex,” George says, going for admonishing, but privately he thinks — yeah. Any reasonable person would agree that the client is outrageously far away, and most of the work doesn’t even need to be done face-to-face. He had expected Alex to push back about it more, if he was being honest, the prospect of a six-hour journey and a week trapped in the same hotel as George in a remote town surely enough to make him squawk — Alex loved to complain.

He hadn’t, though. He had accepted the calendar invite when George sent it, and when George saw him in the work canteen, he hadn’t even grumbled.

It’s another hour before they make it to the hotel. George’s eyes feel dry, his back sore from being cramped into the seat for so long. He’s more tired than he feels like he should be, given that he basically hadn’t worked all day, brain like soup inside of his head. He isn’t at all equipped to deal with the situation developing at reception.

“You must have another room,” George says, trying very hard to keep his voice level. “We need another room. We need two rooms. There are two of us.”

“The booking was for one double room for two guests, and I’m afraid, as I said, we’re completely full tonight,” the woman behind the desk says apologetically. She’s not even looking at her computer anymore though, entirely given up the pretence of trying to find a solution to their problem.

“Is there another hotel around?” George asks. “If we cancelled the booking—”

“The Kings Arms has rooms, about an hour back down the road,” she says very nicely, but George groans. It’s bloody far away, in the wrong direction. He doesn’t want to get back in the car.

“Okay,” he says, trying to psych himself up for more time on the road. “Could you call them, and see—”

“George,” Alex interrupts, and when he rests a hand on George’s elbow, it’s like George is a spooked animal he’s trying to gentle. His palm feels warm through the thin fabric of George’s button-down. “Look, it’s fine. We’re both tired. And it’ll be a laugh, okay? I promise I won’t try to molest you in the night.”

“Ha,” George says, trying not to let it show on his face that what he’s worried about is actually the opposite thing. He’s worried — the idea of Alex wet from the shower, the prospect of knowing what he wears to sleep. Seeing him first thing in the morning, pillow-creased and unguarded. Even the idea of seeing him sitting on the hotel bed, bending over to untie his shoelaces. He can’t stop once he’s let the thoughts into his head. He’s pretty sure he’s getting hard already, and he knows that he won’t be able to see Alex around the office anymore. He’ll have to get a new job. But if Alex had already agreed. 

“Okay,” he says, licking his lips self-consciously. He’s wearing his nicest trousers today, and hopefully the dark fabric will hide his sins.

Alex grins and slaps him on the back; he’s already reaching down to pick up their cases by the time George manages to get himself together.

The first thing Alex does when they get to their room is raid the mini-bar.   

“I know, I know, we’re not supposed to,” he says, before George can even point out that it’s against the rules clearly laid out in the employee handbook. “But they fucked up booking the room, so I think they owe us.”

It feels like a mistake later, when they’re both stretched out on the bed, inches apart on the duvet. Alex is still wearing his shorts, and the soft skin of his thighs are just there, impossible to ignore. His socked feet keep almost knocking into George's socked feet, and he keeps laughing even though George isn’t trying very hard to be funny. He’s just being George.  

“You’re my favourite co-worker,” George blurts out. He was already feeling giddy from the fatigue and the wine, and now he’s suddenly feeling brave too, the way Alex is smiling at him stronger than any drink. “I was really happy when I found out this trip was going to be with you. You’re so—” He realises what he’s saying too late, the embarrassing words tripping out of his mouth. “Good at your job,” he finishes lamely.

Alex laughs again, delighted, almost spilling his drink on the bedspread. “Georgie, I can’t believe you slapped me with the ‘co-worker’ designation. I thought I meant more to you than that, but it’s fine. Now I know you only likely me for my contribution to our evil capitalistic overlords, I get it.”

“No,” George says, feeling confused and panicked. Alex was already sitting so close to him, but in the past few seconds, it feels like the space has shrunk even more. The room is so small, and there’s nowhere else to hide, Alex’s body right there, right next to him. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” Alex says, and the smile on his face is wicked now. It makes him look even more handsome. “I’ll tell you a secret too, to make it even. I’m glad they fucked up the rooms. This is more fun.”

“Is it?” George says, and he can feel himself blushing. He feels, dramatically, like he might be dying. If Alex means what he thinks — he’s going to embarrass himself, and he’s still wearing a bloody tie. It feels tight against his throat, strangling.

“Yeah,” Alex says, still grinning like a shark. His face must be inches from George’s now. If George wanted to, it would be easy to close the distance, easy to bring their lips together. He wants to.

“Bed time, do you think?” Alex says, and then, as suddenly as the mood had flipped, Alex is pulling away again, one eyebrow arched like he can read George’s mind. “I know I promised to keep my hands to myself, so.”

“Yeah,” George rasps out. Alex is genuinely getting off the bed, fishing out something to sleep in from the disaster that is his open suitcase, but George can’t move yet. He might not be able to move ever. He might not even make it through the night.

[kinktober26]

Welcome to Kinktober 2026!

The makers of Kinktober 2025 are back again with a brand new list! The graphics are once again created by latte-cucumber. Check out our AO3 collection, or keep reading for more information.

More information

Kinktober is a kinky October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.

If you have any questions, check our FAQs. Unfortunately, due to personal commitments, we won't be opening our askbox for questions this year. We've made it as rules-light as possible, though, so if your question is "Can I do this?", the answer is almost certainly yes!

Prompts

Condoms – Bratting – Watersports

Orgy – Embarrassment – Bestiality

Hate Sex – Suspension Bondage – Mind Control

Body Writing – Subspace – Master/Slave

Glory Hole – Cloning/Selfcest – Body Modification

Held Down – Riding Crops – Feeding/Stuffing

Dirty Talk – Cockwarming – Aphrodisiacs

Face Sitting – Switching – Scat

Orgasm Delay/Denial – Discipline – Whips

Gentle Sex – Chains – Noncon

Age Gap – Breathplay – Religion Kink

Phone Sex – Findom – Edgeplay

Frottage – Temperature Play – Emetophilia

Strength Kink – Roleplay – Vore

Corsets – Power Imbalance – Human Furniture

Nipple Play – Conditioning – Predator/Prey

Rough Sex – Begging – Furry

Deepthroating – Rope Bondage – Transformation

Public Sex – Daddy/Mommy Kink – Cigars/Cigarettes

One Night Stand – Pain Play – Snuff

Coregasm – Overstimulation – Predicament Bondage

Sharing – Boot Worship – Lactation

Vibrators – Caught In The Act – ABDL

Leather/Lace/Latex – Spreader Bar – Drugging

First Time – Non-Sexual BDSM – Knifeplay

Swallowing – Collars – Fuck Or Die

Spanking – Feminization/Masculinization – Inflation

Strap-On – Safewords – Torture

Quickie – Pet Play – Wet And Messy

Licking – Clamps – Oviposition

Fingering – Micro/Macro – Writer’s Choice

Bonus prompts:

Kink Discovery

Stripping

Coming In Pants

Omegaverse (Non-Traditional Dynamics)

Pornography

Sub/Dom Drop

Blackmail

[onadarklingplain]

will you ever write the touch au?

(re the tags on this post and with thanks to the brilliant @bighoneyenergy for the og prompt that's been lost in the depths of my inbox)

George could usually keep it at bay. He’d let his shoulder bump into Alex’s during the national anthem, casual and incidental, or he’d slap his hand against Alex’s arm in the media pen, friendly and unremarkable. He could usually get by just passing Alex an umbrella on the parade float and letting their fingers brush. It would be enough for him to keep it together to race at least, even if he felt the distance between their cars every lap, his body locked into the silo of the cockpit and still craving.

It was harder to manage during the off weeks — George would have to ration his padel suggestions carefully, spacing out the matches so he could get enough even if they had to spend days at their respective factories or worse, if George had to chip away at his endless sponsor commitments. It was frankly unbearable when Lily was in Monaco and Alex seemingly forgot that George existed, but George had been hungry most of his life. He could clench his jaw and knuckle his way through anything, uncomplaining. He could lie in his flat with all the curtains drawn, breathing through the nausea, skin cold with sweat, his stomach a pit inside of him, his head throbbing, and be fine. 

He had always known that the solution was — well, from careful scientific enquiry, he had deduced that more was preferable to less. If he let his hands linger on Alex’s waist as he slipped past him in the kitchen, or god, the week they had shared a bed in Portugal, and George had gotten to sleep with Alex pressed up against his side night after night. George had felt good for weeks, for months, a shimmering under his skin that had dissipated only gradually when Covid forced them farther apart.    

He fantasised about it sometimes — having more. It was impossible not to think about it when he was twisted in the sheets, his skin crawling. George knew they didn’t have that kind of friendship — they were British, first of all, and more to the point, Alex didn’t want him like that. The most they were allowed was an affectionate dig, a laddish clap on the back, a cutting laugh. For all that he sometimes let himself think how it would feel to have Alex in bed, his body braced over George on a mattress, filling up George from the inside, driving all the sickness away, in reality, it felt overwhelming to imagine even hugging Alex.  He wouldn’t be selfish like that.

But if there was ever a time —

“Congrats, Albono,” George muttered, his fingers wrapped carefully around Alex’s bicep, letting the warmth seep into his skin, the good feeling he got from Alex pushing down the spike of panic he had gotten when Alex said the word engaged. “Can’t believe she said yes. Did you get her a huge rock, or what?” 

Alex rolled his eyes, but from the way he blushed, he could tell that the answer was yes. George hadn’t pulled his hand away yet, letting himself revel in the goodness of Alex’s body, feeling himself grow stronger, clearer. Then a sudden shifting of Alex’s muscles sent a rush through him, and George thought, fuck it. If this was the way things were going to be going forward, Alex too busy with his wife to want George around, George left alone and wretching — he was going to take his chances while he still could.

When George tugged on Alex’s arm, Alex folded into him easily, his chin tucking over George’s shoulder like they did this all the time instead of never at all. George let himself squeeze once and then twice, hugging tight enough that he could imagine never letting go. He breathed in once, twice, lingering too long, every part of him buzzing with it.

Alex’s eyes had been wide when George finally pulled back, his hands slow to leave George’s back.

That had been the night before Barcelona testing, and while George wouldn’t have gone as far as to say there was a good time to find out the news, the hug had been enough to sustain him through pre-season without top-ups. In fact, it wasn’t until Australia that he realised he hadn’t felt it since, hadn’t needed it in the same way as he had when every part of his body was straining for Alex, yearning.

He was still waiting for it to wear off of course, for the sickening hunger to come back. And when it did, it was probably going to be even worse than it had been before, he cautioned himself. He had had it for long — there was no way he would’ve been able to shake it so easily. The other shoe was going to drop.

Still, by the time Montreal rolled around, the thought of it had faded to an occasional flicker in the back of his mind, the very thing that had once governed his life fading into the background noise of the season. He was grateful, he was. He had something else to be hungry for, something that needed his full attention, and for once, he could give it. His hands didn’t so much as twitch on the wheel when he went to lap Alex during the Sprint, and Alex didn’t move from the racing line. 

Last season, the chance to be so close to Alex during the race, trundling along in his dirty air for even a few corners would’ve gotten him through the rest of the day easily. He would’ve been grateful for it, would’ve lingered for an extra beat before calling in to complain.

Now, he jabbed the radio button immediately, thinking of the precious seconds he was losing to Kimi while he was stuck looking at Alex’s rear wing. “What the hell is he doing? He’s just in the middle of the road.”

It was like Alex had forgotten to drive, George thought angrily, like Alex had forgotten he was in the car. George was going to give him a piece of his mind when they got back to the hotel. Only one of them was in the title fight. Alex had gotten his dream, with Lily. This was what George had left, and even that was starting to slip through his fingers. The cold metal of a second-place trophy didn’t have the same effect. 

Only when Alex had pulled open the door to his room, the words died in George’s throat. Alex was — he didn’t look well. He was trembling, his face sheened with sweat. The room behind him was dark. 

And he was reaching out for George, a desperation for touch that George knew too well.

[feketeribizli]

aprilia sammich 😋🥪

[bxbxbx0]

[yekoc]

your savage good boy // marco bezzecchi/celestino vietti, 9k, explicit

“Your piercing,” Cele says. “What happened to it? The bar, thingy.” Bez looks. His left side is free of both bandage and metal. “They had to take it out for the surgery,” he says. “I guess I forgot.” “Oh,” Cele says. His face is pink, sun-stained, even under the broad-rimmed sun hat he’s always wearing. “I didn’t know if you just didn’t like it anymore.”

a huge thank you to @restacks @veryspecificfantasies and @baking-soda for helping this fic--which was supposed to be 1k of porn and turned into 9k of marco bezzecchi introspection and anxiety--exist.

[satellite-runner]

Fermin still has the halloween vampire teeth in

[vroombeams]

pedro/fermin - 26

personalized kink prompt list ✨

˙⋆ virginity - permin ⤷read on ao3

-----

"Did it really make you that mad?" Fermín asks, spreading his legs a little wider so Pedro can climb between them. "The—"

"He has trouble trusting people," Pedro snarks back. "Yeah, I'm a bit fuckin' pissed about it." It’s hard to tell if he’s more upset that Fermín told, or that it’s the truth. 

Fermín smiles up at him as he struggles his way out of his shirt. "Well, you do—"

"I do not—ugh." Pedro chucks his tee across the room, and then lurches up and yanks Fermín's pants down all at once. It's a pretty smooth move, if a bit of a dramatic one.

The jeans get thrown into the corner with the tee, and Pedro is shucking his way out of his own pants, so Fermín starts tugging at his own dick idly. It's just like this, sometimes. Most times. Pedro is mad about something, they fuck about it. Pedro is happy about something, they fuck about it. It's not even a coping mechanism, just a symptom of proximity to Pedro Acosta. It is, when you get down to it, completely normal for them.

Less normal is Pedro climbing back up to straddle Fermín instead of settling between his thighs. Fermín's hands come up automatically to cup Pedro's hips, keep him steady as he sways for a moment over him with the tube of lube he's produced from the ether.

"Uh," says Fermín.

"Shut the fuck up," Pedro says, squirting lube into his hand with far more force than is necessary. "Trouble trusting people. Ugh."

He twists, then, wrenching his arm around behind his back to—oh. Oh, okay.

"Pedro," Fermín says. He can't keep the delight out of his own voice, even knowing how potentially delicate this situation is. He’s got to tread carefully. Can’t sound too excited or Pedro might spook. Then again, once Pedro's got his mind set on something there's not much anyone can do to change it.

"Shut up," Pedro says again, laboured now. He's already brightly pink in the face. The muscles in his arm are popping in a way that makes Fermín want to suck on them. He bites his lip instead, squeezes Pedro's hips encouragingly when he feels the full-body wince as he manages to fit... however many fingers he's jamming into himself all at once. 

“Careful,” Fermín says, softly, because Pedro isn’t a quitter but he also doesn’t know when to quit. Double-edged sword and all this. 

“Shu—” Pedro grits his teeth, tipping forward and pressing his hand to Fermín’s stomach for support. His face is scrunched up tight in a way that isn’t really all that sexy. Like he’s in pain, or in the throes of a serious stomach ache. With the context, though… Well. It comes out the other side of worrisome and back into sexy territory pretty quick.

He lets it go on for as long as it takes for Pedro to start to look frustrated, which predictably isn’t very long at all. Even then, Fermín’s tempted to let him keep at it. The scrunch of his face smoothing and then unsmoothing into a harried twist, brows twitching up instead of just down. Fermín knows desperate when he sees it. 

He smooths his hands up Pedro’s waist. Any other day, Pedro might tell him off for it. “I can help,” Fermín offers. His tongue feels a little thick, mouth watering as he drops one hand back, sliding down the crack of Pedro’s ass until he finds his knuckles, tight and trying. 

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t you trust me?” Even as it comes out teasing, Fermín knows it’s a dirty move. Pedro’s eyes flutter open and a lesser man might wilt under that glare. His lips part, teeth still gritted. Fermín, who is a known opportunist, slips a finger between Pedro’s and inside of him.

“Fuck,” Pedro says. He nearly buckles, sweaty palm sliding up Fermín’s belly, nails digging into his ribs. Fermín wiggles his finger idly, jammed in between three of Pedro’s. He’s so tight, and he really hasn’t gotten very deep. He’s plenty fine at fingering Fermín when he needs to, but this is a different beast.

Fermín thinks to say something—let me, or you’re doing so well, or maybe more truthfully you’re being an idiot. But Pedro is jerking his own hand away, fingers popping out audibly. He’s opening his mouth, probably to tell Fermín he’s ready, shut up, let’s get it over with.

So Fermín slips him a couple more fingers. Pedro makes a strangled sound like he’s just been thrown off of his bike and then falls forward across Fermín’s body. It’s much better this way. Pedro with his forehead rooted to Fermín’s sternum, breathing hard against his stomach. Pedro with his hips hitched back and up to let Fermín fuck into him with three fingers. He can make it good like this. Pedro tightens up so nice when Fermín drags his knuckles over his prostate which, presumably, he’s never done a damn thing with. Not with Fermín in the room anyway. Something to consider later.

“Fucking—fuck, Fer—” 

Fermín preens, hums.

“—just do it already, just—”

It’s a risk, pulling his fingers free, grabbing Pedro around the hips and then twisting to throw him on his back on the bed. A risk to loom over top of him and his red, red face, eyes and mouth open wide. Not angry or annoyed. Just stunned enough to lay there with his chest heaving while Fermín fumbles the lube open and slicks up his own dick.

“I’ll be gentle,” Fermín promises, tossing the lube across the bed, grinning. Another tease, but—

Pedro grabs him by the hair and shakes him, practically snarls, “You’d better not.”

It was always going to be like this, Fermín figures. If Pedro was ever going to give it up to him, it would be like this—pissed off about it, trying to prove a point. Knowing it was going to be this way doesn’t take away from it at all.

Fermín pushes Pedro’s leg up with one hand, lines himself up with the other, and doesn’t hesitate. The second the head of his dick catches on Pedro’s puffy hole he shoves himself in to the hilt. 

Pedro shouts, “Fuck!” and claps both hands over his face. 

There’s the barest temptation to pause. To settle here, bask in the tight heat of Pedro’s body. Fermín is, admittedly, a little emotional over it. That Pedro is letting him in, even if it’s coming from a place of wanting very badly to prove something. If he weren’t concerned Pedro might actually punch him in the face about it, Fermín would tell him he’s proud of him. 

Instead of speaking, he starts to fuck Pedro the way Pedro fucks him. Hard, fast, pushing Pedro’s knees up and holding them to his chest to keep him pinned and open. The smack of it is so loud it’s dizzying. Fermín is, like—he’s a little bit lazy, sure, he can admit that. But he’d do all the work in the world to have this a couple times a week. Pedro’s red face, Pedro’s white knuckles, Pedro saying, “Oh my god,” around his hands. He sounds so shellshocked, like he’s trying to be mad but is so astounded that it actually feels good.

Fermín bites back what wants to be a smile. He’s pretty easygoing as far as sex goes, topping or bottoming or whatever in between, he’s not bothered. But this is good, is the thing. Even if he’s less coordinated than Pedro usually is, unpracticed and a bit out of breath in a handful of minutes of hard fucking he feels good, and so does Pedro, obviously.

Pedro’s hands have slid up, carding into his own hair and gripping tight. The face he’s making is going to haunt Fermín till he dies, probably. The blotchy red of his cheeks and his scrunched up, glassy eyes. His mouth looks so soft when it’s parted around a moan. Fermín’s never noticed before.

It’s the distraction that gets him. As he’s moving his arm, meaning to let go of Pedro’s legs so he can fold close to kiss him, Pedro lunges. Fermín might be an opportunist by nature, but Pedro has always been the one to work for what he wants. 

This, meaning: abruptly, Fermín is on his back. So suddenly that he’s actually confused about how he’s gotten there, and then genuinely impressed by the move. Pedro hadn’t even let him slip out. 

And then Pedro starts bouncing on his dick. Like, porn star style. 

He can’t do much but let it happen. Fermín is, as he often is, just along for the ride. He gets his hands around Pedro’s waist but the pace Pedro sets is so hard and fast that he really doesn’t have much to offer by way of help. He just holds on, gripping tight, staring and speechless. 

Pedro looks fucking incredible like this. His jaw is tight but his mouth is open, lips trembling. His brows are drawn together. The length of his body ripples as he moves, forearms flexing, biceps popping, fingernails dug back into Fermín’s stomach where Fermín is going to be left with some serious marks. He feels hot and tight all over, watching the expert roll of Pedro’s hips. Watching sweat bead at Pedro’s hairline and then drip down his forehead, down the slope of his nose. 

“Fuck,” he wheezes. Some part of him, way in the back of his mind, mourns the years they’ve spent not doing this. That it took this long to see Pedro this way feels like such a waste. “You look so good.”

Pedro glances up and bares all of his teeth at him. It’s not a smile, not a snarl, just—teeth. But it’s the first time Pedro’s met his eyes since Fermín first fucked into him. And that’s enough, as it turns out, for Fermín’s balls to pull tight so suddenly that it almost hurts. Enough to drag Fermín over the edge before he can warn Pedro that he’s about to come, which is probably bad manners, but—

Fermín groans, low and long. He grips Pedro’s hips tighter, holds him down so Fermín can rock up into him. He can barely see straight. Just the blurry pink of Pedro’s face, his head tipping to one side, the corded arc of his neck so long and weirdly elegant.

“Gross,” Pedro moans. He doesn’t sound at all like he means it. “Gross, you—fuck, Fer—”

It’s miraculous that Fermín has the core strength to pull off another move like this, but he manages; twitches his knees up and around while Pedro is distracted, rolls him onto his back so he can kiss him hard. He’s still coming in slow, achy twitches. Pedro’s insides are so tight and hot that Fermín sort of wants to cry about it.

“Feel so good,” Fermín groans against Pedro’s teeth. “F-uuuck.”

Pedro makes a wretched little noise. His fingers are scrabbling at Fermín’s shoulders, like he’s trying to push him away, trying to worm one hand between them to touch himself. He’s wriggling the way he always does when he’s so close that he’s crazy with it.

Fermín presses his forearm across Pedro’s chest. Holds him down, shoves his own hand between them and down, down, skips Pedro’s cock to slip between his thighs, presses two fingers inside of Pedro’s hole alongside his just-barely-softening dick and curls them hard.

Pedro screams. Like, really actually screams, clawing at Fermín’s back, feet kicking like he’s having a fit. Fermín is sympathetic; he remembers his first prostate orgasm.

He ends up most of the way to hard again, swelling against his knuckles as he drags his fingers carefully over Pedro’s insides, over and over and over. Pedro quiets. The screams turn to moans turn to whimpers. Pedro’s hands go still against Fermín’s back and then creep up to clutch at his hair. Fermín, with his face pressed into Pedro’s neck, thinks that this is the closest thing to sweet they’ve been in a very, very long time. 

When he finally pulls away, Pedro lets him go easily. Fermín pulls his fingers out first, lets his cock slip out after, still thick with want but heavy, drooping. It’s absent when he pushes a couple drops of come back inside of Pedro and then leans up to kiss him while he’s still all dazed and mostly calm.

His eyes are glassy and dark. He’s so sweaty that he’s shiny with it, chest heaving, arms splayed above his head like he doesn’t have the energy to lift them at all. Fermín gets it. 

“There,” Pedro mumbles, even as his eyelids start to flutter shut. Fermín’s going to have to do all the cleanup himself, probably.

“Hmm?”

“Could a person with trust issues do that,” Pedro says, half-asleep, self-satisfied little grin spread across his swollen mouth. 

He’s so stupid. Fermín kisses him anyway, and doesn’t bother arguing.

[darkisms]

one word prompt: landoscar + hands ;)

sent me a ship + a prompt for a drabble

“We’ve done loads of videos now — you’ve got plenty of material or whatever. Right, Osc?”

Oscar blinks, Lando’s voice distorted in his ears. Like he’s underwater, the sound distant and almost soft around the edges.

“Huh?”

Lando’s lip quirks, a slight arch to his brow. “The videos,” he inclines his head towards where Anna from the social media team is watching them expectantly. “We’ve been at this for hours, we deserve a break, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says quickly, tongue heavy and heat flooding his face. He tears his eyes away from Lando, nodding at Anna. “He’s right.”

It’s remarkable, how quickly Lando seems satisfied when Oscar’s agreeing with him. He leans back in his chair, fingers interlocked behind his head as he grins at Anna, a smugness to him that Oscar should hate but really doesn’t.

“See? It’s not just me.”

Anna huffs a frustrated sounding breath but she gathers up her notepad and phone, the others falling into line behind her as she leaves the room. Then it’s just Oscar and Lando, and Oscar feels a gloomy trepidation at the knowing expression Lando wears when he turns his attention to him.

“So,” he says, too casual. He stretches, shirt riding above his midriff, Oscar’s eyes flicking there and back to his face in a nanosecond. Not quickly enough, though, judging by the amused twist of Lando’s lips, the sight of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. “Where’d you go to?”

Oscar knows what Lando means, but he plays dumb, fingers drilling against the table. “What?”

“You, like, weren’t listening at all,” Lando pushes, hands still behind his head. It makes the muscles in his arms look regrettably more defined. “What were you thinking about?”

On the table, Oscar misses a beat, nails scratching comfortably down the plastic. He winces, cursing himself for his own lack of subtlety.

A lie. That’s what he needs. Something believable and boring, enough to throw Lando off the scent and stop him from chasing it; asking follow up questions that would undoubtedly leave Oscar tangled up in his own mess, trying to find the end of a thread that he’s spun offhand.

He can’t exactly tell the truth, can he? That he zoned out about half hour onto the session when Lando had started to fondle his water bottle — really, there’s no other way to describe what he was doing. Thick fingers curved around the hard metal; palms pressed against the shaft of the bottle; blue-green veins popping in the back of his hands.

Oscar’s never really considered it, him having a thing for hands. But then there’s a lot of things he never considered himself having a thing for before Lando.

At that thought he shifts in his seat, glad for the bagginess of his shorts, the only saving grace to get him out of this situation unharmed and unembarrassed. It’s new, getting half-hard from looking at Lando’s hands wrapped around a bottle, imagining them elsewhere — everywhere. He feels like a teenager again.

Realising that he’s let the silence extend a moment too long, his eyes flicker over to the offending water bottle. Lando catches it, confusion colouring his face; stumped at Oscar’s interest in a Monster branded bottle that he definitely owns himself.

“Nothing,” Oscar says finally, sweeping his hand palm down across the table. “Must have just zoned out.”

[rirwick]

“You are my destiny.”