today's race reminded me of who the real enemy is. kimi antonelli is nothing but a thorn on my side, and as such, can be removed. i have been distracted by the antics of the silver devils, and my haterism has shifted focus. but no more. i am a woman reborn, and the hatred in my heart will return to where it never should have left: hoping lando norris' car fucking explodes
genres/vibes: bartender/dj au, clubbing, oscar fell first/lando fell harder, angst with a happy ending, coworkers to lovers, friends with benefits
some ao3 tags: bartender oscar piastri, DJ lando norris, miscommunication, jealousy, sub top oscar piastri, bottom lando norris, light Dom/sub, topping from the bottom, praise kink, light BDSM, edging, overstimulation, begging, semi-public sex, dacryphilia, blow jobs, orgasm denial, forced orgasm, angry sex, drunk sex, breathplay, dry humping, frotting, cock warming, vibrators during work, fingers in mouth, fingering, Subspace, POV alternating, slow burn, yearning, recreational drug use, implied/referenced drug use, established george russell/alex albon lando owns a motorcycle, max fewtrell owns a club
snippet/summary:
“It can be casual, no strings attached, whatever you want it to be,” Lando whispers slowly, words slightly muffled into the skin of Oscar’s lips.
“Just tell me that you want it, that you want this, whatever this turns into,”
The movement creates sparks of heat throughout Oscar’s body. His skin vibrates at the contact – not too dissimilar to the feeling in his chest. Oscar’s hand flexes at Lando’s side, not quite as bruising as it was before, switched out for a gentle brush of contact. Lando inches forward, his scent familiarizing itself with Oscar’s senses. It’s enough to quiet the noise in Oscar’s head.
“I want this,” He practically breathes into Lando’s mouth, words getting melted into the other’s lips.
Or: Lando Norris is an up and coming DJ and is quite bored of hook-up culture in London. He decides he wants to try something new - that being Oscar Piastri, one of Quadrant's most beloved bartenders, who has been silently falling for Lando since the very beginning. They agree on casual - however that may take form - but the lines begin to blur until they converge entirely. What's the harm in having fun?
rated e + 1.7 words | oscar piastri/charles leclerc + lewis hamilton | what if a 7x world champion watched you make out with your long-time crush? that happened to my good friend oscar piastri once (and a special thank you to my amore @causedascene for the fun idea♥️)
Charles looks beautiful like this, Oscar thinks. Above him, his light eyes are already darkening with arousal, his arms braced on either side of Oscar’s head, their legs tangled awkwardly and uncomfortably together on the driver’s room couch.
Huge emphasis on uncomfortably, by the way, because Oscar is slowly realizing Ferrari’s couches, though wider, aren’t nearly as comfortable as McLaren’s. Or maybe he’s just gotten so used to the papaya ones that the bright red cushions simply aren’t doing it for him.
No, actually, scratch that.
Oscar realizes he doesn’t really care about couches, or comfort, or even how overwhelmingly red everything is, because Charles makes up for all of it. He’s warm, and he smells lovely, and he’s kissing Oscar as if breathing is entirely optional. And, see, Oscar agrees, leans into it, even, pushing himself up just enough to show Charles how badly he wants this too, eagerly licking and nipping at those plump lips, sighing when the older driver returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.
“Charles,” Oscar babbles into a moan, trembling beneath the firm grip in his hair and the slow drag of their crotches together. He feels a little lightheaded when he realizes Charles is already hard, panting against his skin as he kisses him feverishly—his cheek, his jaw, his chin, then lower, down the side of his neck, as if keeping his mouth busy is easier than letting himself think.
And Oscar gets it, truly. After all, it’s been quite the race for Ferrari, and for Charles especially. That’s why Oscar barely hesitated when the Monegasque invited him over, as anticipation, desire, and nervous excitement tangled together until he could barely remember how he’d made it to his rival’s motorhome in the first place.
Everything happened pretty quickly. Oscar waited until everyone had filtered out before slipping inside, feeling like a secret, which he probably is, though he couldn’t care less.
Charles is still kissing at his neck, breathing him in between soft gasps, when Oscar rolls his hips up into him, silently asking for something more than these teasing, frustratingly shallow touches.
He tries again by whispering, “Can’t you—um—can you…” Oscar mumbles, snaking a hand between their bodies to grab Charles’ cock over his trousers, delighting in the groan that slips from his lips. He must be mad, far too impatient and way too turned on, because Oscar can’t help but murmur, “C’mon, Charles.”
A little chuckle reaches his ears and he shivers. “Impatient, non?” Charles teases before lifting his head again, closing the distance to gently rub their noses together. When Oscar chases another kiss, he giggles again. “I’ll give you what you want.”
Please, he means to say, and only doesn’t because Charles snakes one hand between their bodies as well, grabbing Oscar’s wrist and pulling it up to pin it against the cushion while bracing himself on his other arm. Oscar feels weirdly trapped like this, but not in a bad way; far from it, actually. He knows he’s strong, knows he could move if he wanted to. Oscar doesn’t, though, he doesn’t want to move.
Charles isn’t done, however. He rubs their noses together again and repeats in another whisper, “I’ll give you what you want.” A little smile appears on his lips, and Oscar melts, slumping further into the sofa. “Just let me enjoy this.” He gently pecks Oscar’s lips, forcing his eyelids to flutter shut. When Oscar stays silent, Charles presses, “Yes?”
Yeah, he wants to say, but doesn’t—Oscar is too busy trembling when a leg slips between his own. Oscar hasn’t been able to find words for a while, he realizes; hasn’t found enough strength to do so. The McLaren driver is far too pliant, letting Charles kiss him through the lingering frustration of the race and all of Oscar’s own realizations.
Jesus. Oscar could get used to this, he thinks. To the silence and the feeling of being wanted, even if in secret. He could. Charles isn’t cruel—he just gets what he wants, and right now he wants Oscar, he wants—
“Ah.” A second—wait, third—voice resonates through the room and Oscar freezes. “Right.”
There’s no one else that voice and accent could belong to. He’s watched the interviews, talked to him, heard him countless times since joining the sport.
Lewis.
Oscar’s whole body goes taut, terrified of being caught like this—it could simply ruin everything. People would know, they’d talk, and Lewis… What if Lewis loses any sort of respect for him? What if this is the moment everything fucks up? What if—
No. Something is wrong. Charles hasn’t stopped kissing his skin, hasn’t even stopped grinding their hips together, nor has he let go of Oscar’s wrist. In fact, he lets out a breathy chuckle, pressing his thigh more firmly against Oscar’s crotch. And he’s still hard.
“Um,” Oscar mumbles, finally opening his eyes, avoiding any sort of eye contact. His face is burning, probably so flushed by this point he’s practically Ferrari red. Because, after all, what the fuck.
“What is it?” Charles asks, lifting his head a little before softening as he studies Oscar’s face. “Oh, right.” He sounds like he’s smiling, though Oscar can’t quite tell—he realizes he can’t bring himself to look at the older driver’s face even if he tried. But he can piece things together well enough to know Charles is looking behind him now. “Bit early, LH.” He sounds… annoyed, maybe. Or at least a little.
Before Oscar can think any of it through, Lewis replies, “Don’t mind me.”
And Oscar minds, that’s the thing. He minds a lot.
Charles doesn’t, clearly. He lets go of Oscar’s wrist to cup his jaw, turning him until they’re face-to-face again, then gently nips at his lower lip. His rings bite into Oscar’s skin, and he sighs—mortifyingly, he sighs in pleasure.
Charles’ voice is almost a purr when he whispers, “You could just not mind him.” And Oscar waits for a but. “Or you could give him—what you say—a show, Oscar.”
“It’s true, Oscar,” Lewis says. From the shuffling noises around him, Oscar guesses he’s dragging over a chair and angling it to watch the two of them.
This is, undeniably so, one of the weirdest moments of Oscar’s career. Or, better yet, his life. They keep saying his name over and over, and it’s starting to get overwhelming, and Oscar doesn’t know what to do except give in. He even finds the courage to glance over at Lewis, and Charles lets him, even though he’s still holding Oscar by the jaw. The McLaren driver swallows dryly when Lewis arches an eyebrow and curls his lips into a smile, slumping even farther back in his chair.
Well.
It’s like pouring fuel on the fire, because it’s not like Oscar wants to leave or stop. So he turns back and practically swallows Charles’ lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer, delighting in the surprised gasp. It’s strangely satisfying to know he can still surprise Charles, too.
Things escalate quickly from there. At some point, after kissing and kissing for what feels like forever, they even change positions, Charles pulling Oscar upright until they’re both sitting, giving Lewis a better view and themselves a little more room. They can’t fuck, much to Oscar’s despair, but they make the most of it anyway.
Charles slips a hand down Oscar’s trousers, and the younger driver immediately resents wearing jeans. They don’t have much time either, so a handy will have to do, though part of him wishes he could drop to his knees and show Charles—and Lewis—what he can do.
“At least pull off his trousers, will you,” Lewis says, and both of them turn to look at him. Oscar feels the blood rush down even faster when he realizes Lewis is subtly palming himself, and the seven-time world champion laughs at their matching expressions of confusion. “Talking to you, Charles.”
Charles does it instantly. Oscar barely has time to blink before helping him tug his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, hissing through his teeth as Charles starts stroking him in slow, steady motions, his thumb brushing over Oscar’s slit. It’s so much, too much, and Oscar has to take a deep breath to stop himself from doing something embarrassing, like moaning out loud—or worse, coming all over himself.
And the McLaren driver tries not to think about the fact that Lewis never asks him to touch Charles, so he doesn’t. Instead, he grips the Monegasque’s thigh while Charles keeps pumping him, twisting his wrist every so often, as Oscar tries not to look too stupid while his tip keeps drooling over Charles’ knuckles, making everything sound wetter and wetter.
Lewis keeps palming himself through his own trousers, and Charles keeps kissing at Oscar’s neck, his hand never slowing, and Lewis—
“Faster,” he says, though his voice comes out slightly strained. Oscar gasps, heat flooding his face as sweat trickles down his temple. “Do it faster, Charles.” And Charles obeys without hesitation, much to Oscar’s despair. He’s right on the edge now, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the endless groans threatening to spill out.
“Um.” Oscar winces at himself. “Guys,” he starts, and Charles seems to understand immediately. “Charles, if you—”
A string of chuckles reaches his ears, and it’s still Lewis, while Charles mouths at Oscar’s jaw and cheek, licking at the sheen of sweat there, breathing softly against his skin as his hand keeps moving—up and down, up and down, twisting, dragging more precome—and it’s too much, far too much—
Oscar slaps a hand over his mouth, muffling the broken sound that tears out of him as he comes all over Charles’ hand. Some of it lands on his thigh, and he feels gross, delirious, still achingly turned on, and he’s just come in front of Lewis, and no one says a word.
Really, no one says anything. The driver’s room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, and the air smells unmistakably of sex.
But then someone finally says something, and it’s Lewis. Oscar tries not to dwell on it, though. “Great choice.” The world champion lets out a quiet chuckle, his voice still edged with arousal. “Next time, we’ll make sure we have more time, isn’t that right, Charles?”
Charles’ eyes never leave Oscar’s face, even though he’s no longer touching him. He must be hurting, Oscar thinks, his cock still straining against his jeans. Well, but then again, the same probably goes for Lewis.
Lando just laughs, placing a hand on Oscar's bouncing knee without even looking away from the road. "You're fine."
"Lando, we really need to stop, I can't-" Oscar takes a steadying breath. "I'm going to wet myself."
The hand on his knee squeezes, and Lando's smile drops as he glances over at Oscar. "Don't be ridiculous. You're an adult, you can hold it."
The dismissal makes Oscar whine. He shoves his hands between his legs, clutching at himself in a desperate attempt to hold back. He gets that this is part of their whole thing, but he's not playing it up right now, and he has the terrifying thought of, I really might not make it.
As soon as it enters his mind, the pressure in his bladder grows even more urgent. He pictures it, losing control and actually pissing himself, making a mess of Lando's expensive car seat. Suddenly, he realises it's no longer just a possibility, he's absolutely not going to make it the rest of the way home.
"Please pull over," Oscar whispers, voice so weak that he just has to pray Lando hears him over the engine.
landoscar and the word bunny for the 5 sentences or paragraphs if you want to yap :D
this is for everyone who has interacted w my post abt lan!puppy mounting bunny!osc... also this isn't very good i am so sorry but i'm probably gonna elaborate on this at some point!!
cw: hybrids, lan!puppy, bunny!osc, somnophilia, knotting implied, oscar piastri has a pussy, free use
"Lan...do?" The name slips out quietly, Oscar's voice heavy with sleep. It hasn't quite yet lost its rasp. Lando's ears pick it up immediately, though. His eyes snap open and Oscar sucks in a sharp breath at the sight. Lando's pupils are dilated, black eating away at the pretty mess of sea glass.
Lando groans, fucking into Oscar harder. It rocks the whole bed and makes Oscar's entire body tremble. Lando nearly howls from the feeling of how tight Oscar gets.
"Bunny-" Lando manages. "Bunny, 'm sorry. Sorry, I just... I needed this. Needed you."
Oscar's hands ball into fists as a new sensation washes over him. A cry wrenches itself from Oscar's throat as he twists, body locking up before he's even coherent. Wetness spills between his thighs, muscles quivering on every attempted breath in. He's coming on Lando's cock without even a second to think about it.
Lando yips at the tight squeeze of Oscar's cunt around him. A hand paws at Oscar's hip, digging blunt nails into the soft skin before he's holding Oscar down with the other, palm flat against Oscar's sternum.
"'M sorry, Osc. Sorry - fuck!" Oscar lays on his back, thighs spread wide over Lando's own. He can't do much more than lay there and take it. His poor brain hadn't even hardly caught up before he was leaking onto the sheets; safe to say he doesn't have the power to get away even if he wanted to. "Sorry - bunny, 'm sorry."
Through bleary eyes, he looks up to see Lando hunched over him, tongue hanging out of his mouth and dripping drool onto his cheek. There's an ache between his thighs and a weight in his belly that he hasn't felt for days and Oscar isn't quite ready to give it up.
Like, Artturi would totally follow every movement with his eyes and everytime Oscar finds something he likes, he lifts it up and just waits for the subtitle shake or nod from Artturi. Because after all this time, they just like this right? One look is enough to know what the other one things. And when Oscar slowly strolls in the direction of the changing rooms Artturi follows him after a while, grabs some skimpy shorts before he joins him in the cabin. The place is already cramped but with two grown man inside even more. Without a word he is pressing the shorts against Oscar’s naked chest and Oscar just gets it, pulls his boxerbriefs down to get into the shorts. A pale lilac, short and tight, so that his ass looks even rounder and at the front? The clear bulge of his semi hard dick. He almost whimpers when Artturi smiles at him, the soft and warm thing only reserved for Oscar. But the gentle version of Art is gone as fast as it appeared, Oscar finds himself pressed against the wall, one big hand pressed over his mouth. Artturi‘s hot breath against his neck while the other hand pulls the shorts down, just enough so he can slip his dick between Oscar‘s cheeks where he is still wet and sticky from their daily morning fuck. Artturi won’t fuck him, not here where he can’t enjoy it, but the friction of Oscar’s fat ass cheeks is almost enough, especially with the way Oscar’s tenses the muscle with each thrust. There is still a hand over his mouth, muffling all the sounds, while the other one cups Oscar’s bulge trough the shorts. Oscar knows Artturi isn’t here to play. Either Oscar comes before him or Artturi leaves him. Just a minute longer, maybe. But then Artturi groans and in the next minute he is gone, leaving Oscar shaking and on the edge of his orgasm. There is a kiss pressed against his shoulder. "Take care of this" and then? Artturi is gone and it almost feels like a fever dream
landoscar + #1 for the hand holding prompts would be super cute!!
touches prompts
tiny hands in big hands // landoscar
“Your hands are like — proper small.”
Oscar’s rolling his eyes before the full sentence is even out of Lando’s mouth, already anticipating where it’s going before it gets there. His hands are not that small; they’re totally average for a man as far as he’s concerned. And sure, he does have daintier fingers than one might expect, and he’s well aware that his untrimmed nails don’t exactly help with this perception, but — well. He’s particular about his nails, and he isn’t going to cut them just because some idiots think it’ll make him more masculine.
“They’re not that small,” he says, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “They’re perfectly average.”
Lando snorts. “Sure. And my dick’s average too.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, mate,” Oscar snarks; can’t help himself, really, even though what he’s saying is not wholly truthful. He’s not personally acquainted with Lando’s genitals, sure, but he’s seen enough through fireproofs and unfairly tight swimming trunks to know that Lando’s packing. He’s hardly going to admit that though, is he? “But I do know my hands aren’t that small.”
“They’re tiny,” Lando’s protesting, and then he’s leaning across the table, reaching out with one hand, and Oscar can’t even stop him — barely understands what’s happening until he feels one of Lando’s hands grab at one of his own, and by then it’s far too late.
“See?” Lando’s saying, gesturing with their clasped hands, moving Oscar’s inside his. “It literally fits in mine.”
It suddenly feels to Oscar like all of the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, a stifling pressure applied to his chest. He’s looking at their hands — or, more accurately, Lando’s hand, because it’s fully wrapped around his, so much so that his is not even visible. He’s looking at their hands and there’s a sudden pounding in his ears, the dull thud of his heart against his sternum, beating hard like it wants to be freed.
He’s always known Lando’s got big hands. Obviously. It’s not something he’s really thought about at all, it’s just — something he knows to be fact. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Lando Norris has huge fucking hands.
Knowing that and having it proved so starkly by comparison with his own body, though; those are very different things. And for some reason, the truth of it feels particularly earth shattering.
Lando’s hand envelopes Oscar’s like it’s nothing, palm mammoth and warm, fingers thick and wide and reaching.
Oscar’s never felt any which way about his hands, really, other than maybe a little annoyed at everyone’s insistence that they’re too feminine. He doesn’t feel that way now, though. He feels — he takes a moment to silently assess the signs his own body is releasing, the shortness of breath and tightness of his chest, the staccato rhythm of his heart, and — oh fuck.
He absolutely can not have his teenage crush on Lando Norris reignited over hands of all things.
“Right,” he clears his throat and pulls his hand back — it’s a little rough if Lando’s surprised expression is anything to go by, but Oscar purposely avoids looking at Lando for too long. “Great. Point proven. You have bigger hands. Can we get back to this telemetry now or did you want to measure anything else?”
He’s dreaming.
He must be dreaming, because Lando gets a calculating look on his face, leaning back into his chair with a practiced coolness that’s almost too perfect.
“Depends,” he drawls, raising a brow. “What are we talking about here?”
He’s smirking, the dick. Oscar ignores the steadily increasing rhythm of his heartbeat, willing himself to calm down even as he stares coolly back. “Depends,” he counters. “What will you show me?”
