hello, asking for 3 &/or 25, lando &/or oscar (seat fittings mcl40 edition maybe? 👀) xo @testarossa
personalized kink prompt list ✨
˙⋆ tentacles + voyeurism + emeto | landoscar/mcl40 bonus kink: cumflation, extremely dubious consent? ⤷read on ao3
---
The car is bad. They know from day dot that the MCL40 is… well. Andrea calls it disagreeable. It's just the new regulations, he insists, a whole set of new things to contend with that make having a technorganic car a thousand times more difficult than they already are. He says these things like they're simple. Like it's just another obstacle to overcome as a team.
But Andrea isn't the one who has to climb in and fight it. And from the first fittings, it's abundantly fucking clear that they're going to be fighting it all year long.
The pre-season session is immediately awful. Having to watch Lando come limping out of the fitting room, white as a sheet, completely nonverbal when Oscar asks him how it's gone. He manages a shrug. The shrug also makes him wince.
After Oscar’s gone in, he tries to convince himself it's not all that bad. He tries to convince himself that the car isn't holding him tighter than it used to, that it's not keeping him longer, that it's not meaner than last year. He tries to convince himself that when it curls around him and shoves inside of him he's only misremembering the gentle touch of the MCL39.
We'll just have to try something new, the team keeps saying. Back to the drawing board. As if it’s that easy. As if any of them have to go through what he and Lando do.
A third of the way through the season, he's let into the fitting room before Lando leaves. One of the new things that they just have to try is having some overlap in the time spent with the car. Privately, Oscar is wary that they'll try to pack the two of them into the seat at once. Like Pacific Rim with some distinctly niche anime touches.
When he gets inside, Lando is already propped up against the opposite wall, wrapped in a towel like he's just out of the shower. He's wet enough for it. Drenched with sweat, curls plastered flat to his head.
"D'you think," Lando says, and then interrupts himself to hiccough up a mouthful of the dark iridescent fluid Oscar recognizes is from the car. It runs down his chin, his chest, his stomach. Soaks into the already darkly stained towel around his hips. "Sorry, Christ. You reckon Kimi's going through this shite?"
It's a sort-of-kind-of running joke between them, that the Mercedes boys might be going through anything near this level of hell. The only thing their car has in common with Mercedes' is the power unit. As far as Oscar is aware, no one else on the grid is running a car the way McLaren is.
"George, maybe," Oscar offers. Because if anyone's suffering anywhere near as much as the two of them this year, it's George Russell.
It gets a laugh out of Lando, which also pulls another round of black spit-up out of him. It looks effortless. Like he's so full of it it takes nothing at all to push it out.
"Fuck, that's gross," Oscar says. Lando laughs again, bitter this time. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and it leaves an oil-slick smear across his cheek.
"She's not nice today," Lando says grimly. He keeps calling it she this year.
The agreement for this round is that Lando goes first, like a test run, because he's been doing this for years longer than Oscar has. Then, Oscar will go in, and Lando will stick around to see if he gets any vibes or whatever. Lando had laughed about it for ages when they'd first worked it out. The official vibe-checker of the team. He really should get a raise.
So Oscar strips, too nervous to be self-conscious. The seat looks the same as it ever does, innocuous, or as innocuous as a plastic tub of semi-sentient ooze can be. He thinks about making a joke as he goes to climb in. Thinks about batting his lashes at Lando, like, you're not going to give me a hand in? because it's something that Lando would do to take the edge off for them both. But when he glances over, Lando's just watching, face tight, body tighter. He's shaking a little. Someone should've brought him a blanket. Oscar climbs in without another word.
The second he slides in the car is all over him.
It always feels a little bit like being consumed, swallowed up in the thick dark of the car. But this time it feels like it's really, truly trying to eat him. Like there are tiny teeth prickling over his body, like a cat's tongue or like shark skin and it's all over. He always does his best to stay quiet during fittings. He knows they've got cameras all over the place, for obvious reasons, and he's not interested in giving some McLaren tech any wank fantasy fuel by making weird noises. But it's so startling that he yelps—mouth falling open around an alarmed sound that twists into a moan that is and isn't just pain. The car takes advantage of this by plunging down his throat.
Lando wasn't kidding. Not nice, as it turns out, is the understatement of the century. Not nice at all.
The press of it in his mouth is all-consuming, all at once. As far as being penetrated goes, normally he's most unnerved about it going up his dick, mainly because he'd been shocked and frankly embarrassed to find it felt pretty good. Up the arse and down the throat is whatever at this point. He's used to these things. But this time the car spears him hard at both ends, no adjustment, no allowance for any time to think at all. Just in, in, in, as deep as it can get, as much as it can get.
He can feel it in places that should probably not be felt. He can feel it writhing around up his arse, which again, he's used to. But he can feel every inch of it slinking down his throat, wriggling the length of his esophagus until it has to be directly in his belly. It's so far down there's nowhere else it could be.
In previous sessions, Oscar has tentatively compared the fittings to fucking. Because that's kind of what it is—the car inside of him, him inside of the car. The car working him and itself to completion, whatever that means for it.
This time, once it’s seated in him, there's no hesitation before it starts to pump him full of itself. There's no reciprocity, no introductory hey-how-are-ya orgasm. It feels clinical. Like a factory line. Like Oscar's a can, or a cow, something to be stuffed full and emptied out later. The MCL39, Oscar thinks, was as close to warm as you could get with something like this.
His body convulses. Somehow he never forgets to breathe when he’s here. He’s never been afraid of suffocating or choking to death, and even now it’s only a dim, distant footnote. Still, his body understands that he’s too full, too fast, and it understands that it wants less of that. Less of everything.
He isn’t expecting it when he quite literally overflows.
The car has been pumping him full and full and fuller for an amount of time you couldn’t pay him to track, and eventually, he knows, it all has to go somewhere. It’s more normal when it’s just his arsehole. When it fucks him full and then thins itself so it can ooze out of him, lets him drip dry while he comes down in what was the safe cradle of the seat.
Distinctly less normal: his stomach squeezing so suddenly that he has no time to process what’s happening. His whole abdomen jerking and curving, his throat spasming around the car. A rush of bitter-thick fluid that spurts out of the bare space between his lips and the car’s tendril.
Now he’s choking. Now there’s some deeper part of him that realizes he might actually be in danger and if he could force out words he’d be calling for help. If he could move he’d be trying to climb out of the car. It’s the kind of reaction he’d have to crashing on track, and the engine catching fire. The desperation to get out and to get out quick.
He spits up more car goo, and then more, and more, until he realizes it’s not going to stop. Until he realizes the car isn’t slowing down.
All at once he realizes he won’t be able to take this. He’ll drown here, or suffocate, or—something. It’s all just a little too familiar, in the end. The muscle memory want to hit a brake pedal that isn’t there. The looming dread, the anticipation of a wall.
“Oscar.”
His eyes move on their own, flicker up and around, roiling in their sockets. Lando’s face beams down on him like the sun. Oscar wants to reach for him.
“I’m here,” Lando says, and he reaches in, which is distinctly against every rule Oscar’s ever been told. You’re not supposed to touch once a driver is in the car. Something about contamination. Something about tainting the process.
Oscar heaves. He spits up another flood of fluid, and he lifts his elbow, and the car lets him free enough to grab for Lando’s hand. That’s all it is; Lando doesn’t yank him out of the car, and the car doesn’t yank Lando in. Suddenly Oscar is just there, like he always is, but Lando is holding his hand. Lando is telling him he’s okay. Oscar is oozing out of the corners of his mouth and a little out his nose but Lando says he’s okay. So maybe he is.
It feels like it doesn’t take all that much longer, after that.
The car recedes, slow, easing out of him and slinking back into whatever form it takes when it’s not being touched. Oscar gags a little on the way up, and he feels the flood between his legs before he spits up again. He’ll be leaking for days, he thinks. There’s no way he’ll drip dry after this. There’s no way he’s going to sit here long enough to let it happen.
“Up you get,” Lando says softly. His hand wraps around Oscar’s wrist, big and strong and solid. Oscar clutches at him even though his fingers won’t close tight enough to get a proper grip. It’s enough, though, Lando hauling him up and then dragging him out of the car. Neither of them have the strength for this. Once Oscar’s out of the seat, he slips, and Lando’s too feeble to hold him upright, so they both end up on the floor. Oscar, naked. Lando, also naked. Oscar wonders where his towel’s gone.
It takes Oscar a minute to catch his breath. A minute longer to stop drooling up what the car’s left him with, to tip his face away from the puddle he’s made on the floor and press his face into Lando’s neck.
“Car’s bad,” Oscar grunts against his skin.
Lando laughs. Oscar feels the jump of his pulse against his lips. He’s still sweaty. They both are. They both smell like petrol left too long in the sun, sweet like they’ve been caramelized.
“Yeah,” Lando says. “Yeah, car’s bad.”