#hoeforanakin

[gattyswriting]

OR flipside of that free use anon where lando goes to see oscar expecting them to be fine and oscar's a bit closed off so lando starts offering all sorts of sexual favours. and oscar's like well not gonna say no to that.

so it ends up loser takes it all

and all i need is a great big congratulations

he’s fucked up, yeah. but not like everyone else around him is fucked up. they’re fucked up on vodka and adrenaline and awe, cheering like they’ve just seen a god walk into the room. and he IS a god right now, isn’t he? world fucking champion. everything he ever wanted. the montage played in his head during those last two laps—little lando on the kart, dad on the playstation, monaco, silverstone, all of it building to THIS—and it was perfect, it was everything, he was crying in the car and he didn’t care who saw.

but now his head is full of static.

he keeps thinking about that comment. just one word.

Congratulations

oscar didn’t come to the afterparty. dipped after the team photos, after the champagne, after standing on that podium in second place watching lando get third and take the whole fucking world anyway. didn’t reply to the texts. didn’t answer when lando asked, “you coming?” like he usually does, that dry, low-voiced thing he always pulls when he knows oscar’s somewhere nearby.

oscar’s not nearby now. he’s not anywhere. not really. not even in the race replay in lando’s head.

and yeah, that hurts. hurts worse than it should when he just won everything. when he should only be feeling the high, the disbelief, the MY DAD WAS RIGHT THERE and I DID IT and THIS IS OURS. except it doesn’t feel like ours when oscar won’t even look at him.

maybe that’s why he’s standing outside oscar’s hotel door at fuck-all o’clock, not really drunk anymore but still stupid with it, still floating on whatever high’s left after becoming world fucking champion. the painting he wants made is in his head—that final corner, papayas everywhere, chequered flag, his gloves up because he was crying—but right now all he can see is oscar’s face. closed off. distant. wrong.

there’s no music here. just hallway carpet and an ache behind his eyes and the lump in his throat he’s too proud to name.

he knocks.

when oscar opens the door, lando blurts, “i’ll do anything. just—can we be okay again?”

he doesn’t mean it like that. not at first. not until he sees oscar’s expression shift, unreadable and quiet and maybe a little hungry. and if that’s what it takes—if offering himself up like this, tongue and teeth and throat and thighs, could undo the weird wrongness between them, then fuck it.

he’s already stripping off his jacket.

and oscar just steps aside. lets him in. closes the door.

“you don’t have to do this,” oscar says, but he’s not moving away. not stopping him.

“i know,” lando replies. “i want to.”

he does. he wants to make it right. with his mouth. with his knees on the floor. with anything oscar wants.

he won the world. he’ll give oscar everything else.

[ladymarshmall0w]

local marshmallow may we have a snippet of anything you're working on at the moment? 🍫🍫🍫🍫

i do have a little snippet i want to share, thank you for asking sweet elena >⩊<.ᐟ

*clears throat* eckem excuse me, this thing on? *taps mic*

*dusts off google doc* okay

𝜗ৎ

He lines himself up—pushes into the heat he knows all too well and can never get enough of.

Seconds pass as Oscar allows Lando to adjust to the stretch. It amazes Oscar every time how his boyfriend is immediately putty in his grasp at just a little manhandling and something filling him up. He's moaning and breathing heavily by the time a whole 20 seconds has passed.

It’s his cue, his sign to get moving. Inside the rest of the way and then out. In again, slightly faster this time, and with wet sounds echoing across the tile.

read more ᯓ➤ here

[str-481]

a thing i want to know about you is what is your favourite flower 🌸🌸🌸

ask game

Ohhh good question, I don't know much about flowers, mostly because I haven't gotten many before but I really like lilies and chrysanthemums (my birth flower) !

[gattyswriting]

GATTYYY TALK SOME ABOUT JEALOUS WASTED LANDO IVE BEEN THINKING SOOOO MUCH WHATTT???

i misread this ask 💀 and ended up writing landoscar sickfic/jealous lando. he's not wasted but anyway close enough!!

Not Oscar

Oscar pushes the hotel room door open quietly. He’s already slipped out of his trainers by the time it closes behind him—muffling the latch so it doesn’t click too loud—and the moment he turns the corner, he sees the bundle of blankets on the bed.

Lando didn’t come to team dinner. Hadn’t been seen since post-quali debrief. And now it’s obvious why.

He’s curled up tight in the middle of the mattress, still in his McLaren hoodie and trackies, nose pink, a crumpled tissue clenched in one hand like he fell asleep mid-sneeze. There’s a used tissue mountain collecting on the nightstand. One water bottle, unopened. The light from the bathroom’s the only thing on.

Oscar walks in softer.

“Hey,” he says gently.

Lando stirs. Blinks. Doesn’t lift his head. “Did you win dinner?”

Oscar smiles faintly. “No dessert. Zak ordered too much catering again.”

A pause.

Then Lando says, voice hoarse, “I saw the interview.”

Oscar hesitates. “Which one?”

Lando looks up. He doesn’t say it, but it’s all there—the tension around his mouth, the congested flush on his cheeks, the betrayed twitch of his brows.

“Max,” Lando says. “After quali.”

“Oh.”

Lando clears his throat. “He said, ‘Not Oscar’.”

Oscar doesn’t move. “He did.”

“And you laughed.”

Oscar swallows. “It was a joke.”

“It was at my expense.”

There’s no bite to it. Just a quiet ache that makes Oscar sit on the bed’s edge and lean close. “Lan—”

“You did that grin,” Lando murmurs, barely audible. “That one you do when someone older than you gives you attention. Like you’re flattered to be included.”

Oscar exhales. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not,” Oscar says, more sharply than he means to. “He made a joke. Everyone laughed. George was next to me laughing, too—”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t giggling at George.”

Oscar rubs a hand over his face. “I wasn’t giggling.”

“You smiled like you did when Jenson first said your name.”

That makes Oscar stop. Something in his chest goes a little still.

Lando shifts under the blankets. He’s not looking at him anymore. Just blinking blearily at the ceiling, like it’s easier to be miserable in general than to hold eye contact and risk looking pathetic.

Oscar softens. “You think I was charmed.”

“I think I looked like an idiot. And you looked happy about it.”

“Lando.”

He shifts closer, slides a hand over Lando’s arm where it sticks out of the hoodie. His skin’s hot. The kind of heat that’s not from embarrassment, but fever. He’s miserable. Overthinking. And the worst part is that he’s not totally wrong—Oscar had smiled. Had thought that was fucking funny. Had maybe not considered how it would look to someone who wasn’t in on the joke. Especially someone who’d just had their quali lap picked apart on international broadcast.

“You weren’t an idiot,” Oscar says quietly. “You didn’t even block him. He was just pissed he didn’t get pole.”

“Still blamed me.”

“He blamed ‘not Oscar,’” Oscar says gently, trying for a smile. “It’s just how he works. He gets emotional.”

Lando doesn’t respond. He looks tired now. Bone-deep. Like the fever’s pulling him back under.

Oscar nudges in closer. “Can I…?”

Lando shifts the blanket. Barely. But enough to let Oscar crawl under it beside him.

Oscar wraps an arm around his waist, fingers brushing where his hoodie has ridden up. Lando’s skin is flushed and burning.

“You’re allowed to be pissed,” Oscar says quietly, pressing his lips to the back of Lando’s shoulder. “Just… don’t doubt where I stand. Yeah?”

Lando’s silent for a beat.

Then, softly: “I didn’t want to spiral.”

“I know.”

“I just felt shit. And then you were smiling like he was some fucking—”

“Lan.”

Lando exhales. “Yeah.”

Oscar tightens his grip around his waist. “Next time, tell me.”

“Next time,” Lando mumbles, “don’t flirt with Max Verstappen on television.”

Oscar huffs a breath. “Wasn’t flirting.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Oscar lets the silence stretch for a moment.

Then: “He’s not even my type.”

Lando snorts, small and choked.

Oscar smiles. “Too angry. Not enough curly hair. Can’t pull off team kit.”

Lando breathes out a laugh, weak but real. “Shut up.”

Oscar presses another kiss to his shoulder. “Only if you stop thinking I’d rather be with Max.”

Lando doesn’t answer—but he shifts, closer, until their legs are tangled and his cheek is pressed to Oscar’s chest. And when he finally speaks again, it’s so quiet it might be a dream.

“…I hate that grin.”

Oscar smiles into his hair. “I know.”

[ladymarshmall0w]

oohhhhhh please elaborate on jimmy'z!!

okayyyyy!! i posted a snippet here but here’s some sauce. this is leading up to the first sex scene i ever wrote….let me know if you want any of that bc this fic is 6k words :)

it’s tipsy angsty landoscar after barely half a night at jimmy’z that boils over into….well more

(wip game)

Jimmy’z

“You are good,” Oscar said with confidence, like he was reciting some fact from a history book.

Shock overcame him, body stuck frozen. The Aussie did too, but it was because he was mulling over his next words. “Really good, Lando.”

That was what finally brought his full attention back up to Oscar, head flicking upwards. He swept over the man’s features, grasping for some sort of comprehension.

Last time he’d looked at Oscar was literal minutes ago, but it felt like years the way it hit him. Oscar’s lips were parted like the sentence slipped out by accident. There was a faint pink flush across his cheeks, and Lando knew he was likely sporting a similar color on his face as well.

It wrecked him the most though when his eyes met contrasting brown ones. They were opened wide, unwavering. Soft.

Maybe he was naive, but he believed Oscar meant it. All he’d ever wanted was to be good—to be worthy, and it coming from Oscar, well he didn’t really know what to do with that.

They were already relatively close, but Lando’s legs subconsciously carried him within steps of each other.

He couldn’t fully come to his senses. Nameless emotions whirled inside of him, threatening to crack open his rib cage, and spill out. His legs felt unsteady as he swayed a bit.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” Lando whispered, unsure he even said it at all.

Oscar’s answer was quick, assured. “I mean it.” One would assume he’d been armed with the response, anticipating the question.

They stared, considering one another. Were they weighing their options? Were there options?

Then there was movement, so fast there was no way of telling who shifted first before they were connected. It wasn’t necessarily delicate or careful like first kisses were in fiction. Too much momentum and force. It was more needy and messy than anything else, fueled by fury.

Oscar’s hands gripped firm onto him, like he was going for a hot lap. Their bodies were pressed together in all the right places. Hips knocked together, chasing any sort of juncture.

One of Lando’s hands latched onto Oscar's waist and the other wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him down. He slid his tongue into Oscar's mouth as they kissed, attempting to taste whatever fruity cocktail previously resided there. He took it easily, coaxing out breathy gasps.

Oscar’s lips were softer than he’d imagined, not that Lando had put much thought into it before. Maybe he would have if he knew how lost he’d be in the velvet drag of them.

The noises that sounded in the quiet were obscene. A mixture of desperate groans and spit slicked lips dancing together. It was addicting.

He wished he could record Oscar’s moans and play them back whenever he wanted. He didn’t stew too much about what that meant, just wanted more—needed it. Oscar was opening up to Lando’s touch like he needed it too.

This wasn’t what he imagined when he decided it, but he had definitely excelled at pushing the conversation alright. Pushed it right up against the wall, Oscar along with it.

The contact knocked the air out of both of them. They stopped kissing, but were still close, lips brushing together. They stood with chests heaving, sharing whatever oxygen was left between them.

[gattyswriting]

New Oscar’s photo for Reiss x Mclaren Racing collection – @oscarpiastrihd81 on Tumblr

the first photo is kind of giving kindergarten teacher. like the kind that baby talks to the parents as well and everyone adores the fuck out of her

the fleece!! the gentle smile!! the hands clasped politely!! he’s sitting on that couch like he’s about to tell you your child had a wonderful day and is really coming along with their shapes

“Kimi had a little trouble sharing the hairpin today but we’ve had a talk about it and he’s going to do better tomorrow 🙂”

[gattyswriting]

if i had a nickel for every time there was a photo of oscar scratching his balls with a microphone... (i'd only have two nickels but it's weird that it happened twice)

he needs to master the art of scratching your balls through your pockets

also did you know that for kangaroos (and all marsupials) the balls are located above the penis

the scrotum hangs from the lower abdomen well in front of and above the penis. the penis sits further back, closer to the anus and stays retracted inside an internal sac until its needed. when they mate, it extends forward and downward from behind the testicles

as a bonus design choice, the tip of their penis is also bifurcated (split like a two prong fork) bc female kangaroos have two lateral vaginas for sperm transport. marsupials dont have a true placenta so the females have a completely different internal structure, including a birth canal that sits right down the middle of their reproductive tract

anyway something to consider for those hybridkoala!oscar fics

[ladymarshmall0w]

🎁🎁 any snippet from ur beautiful brain?

hiiii elena! thank you for thinking my brain is beautiful 🥰 this is a drabble (i have more of it) i wrote a little while ago and i want to finish after i move

—————

Oscar pays attention too much, and much too often. Sometimes it’s a good thing, and sometimes…not so much.

He finds himself in one of those moments now. Where he can't help but stare at the man leaning on the wood of the doorway, entranced by his stupid figure-hugging shirt smothering his stupid bulbous nipples and his stupid pendant necklace.

It’s such a fucking scene he doesn’t understand how everyone else is so fine with it. How is the saliva staying put in their mouths? How is the blood and heat evenly distributed through their bodies? How are they speaking full, coherent sentences? How do they not have a semi just at the sight, the mere sight of his Lando Norris?

Coffee curls damp with sudor stick out every which way when oversized hands ruffle through the coils. The suit Lando is wearing is folded down and resting low on his hips, low enough to show the smallest breach of skin when his shirt rides up. And Oscar would call it attention seeking but at the moment it doesn’t seem to draw anyone else’s attention but his.

inspired by: