lando is insane, he is so good, and that's all I'm taking from today. so many what ifs, so much I'm pissed off about, but lando did everything and more, he is so good!!
if you’re still taking prompts, 1, 7, or 9 with landoscar would be amazing <3 can’t wait to see what you do with them!
(i really enjoy your writing, btw! <33)
prompts
Thank you so much for choosing these ones, I found myself so inspired last night and, well... this is it.
Hope I did it justice!!!
landoscar - body worship & lingerie - 2,8k words
Oscar has been locked in the bathroom for about ten minutes, if he’s counting correctly; which is definitely getting suspicious by now.
But he can’t bring himself to move, his hands gripping the edge of the sink, his eyes fixed on his reflection.
He has the set on; the one he bought himself the week before, when he still thought this was going to be a good idea.
Well, if not good, at least enjoyable.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
He stares at his body; large, thick, covered in baby-pink panties and a matching bra.
The whole set is basically see-through, with little cherries covering the intimate parts, because he thought it would maybe look good. Attractive. Whatever.
Right now, he only feels fucking stupid.
When Lando had done it a few months ago, he hadn’t looked stupid, he’d looked hot.
Black panties, straps crossing over his taut stomach, attached to the bra he had bought with it.
The whole thing featured details Oscar didn’t even have the words for, wrapping around his muscular, almost hairless thighs, making his ass look amazing.
His whole body looked more curved than sharp, more soft than strong, his tiny waist looking even smaller, if that was even possible.
So fucking hot Oscar had felt dizzy with it.
He had spent hours enjoying it, then ruining it enough for Lando to throw them away.
And Oscar had known his time would come eventually.
The moment he saw Lando crossing the finish line first a couple of weeks ago, he just knew what Lando was going to ask for.
Because that’s how it worked, that’s how they worked.
Always the winner’s choice.
Fucking bullshit.
Because now he feels like he might cry looking at his reflection, and he hasn’t cried since he was a kid leaving his mom to fly across the world.
God.
He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, closing his eyes, trying to breathe through the anxiety clawing at his chest.
But it’s a lost cause.
He has never been that self-conscious about his body; he doesn’t really care about how it looks, more about what it can do. And his body allows him to do pretty amazing things.
Like winning races and things.
Fucking Lando being a whole part of the ‘things’.
But right now, he sees everything: the dark hair on his legs, in between his thighs, his pubes barely hidden behind the soft fabric.
He sees how broad his chest is, how wide his shoulders are, stretching the pink bra to its absolute limit.
The pastel lace cuts into his skin, highlighting everything that makes him a driver, everything that makes him too large for something so delicate.
There’s no soft blur, no flattering angles – just him, solid and massive, trapped in a ridiculous piece of pink mesh.
As he said, stupid.
He doesn’t even know why Lando asked for this when he could have asked for ten things that were way better; like sitting on Oscar’s face, making Oscar ride him on the balcony, or even not letting him come.
And Oscar would have coped much better with that.
Than with fucking lingerie.
His whole wardrobe is filled with maroon t-shirts and shorts. What the hell was Lando thinking?
He sighs, tilting his head back, staring at the ceiling to finally find the courage to move, to do something at least.
Maybe Lando just wants to make fun of him, wants to be a little mean because Oscar hasn’t been in the best mood recently.
Maybe it’s payback, a humiliation ritual or something.
Maybe Oscar will end up crying tonight after all.
He feels the fabric scratching his sensitive skin – his balls, for fuck's sake.
He hates it.
Hates it even more when he looks at himself.
Sighing heavily, ignoring the weird feeling in his chest, he takes it all off, grabbing his discarded clothes to put them back on.
Fuck it. Fuck Lando.
When he opens the door to go back into the hotel room, Lando is sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his oversized hoodie with only a pair of briefs, his foot tapping the carpet nervously.
He looks up instantly, but the spark of anticipation in his eyes dies right away, replaced by a defiant look.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he asks, his brows shooting high up on his forehead then snapping back down, knitted together.
“My clothes,” Oscar replies, trying to keep his voice even, the panties and the bra gripped tight in his hand.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Lando scoffs, standing up. A little pout is already forming on his lips, and Oscar grows a fraction weaker just looking at it. “But why? Did it not fit?”
“No.”
Which... isn’t a lie, right?
Lando levels him with a look, stopping right in front of him. “Yeah? What you’re packing down there is too big, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Just?” Lando interrupts, a disapproving glint in his eyes, like Oscar is a bad kid being lectured.
Oscar presses his lips into a tight line and looks away, trying to gather the balls to just say it like it was.
“I looked fucking stupid,” he admits, his voice clipped. “There’s no way I'm wearing that.”
“But it’s the deal. It’s the rules.” Lando frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, looking a bit more defensive now.
“Well, just find something else, alright?”
“No.”
“You can’t force me, Lando. That’s not how it works.”
He expects him to argue, at least a little bit, but he doesn’t. Instead, a focused look settles on Lando's face, like he’s calculating his next move. He lifts a hand, his fingers absentmindedly smoothing the fabric of Oscar’s t-shirt.
“I’m the one who gets to decide if you look stupid. Not you.”
“Oh come on–”
“I wanna see it,” Lando says, cutting him off again, which Oscar is starting to find a bit annoying, frankly. “Let me see it.”
Oscar opens his mouth again, but Lando grabs him by the hips, pulling him closer, their chests almost touching.
“And obviously, if you don’t feel comfortable, I’ll fucking drop it,” Lando adds, a bit more gently now, slowly losing his bitchy attitude. “I’m not a dick.”
“You kinda are sometimes, though.”
“Shut it,” Lando replies immediately, but his hands remain gentle on Oscar’s hips, slipping underneath his t-shirt to feel his skin.
Oscar almost sighs in relief, his eyes fluttering closed – there’s something grounding about having Lando’s hands on him, about having Lando’s attention.
He knows it’s a losing battle already. There’s no way he’s saying no.
It’s like his brain chemistry has been wired to never deny Lando Norris anything.
“Would you let me?”
Oscar snaps his eyes open and frowns. “Let you what?”
“Put it on you,” Lando answers, his voice turning a bit shy around the edges, if Oscar is reading the room correctly. “Dress you up.”
“Man, that’s—”
“Please.”
This time, the interruption isn’t nearly as annoying, Oscar must admit.
His second brain is already starting to wake up, his blood rushing south the moment Lando starts to plead; mostly because pleading usually leads to begging. And Oscar loves Lando on his knees.
“Okay,” he hears himself say before he can think.
He should definitely take it back, because if wearing the lingerie was bad, letting Lando dress him like a doll is so much worse.
But he can’t back down now. Not when Lando shoots him his most earnest smile and holds out his hand, making grabby fingers until Oscar takes the hint.
Oscar caves a second later, already feeling his cheeks burn as he drops the fabric into Lando's open palm.
“Alright,” Lando says conversationally, walking backwards to drag Oscar along with him, still holding him with both hands at his hips. Then he shifts, inverting their positions until Oscar is standing right at the edge of the bed.
“First things first, let’s get rid of these,” he mumbles, a bit petulant, looking almost offended by Oscar’s plain black t-shirt. Oscar opens his mouth to argue, but he thinks better of it and just does as he’s told.
He pulls the t-shirt over his head and kicks off his gym shorts.
“Briefs too,” Lando sing-songs, waving the lacy pink panties right in front of Oscar’s face. “I have something way better for you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Soon enough, baby, don’t worry,” Lando replies without missing a beat, a smug little smirk stretching across his face.
Once again, Oscar does as he’s told. What else is he supposed to do?
He’s used to being naked around Lando.
But right now, it feels like the first time all over again; his stomach is in knots, his skin running hot enough to make him break into a light sweat, his throat completely dry.
His whole body is tight, buzzing with anticipation. With nerves. With desire.
“Okay, now,” Lando murmurs, and suddenly, his eyes lose their edge again, becoming something close to tender, gentle, almost. He comes a step closer just to rest one of his hands against Oscar’s chest. “D’you trust me?”
“Clearly depends on the subject,” Oscar replies, a bit dryly.
“Osc,” Lando pouts, swatting Oscar on the chest. “Be serious for a sec.”
Which isn’t a very Lando thing to say, but still.
This night has already been full of new things, Oscar reckons.
“Yeah,” Oscar sighs, looking into Lando’s blue-green eyes. “Yes, ’course I trust you.”
Lando seems satisfied, and his smile turns into something small and private, like it’s meant just for Oscar to see.
Oscar doesn’t want to look too deeply into the warm feeling spreading through his chest, behind his ribs, and down between his thighs.
Then, slowly, Lando gets to work.
He starts by leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to Oscar’s shoulder while his hand slides from his chest, up his neck, to cup his jaw. He tilts Oscar’s head exactly where he wants it, guiding him before kissing him slowly, deeply.
It's nothing like their usual rush, nothing explosive. It’s something so quiet, so intimate, Oscar’s heart might burst with it.
“First of all,” Lando murmurs against his lips, trailing a line of kisses along his jaw. “You never look stupid.”
Oscar feels his stomach clench.
He hadn’t expected Lando to talk.
Or if talking was involved, he hadn’t expected it to look like this.
“At least, I never find you stupid,” he adds with a small smile, a bit amused, holding Oscar’s gaze for a brief second.
“Generally, I’d say I find you attractive,” he goes on, tossing the bra aside onto the mattress but keeping the pink lace hooked on his fingers.
Without warning, he crouches down. Oscar has to bite his lip fiercely when Lando's face ends up level with his dick – which is very clearly making its presence known, fully on board with having such a pretty boy right in front of it.
Lando doesn’t waste the opportunity, pressing a hot kiss right at the base. “Come back to you later.”
“Did you really just address my dick? Mate–”
“Shut up. You don’t talk this much usually,” Lando snarks, swatting his thigh with the back of his hand. “Lift your foot,” he demands, tapping his fingers against Oscar’s ankle.
Oscar does as he's told, and Lando carefully guides his foot into the first leg hole, repeating the motion on the other side.
All of his gestures are slow, deliberate. He takes his time, his fingers grazing against Oscar's ankle, then his knee, his mouth pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.
There’s something so tender about the way Lando is acting; nothing like his usual self, so demanding and intense.
“So, as I was saying,” Lando starts again once he’s done, running his hands up Oscar’s legs. “Generally, I find you attractive,” he repeats, slowly rising to his feet and pulling the pink lace up with him.
“Hot and fuckable, most of the time,” he adds.
Oscar swallows hard at the feeling of the silk and lace stretching over his skin, the delicate fabric covering his dick.
He shivers at the feeling of Lando’s fingers turning electric where they linger on his hips, smoothing the pink elastic against his waist.
He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving because what he’s experiencing is becoming way too much to handle.
“And really, really pretty,” Lando murmurs, finally level with Oscar again.
The word hits like a physical punch. Oscar’s instinct is to immediately laugh it off, because pretty is a word for girls, not a–
“So fucking pretty, Osc. I could look at you all day.”
Oscar feels his heart going wild in his chest. Hearing Lando admit that kind of thing is certainly not usual.
Even though he knows Lando will probably chalk it up to dirty talk later, claiming it was nothing more than a bit of teasing, Oscar knows he must mean it right now.
There’s no way Lando can fake that earnest look in his eyes.
Lando smiles gently, indulgently, as he brushes away a stray curl that had fallen into Oscar’s face, looking straight into his eyes for a second.
“And look at you now…” he whispers, his long fingers coming to graze against the skin of his lower belly, toying with the panties' elastic, following the shape of his definitely hardening cock through the fabric.
It makes Oscar’s skin feel like it's on fire, his dick twitching in response.
“Can’t believe you chose this well,” Lando breathes, almost to himself, his eyes anchored to the way the pink lace stretches over him before shifting back up to meet Oscar’s gaze. “Pink really suits you.”
Oscar blushes and he doesn’t really know why.
He doesn’t know if it’s because Lando is standing so close, his fingers burning into his skin.
He doesn’t know if it’s because he sees something close to awe in Lando's eyes – a look he’s not sure he’s ever seen directed at him before.
“Turn around, baby,” Lando murmurs with a small smile, both hands guiding his hips to pivot him.
He handles the bra like a champ. His touch is light as he guides Oscar’s arms through the straps one by one, his fingertips tracing a slow path up to his shoulders.
Oscar shivers when he feels Lando’s thumbs hook under the band, smoothing the fabric flat against his back before fastening the clasps on the very first attempt, without a single fumble.
“How d’you manage that?” Oscar asks, genuinely disbelieving. “It took me ages.”
He hears Lando laugh before Lando's whole body presses against his back, making him feel the hard line of his cock against his almost bare ass.
He pushes back on instinct; not even thinking about how uninterested he felt twenty minutes ago by the whole thing.
“Had plenty of practice, I’m afraid,” Lando whispers in his ear, his breath hot. His arms circle Oscar's waist, pulling him back a fraction closer as he grinds against his ass without shame.
“No shit,” Oscar huffs, a bitter little laugh bubbling up.
Because yes, of course. He’s seen enough girls slipping in and out of Lando’s hotel rooms over the years to fucking know.
But then Lando steps back, and Oscar almost complains about it until he feels Lando’s hand again, sliding from his hip to his ass. Lando cups a handful of his bare cheek between his fingers, squeezing gently, and.
God. Oscar wants to fucking die.
He doesn’t tell him to stop, though.
“Damn, Osc, you look…”
“Stupid?” He tries for a light tone, but his voice comes out a bit strangled, strained. And he’s definitely straining against his panties, his dick firmly in the game now.
“Gorgeous,” Lando replies, making Oscar turn around again so they're facing each other.
And it’s even more exposing with the bra on, Oscar thinks. Because he remembers exactly how he looked in the mirror earlier, absolutely ridiculous and–
“Fuck,” Lando breathes as he takes him in, his eyes roaming over his whole body; down to the panties, then back up to his chest, then his lips, then all the way back down again. Oscar blushes even harder, his heartbeat quickening.
“Lando,” he murmurs, his voice distinctly pleading, even if he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore.
For Lando to stop staring.
For Lando to keep staring.
For Lando to just fucking do something.
“Can you see it now?” Lando asks as he finally locks eyes with Oscar. Both his hands come up to cup his face, his thumbs gently rubbing his flushing cheeks.
“See what?” Oscar whispers. His voice is hoarse, his limbs entirely useless, pinned flat on the spot by the weight of Lando’s gaze.
And now he has to look again. Urgently. Compulsively.
So he picks the phone back up from the sticky bartop, the screen already dark from inactivity, and unlocks it with fingers that suddenly feel weirdly clumsy against the display.
The picture is still there at the bottom of the chat. Slightly blurry. Clearly rushed. But devastatingly, undeniably, tangibly real.
It’s the McLaren jersey – his McLaren jersey, bright papaya orange and stamped with the number four across the chest – except the problem is that the body underneath it is objectively far too broad and muscular for a shirt that hangs comfortably loose on Lando himself.
The fabric stretches across Oscar’s shoulders obscenely well.
ZERO CYCLE, CHAPTER 2: Training/Bastion – fanart by elmocracy
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