oscar looks so comfy and soft in that last pic you posted his chest looks so inviting imagine lando mouthing at it through the soft fabric
ah this picture
Tomatoes
Oscar’s halfway through unpacking the tomatoes when arms wrap around him from behind.
He startles—nearly drops one—but then there’s a mouth on his neck, warm and familiar, teeth dragging up to that soft spot behind his ear.
“Oh,” he says, slightly breathless. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Lando murmurs, lips brushing his skin. “You smell good.”
Oscar huffs. “It’s fabric softener. I did laundry.”
“I know.” Lando sounds way too pleased. “Love when you do laundry.”
His hands smooth over Oscar’s stomach, palms spreading across the soft grey cotton. Oscar tries to focus—sets the tomato down carefully—but Lando’s already flush behind him, warm and solid, hips snug against his ass.
“It’s just a shirt,” Oscar says.
“No it’s not.” Lando’s voice drops. “It’s the shirt.”
Oscar makes a noncommittal noise. Picks up another tomato. Tries not to think about the way his pulse is starting to climb.
“Go on,” Lando says, hands sliding up his ribs. “Don’t mind me.”
Except he won’t stop touching. His palms settle over Oscar’s chest and stay there, warm and heavy. His thumbs start sweeping outward—slow, lazy arcs that don’t quite reach his nipples. Just enough to make Oscar think about them.
“What are you doing,” Oscar mutters. Not quite a question.
“Nothing,” Lando says, far too innocent.
He does it again. Brushes closer this time. Tighter circles. Barely-there grazes that pull a breath from Oscar’s chest. His nipples perk under the thin fabric, quick and involuntary.
“You look really good today,” Lando says, voice gone low.
“I look the same as always,” Oscar mutters—but he’s not pulling away. If anything, he’s leaning back, pressing into Lando’s warmth.
Lando hums like he disagrees. Then his index fingers nudge inward and finally make contact, brushing the sides of Oscar’s nipples through the soft cotton.
Oscar’s breath hitches.
“This okay?” Lando murmurs, mouth still at his ear.
“Yeah,” Oscar says, quiet. “It’s good.”
So Lando keeps going. Rubbing tighter now. Pinching a little. Oscar can feel them stiffen—fast, sensitive, humiliatingly responsive. Heat crawls up the back of his neck.
“Fuck, I can feel them,” Lando says, like he’s only just realising. “Didn’t know your tits were this needy.”
Then he grins against Oscar’s skin. “You’re so sensitive.”
His thumbs press in, rolling both peaks at once—and Oscar flinches, hips jerking against the counter before he can stop himself.
“You like that?” Lando says, smug now, fingers circling slow and steady.
“You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“Not denying it though.”
Oscar doesn’t bother answering. Just shifts back slightly—grinding into Lando, slow and helpless. He can feel Lando’s hard-on now, thick and obvious against him.
“Can’t help it,” Lando mutters. “You’re like a fucking switch.”
He pinches again, firmer this time—and Oscar jumps, breath catching hard in his throat.
Lando huffs a quiet laugh. “See?”
Oscar doesn’t have a comeback. His brain’s going soft around the edges, chest buzzing, face flushed hot. So he does the only thing he can—he turns around.
They’re kissing before Lando can speak. Fast, messy, too much all at once. Oscar grabs him by the curls and yanks him close, and Lando groans into it like he’s starving.
His hands never leave Oscar’s chest.
Even as they kiss, he’s still working him over—thumbs flicking over each nipple through the cotton, rolling and tugging and rubbing like he’s trying to make Oscar come from just that. Oscar’s melting into it, making these small wrecked noises between kisses. Lips bitten pink. Cheeks burning.
Then Lando pulls back, panting, eyes dark.
And before Oscar can catch his breath, Lando drops his head and latches on—mouth closing over Oscar’s nipple through the shirt, sucking hard.
Oscar gasps. Loud.
“Jesus fucking—”
The heat of it slams through him. Lando’s tongue works the peak through the soaked fabric, flicking and circling and sucking until the cotton goes dark and clings tight. Oscar’s whole body shudders.
“Lando—” he chokes out, fingers fisting in Lando’s hair. “Christ, your mouth—”
Lando hums against him, low and satisfied, and the vibration makes Oscar jerk. He’s grinding now, properly, helpless against Lando’s thigh.
Lando pulls back just enough to thumb over the wet patch.
“You’re soaked through,” he murmurs. The fabric’s nearly translucent now, Oscar’s nipple swollen and flushed underneath. “This is so fucked.”
“Yeah,” Oscar pants, voice wrecked. “Your mess to clean up.”
Lando laughs against his chest. “Not finished making it yet.”
Then he latches onto the other side.
Oscar nearly folds. This time it’s filthier—wetter, rougher. Lando groans like he’s the one getting off, tongue circling, teeth scraping gently, then sucking again with more pressure, more need.
The sound Oscar makes is raw—somewhere between a moan and Lando’s name—and he’s grinding harder now, no shame left in it.
“Lando—god—”
“Yeah, I’ve got you.” Lando’s hands find the hem of the shirt. “Up.”
Oscar lifts his arms, dazed, and Lando strips it off in one smooth motion.
The groceries are still half-unpacked. Dinner can wait.
Oscar should’ve known better than to let Lando top.
They’ve been drilling for twenty minutes—proper technique, proper pressure, because Oscar’s trying to stay sharp between races and Lando insisted he wanted to “get better.” Which is bullshit. Lando just wants an excuse to roll around on the mats with him.
Not that Oscar minds. Not that Oscar’s been even slightly subtle about not minding.
They’re both slick with sweat, dressed down in compression shorts and ancient t-shirts. Competitive in that way they always get—half playful, half obsessive, too wound up to remember this was supposed to be a light session. Oscar had him pinned in side control two minutes ago, hips grinding down just to be a brat, and Lando had looked up at him—grinning, breathless—and said: “That all you got?”
So Oscar might’ve gotten cocky.
Might’ve left an opening.
Lando takes it—quick hook of Oscar’s arm, energetic shift of hips—and suddenly Oscar’s on his back, blinking up at the ceiling while Lando scrambles over him. Oscar expects mount, guard, literally anything except—
North-south.
Lando drops his hips squarely over Oscar’s face.
Oscar goes very, very still.
Lando’s chest is pressed to Oscar’s stomach, facing away, weight settled, posture surprisingly solid. A legitimate position. Dominant, even. If this were actual drilling, Oscar would frame, shrimp, reclaim guard.
But he… doesn’t.
Because Lando’s balls are pressed right against his cheek.
“Fuck,” Oscar exhales, barely audible.
The fabric of Lando’s compression shorts is thin—too thin—and Oscar can feel everything: heat, weight, the soft give of sensitive skin. Lando shifts to adjust, innocent, but it just presses harder against Oscar’s mouth.
“What?” Lando asks, annoyingly casual. “Can’t get out?”
Oscar could. With insulting ease. He knows every escape. Every angle.
He just doesn’t want to.
His tongue flicks out before he can stop himself—quick, instinctive—dragging a slow stripe over sweat-damp fabric.
Lando freezes like he’s been shot. His hands unclamp from Oscar’s hips.
Oscar’s arms are free. He could bridge, roll, reset the entire position. Instead he stays where he is, breathing heat across Lando’s crotch while Lando reaches back—blindly—and tugs at his waistband.
“Fuck it,” Lando mutters.
He shoves his shorts down.
Oscar’s breath stutters.
Lando’s bare now, cock hard and already leaking, balls heavy and exposed right over Oscar’s mouth. The position puts everything right there—Lando’s arse, his balls, the base of his cock. Oscar can smell him, sweat and musk and Lando, and his own cock throbs desperately in his shorts.
“Please,” Lando says, shaky. His hips shift, grinding down slightly. “Please, just—”
Oscar opens his mouth.
Lando sinks down with a groan, and suddenly Oscar’s got a mouthful of him—balls heavy on his tongue, the taste of salt and skin overwhelming. He sucks gently and Lando’s whole body shudders above him.
“Fuck—Oscar—”
But then Lando’s shifting again, adjusting the angle, and Oscar realizes what he’s doing.
Lando rocks his hips forward and the head of his cock drags against Oscar’s lips.
Oscar opens wider.
“Christ,” Lando gasps. “You’re—fuck, okay, just—”
He pushes in slowly. Just the tip, just enough to fill Oscar’s mouth with heat and salt. Oscar curls his tongue under the foreskin, teasing the slit, and Lando’s whole body lurches forward, nearly collapsing onto Oscar’s chest.
“Fuck—”
The angle’s all wrong for this. Oscar’s flat on his back, head tipped slightly, and Lando’s above him facing the opposite direction, which means when Lando pushes in it’s hitting the roof of Oscar’s mouth, the back of his throat at a weird downward angle. It should be awkward. It should be uncomfortable.
Oscar fucking loves it.
Lando pulls back, pushes in again. Deeper this time. Oscar’s jaw is already starting to ache from the stretch, from keeping his mouth wide enough, but he doesn’t care. He flattens his tongue, tries to relax his throat, and Lando slides in another inch.
“Oh my god,” Lando breathes. His hands are braced on the mat beside Oscar’s hips, holding himself up, and Oscar can see the tension in his arms, the way he’s shaking with the effort of going slow. “Your mouth is so—fuck, so hot—”
Oscar hums around him and Lando’s hips stutter.
“Don’t—” Lando gasps. “Don’t do that, I’ll—”
Oscar does it again. Lets the vibration travel down Lando’s cock, and Lando makes this desperate punched-out sound above him.
Then Lando’s hips snap forward.
Properly this time. Not careful, not slow. He fucks into Oscar’s mouth with a groan, and Oscar gags around him—can’t help it, the angle’s too sharp, too deep—but he breathes hard through his nose and takes it.
“Fuck, sorry, sorry—” Lando’s pulling back, but Oscar grabs his arse with both hands and drags him back down.
More.
Lando gets the message.
He starts moving properly now, hips rolling in steady thrusts, fucking Oscar’s mouth like he means it. The sounds are obscene—wet and sloppy, Oscar choking and gagging every few thrusts when Lando goes too deep. Spit’s running down Oscar’s cheeks, pooling at the corners of his mouth, dripping into his hair.
“S’good,” Lando’s babbling. “So fucking good for me—taking it—taking all of it—”
Oscar can barely breathe. His nose is pressed against Lando’s balls every time he pushes in deep, inhaling the musk of him, the sweat. His own cock is throbbing untouched in his shorts, leaking steadily, but he can’t even think about it. All he can focus on is keeping his jaw wide, keeping his throat open, letting Lando use him.
Lando’s rhythm is getting erratic now, hips jerking forward in desperate little stutters. He’s close, Oscar can tell—can feel it in the way his thighs are trembling, the way his cock is pulsing on Oscar’s tongue.
“Gonna come,” Lando gasps. “Osc, I’m gonna—can I—?”
Oscar digs his fingers into Lando’s arse, pulling him deeper. Yes.
Lando shoves in one more time—deep enough that Oscar’s gagging, tears streaming from his eyes—and comes with a shout.
Hot and bitter, flooding Oscar’s mouth. There’s too much of it, Oscar can’t swallow fast enough, and it spills out around Lando’s cock, dripping down his chin. Lando’s still thrusting through it, shallow little jerks, prolonging it, and Oscar’s swallowing and choking and drowning in it.
When Lando finally pulls out, Oscar gasps for air. His jaw aches. His throat feels raw. There’s cum on his lips, his chin, probably in his hair.
He’s never been more turned on in his life.
Lando collapses to the side, panting, and when he finally looks back at Oscar his eyes go dark.
“Jesus,” he says, staring. “You look—”
“Fucked?” Oscar’s voice is absolutely destroyed, raspy and rough.
“Ruined,” Lando corrects, tugging Oscar’s shorts down with shaking hands. “C’mere. My turn.”
side hustle chapter(1/3), bdsm, professional dom!lando
It dawns on Lando what happened. After pitting lap 1 to swap out shitty inters, receiving a penalty for crashing into a fucking Williams, and finishing a horrendous P11, how did Oscar decide to cope with the fallout? By seeking help from a professional dom.
Lando knows what it looks like when a sub needs to be taken under. He has plenty of experience dealing with finance bro clients who book sessions after a long day at the office. Usually it only takes a few gentle words and some fingers in their mouth for all the tension to melt away.
He wonders if Oscar would be like that. If he could get Oscar there. Blissed out. Mouth full. No thoughts in his head.
I think I at times perceive myself as less schizoid, and even give off the impression of it, because I do want to be with others...When there are no others around. With the safety I have when I'm alone, I can uncover and find that desire, learn the words to express it at a distance.
But when it comes to actually in real life being with others, I often feel repelled, or pleasantly detached at best, especially if they are just doing their own thing and minimally engaging with me. When you look at my actions for the past 10+ years, I've avoided others, I have no motivation to initiate with others, I don't keep contact with others, even the ones I want to.
Yet I know I want closeness and safety with others, because I can imagine what it would be like, I can somewhat express it, and am fixated on it obsessively in my internal world, so I know the desire is there, until my defenses prevent me from projecting that desire onto anyone real, prevent me from even effectively looking for it or maintaining it.
It's as if my mind can reach further than my body can, so I keep convincing even myself that I'm not as limited, because if my mind can grasp something, surely that is close enough as living it, embodying it? It's not. I keep tricking myself into thinking I'm not so disordered, so limited, until I bump into the tiny wire fence I'm trapped in, the awareness that I can't make myself go beyond it outwardly, bodily, the way I can make my mind go beyond it just enough to know an outside exists.
By can't I don't mean it's not possible, I'm not fatalistic about this, it's just, on every level my body and brain don't believe it is possible. I can't seem to will myself to do something this disorder is built against doing, but I know if I'd get enough experiences being pushed over that fence, and seeing that I've survived it, and that I see there are things there I want, good things, I would be able to go further and break my own shell open. It's happened in small ways but clearly those huge breakthroughs weren't quite enough to convince my hindbrain that others aren't survival level threats.
I imagine the outside of that fence from what I've observed but never experienced, or imagine safe-enough others breaking in for me, but that imagination doesn't translate into action, my body and outer self feel paralyzed, I don't generate enough energy to push outwardly, and I'm left waiting for something that will push me, enable me to will myself over the boundary.
It's deeply frustrating that I can't think of something, and immediately take action, speak, move towards it the way others seem so able to. That I get so lost in the imagining, and fearful of moving outwardly, that my mind turns me away from realizing it. It takes weeks, months, years of build up to make the slightest move...I feel the life I could have had has been robbed from me.
I think compared to the average person, the only way through will be imagining over and over, rehearsing realistically and anticipating what it would be like to be free amongst others as well as within myself, to imagine to prepare instead of escape, to exert and express. And by imagining the real steps towards finding everything in the real world that is not disgusting to me, and what actions I can take to make the potential stress manageable, planning pauses and room to retreat for myself...And moving slowly, so slowly, over months, out of that fence. Anything faster would likely make me regress.
the way when you're at the grocery store you genuinely gaslight yourself you will never feel hunger again and want a snack later at night. then it's later at night 😐
sex position: you, sitting on your throne. me, standing behind you, resting my arm on the back of your throne and sniling so sneetly at your ministers like i have any right to be there
Oscar with his Schrödinger’s swag. The swag at once exists and doesn’t exist. It’s in superposition. You will not know whether or not you will get swag in the next moment until it is observed.
prguitarman
2087
vaporwave
stormborns
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
