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They hadn’t been able to spend winter break together. Which was fine, Lando logically understood why they couldn’t suture themselves together at the hip and galivant across the globe; it would look like too much, new teammates spending every waking moment of the off season together, and neither of them were willing to handle a PR crisis – especially so early in Oscar’s career.
And so Lando made sure his boyfriend was, by some definitions, well taken care of – tended to. Fed, as the people in his Twitch streams called it.
Looking up at the camera from that slightly tilted angle Oscar couldn't resist, Lando rested his jaw in his hands, fingers delicately splayed along his cheekbones, and fluttered his lashes. “Look proper sad, huh, chat? Put this in your edits.”
He laughed it off when Max made fun of him, clearly just some joke – just like his unbuttoned shirt was a joke, and him whimpering into the mic was a joke. Which is to say, it wasn’t a joke at all.
Because Lando’s goal was this: he really, really, wanted to get Oscar hard as often as possible, as irritatingly as possible, while they were apart.
Lando wasn’t above posting thirst traps and hoping Oscar saw them, making sure he could tell that he really didn’t have any tan lines from his shirt (did he have them anywhere else?), making sure he noticed the veins in his hands getting more visible as he cut down to season-weight. Certainly it worked, judging by the way Oscar flushed when they were on FaceTime together, inevitably bundled up in one of his hoodies and looking at Lando like he was something precious.
Certainly it worked; Oscar was just a man, after all. And Lando was, in a word, fucking hot.
Two words, whatever.
Lando smiles as he pulls up to the track, sun shining down brightly on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. If he was a betting man, and he is, this reunion is going to go perfectly his way.
—
It’s not going his way.
Lando knows it’s not going his way the second he peers into the garage.
Oscar got to the track first, already in his fireproofs, suit tied down around his hips. Lower than he usually wears it, almost falling off him at this point, but it draws Lando’s eyes to… the rest of him. The fact that there’s clearly a lot more of him than the last time they were together.
The garage erupts in a series of cheers as Lando walks in, the team swarming together to greet him after weeks apart, but Oscar lingers towards the back, watching. His arms are crossed across his front, the black fireproofs and position making it painfully clear that his arms are bigger. Stronger. His pecs, too, chest broader and waist tighter. Lando’s mouth runs dry as he goes through the motions of shaking hands and hugging, eyes trained on Oscar.
Jesus Christ.
“Got some sun?” Oscar asks with a smile, pulling Lando into a quick hug. His brain goes fuzzy, not just in the way one would expect from seeing their boyfriend after a few weeks.
Oscar’s arms feel incredible around him, warm and thick and like they could keep him where he wants him for hours. Forever. It nearly makes him shiver upon separation, unable to put together a response that isn’t ‘hold me’.
“You, uh. Lookin’ good too, mate.” Lando chokes out, trying to sound unaffected by the way Oscar’s eyes glimmer at him, by the way he smirks knowingly.
Knowingly.
This fucking prick.
“Didn't say you looked good.”
“Oi!” Lando bats at him, mentally stunned when he feels how firm Oscar’s chest is under his assault. “Fuck off!”
—
They stay close for the rest of the day, really only separated when they’re in their cars. Beelining over to Lando the moment they’re both in the garage, standing hip to hip as the team congregates around the engineering table, leaning into Lando’s halo alongside him, both looking at the engineers demonstration intently – Oscar is there.
And even if he wasn’t, Lando wouldn’t be able to look away.
He looks, in two words, fucking hot.
And Lando is, of course, just a man. A man uncomfortably shifting in his race suit as he watches Oscar lower himself into the car slowly, imagining the strength in his arms. A man biting his tongue when Oscar leans against the wall, hands on his captivatingly small waist and shoulders flexed.
It’s going to be a long fucking day.
“Going out after this?” Oscar asks from his spot on the garage wall, watching the engineers lean over their cars, pouring over the little details.
“Didn’t plan on it.”
“FIFA at mine?”
Lando could nearly sigh in relief, playing it cool with a curt nod before pacing back to chat with Jon.
—
They take opposite walls in the elevator, pressing their backs against the startlingly cold mirrors. Lando can feel his body steaming it up, blood running hot and close to the surface of his skin, and Oscar’s just… Looking at him, looking over at the screen counting the floors, looking at his shoes.
It’s not what Lando needs right now, Oscar acting painfully normal – unaffected. There’s no fucking way he’s not bothered, that he doesn’t feel like his skin is on fire, that he doesn’t want to slam the emergency stop button and grab Lando’s ass and haul him up against the wall with those arms that can clearly do that now and –
Oscar looks at him again, dead on, brow raised.
“Car felt good, yeah?” His voice is even, like he hasn’t just asked Lando the single most useless question imaginable.
“Sure, yeah, really good.” Lando answers, not sure what he needs to say to get Oscar on him already. Strip? Get on his knees? Bit crass; surely he got the memo after he nearly fucking moaned when Oscar moved him out of the way in the garage.
He’s hard in his jeans, the pressure from the zipper nearly making him squirm like some keyed up teenager.
Surely Oscar’s noticed.
Lando tilts his head back against the glass, feeling it grow hot under his curls nearly immediately. Dramatically, if not a bit wantonly, he swallows – feeling his Adam's apple bob, hoping that Oscar’s eyes are following it down, down, down.
He hears Oscar move, standing fully on his feet and hopefully coming over to run his tongue all the way up his –
The elevator opens.
“Still up for FIFA?”
“Drop the act,” Lando starts to crack, stepping out of the elevator first without glancing back – he’ll lose his nerve if Oscar looks at him wrong. He already feels like he’s stretched too thin, walking normally towards Oscar’s hotel room.
“Y’wanna do something else?” Oscar asks innocently, and Lando can hear the mock surprise in his voice – he can’t tell if he wants to hit him or bite him. They don’t make eye contact as Oscar opens the door, pointedly looking anywhere but each other when Lando storms inside.
“Seriously, what the fuck –” Lando snaps fully, cut off by the door slamming shut.
“Shoes off.” Oscar’s voice is low; Lando whips around to look at him, leaning casually against the door. His gaze, dark and intense in its undivided focus on Lando’s face, nearly makes him dizzy. He’s still too far away after sticking so close the entire time they were at the track – Lando takes a step before Oscar makes him freeze. “Did you not hear me? Shoes.”
“I just –” He starts, mouth running dry when Oscar crosses his arms over his chest – the muscles in his arms on display.
“Didn’t ask,” He tilts his head, hair shifting across his forehead. Lando feels like prey, frozen where he’s most exposed, vulnerable: painfully hard, overly clothed, and moments away from putting Oscar’s fingers deep in his mouth until he chokes on them – if he’ll let him.
Instead, as if on autopilot, Lando slides off his trainers and kicks them to the side.
“Top next.” Oscar hasn’t moved, though his eyes flick down to Lando’s chest ever so slightly.
And he burns.
His hands are shaking as he reaches for the bottom of his sweatshirt, all of it crashing down on him at once. Oscar wants to look at him, Oscar wants to look at him just like he’s been ogling Oscar the entire day, maybe if he’s good then he’ll want to –
He drops the sweatshirt with a soft thud, unable to suppress a full body shiver. The air is cold on his overheated skin, goosebumps wracking down his arms, nipples gone fully hard.
They stare at each other for a moment, Lando’s eyes starting to water as his body reacts to Oscar’s continued attention – his distance. He can’t even tell why he’s shaking any more, if his muscles are tensed from the cold or the desperate ache deep in his bones or the embarrassment of standing half-dressed while Oscar says nothing. But here he is: shivering, quivering, cock still somehow undeterred by the slew of confusion in his stomach.
Lando breaks first, hands moving towards his belt.
“Not yet,” Oscar stops him, finally pressing away from the door and walking – stalking – over towards Lando.
His eyes flick down to his lips, and Lando wonders if Oscar’s finally going to kiss him. The butterflies in his stomach almost hurt as Oscar leans down a fraction of a centimeter, something mischievous in his eyes before he jolts – crouching down low, shoulder hitting Lando on the hips, hauling him up and over his shoulder
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Lando gasps, disoriented and a little winded, legs flailing and hands instinctively grasping at Oscar’s back, trying to keep his balance as Oscar walks them into the room. “Fucking ask –” He’s cut off by Oscar’s adjusting to grab him by the waist, hands strong and warm on his over-sensitive skin, before throwing him – proper tossing him – onto the bed like it’s fucking nothing.
He can’t even muster a snarky response when he orients himself on the bed, mind too fuzzy from the adrenaline to think much else besides Oscar, Oscar, Oscar and fuck, fuck, fuck. So he lays there for a minute, in a puffed up pile of duvet and pillows, before propping himself up to look for Oscar – finding him still standing at the foot of the bed.
Staring down at him, brow raised, like he’s expecting him to do something.
“Will you…” Lando flutters his lashes as he trails off, moving his hands towards his belt again. He needs it, Oscar crawling onto the bed beside him, not breaking eye contact as he makes his way up Lando’s legs. He needs his mouth on him, needs it like air, he needs him to stop looking at him like that and come rip his jeans off.
“You can do it yourself, yeah?” He’s a little breathless but unbothered, even though Lando can see him straining against his joggers.
“I mean, yeah,” Lando starts, letting a hand slide up his stomach, featherlight touches ghosting across his chest – taunting. “Want you to though.” The breathiness isn’t an affect; he feels like he might come the second Oscar touches him again, wound tight.
“Jeans off,” Oscar nips the conversation with a command, crossing his arms again. He talked a big game, but Lando jumps at the chance to shimmy out of his pants, unable to stop his hips from bucking as he slides them down. “Enjoying this?” He asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Lando flushes down to his chest, like he’s been caught jacking off in Oscar’s driver room instead of in his bed. His dick twitches at Oscar’s tone, demeaning as he looks down at him. Literally. Completely naked on the bed, caught in the gaze of someone that looks like he wants to eat him alive, Lando’s heart threatens to pound out of his chest.
“Could be better,” Lando smiles, open-mouthed and gasping, as he lets his hand finally, finally, slide down. He keens, back arching off the bed at the slightest touch – his hand stills on his cock, almost too sensitive to handle much more without ending this all far, far too early. “Wanna join?”
“Seemed like you could do it yourself, y’know, on Twitch.”
“That’s not –” Lando tries to retaliate, hips twitching into his hand as Oscar narrows his eyes, shifts his weight to cock his hip out and adjust his shoulders. It makes his waist look narrower, makes his chest look bigger, the angle of his body more extreme and – “C’mon, Oscar, just come here.”
Oscar doesn’t say anything in response, peering at him down his nose.
“Please, you know that was just, ah –” He squeezes his hand teasingly, something hot and tight shooting down his legs, curling his toes uselessly. “Knew you were watching.”
“Like when I watch, then?”
“Yes,” Lando hisses, tossing his head back as his hand finds a familiar rhythm, already slick and easy from hours of filthy thoughts at the track. “But I – touching, yeah? Come touch me.”
Oscar hums noncommittally, and Lando’s head snaps up in distress. “Don’t think I will.”
“Wha—“ He breathes, eyes starting to prickle with tears. His hand feels good, it feels fucking incredible, but he’s been staring at Oscar all day, fantasizing about him pressing his face into the mattress with his newfound strength and breaking him. “What do you…? I said please!”
It’s whiny, Oscar loves when he’s whiny, and yet: “Be good and do it yourself, Lando.”
“I can’t —“
“I know you can.” He narrows his eyes, looking down at Lando’s hand on his cock, painfully hard, almost red and swollen in the gold of his hand. His attention moves to Lando’s chest, other hand twisting a nipple in quick jerks.
Lando’s hand moves faster, the knot in his stomach growing tighter with each stroke, each flick of his wrist. Easy muscle memory, it should be enough but —
“Need you, need you, need you now, I- Osc, please I -oh fuck,” He’s rambling, the words spilling out faster as he desperately chases release — hips fucking up uselessly into his hand.
The grip is perfect, he knows exactly what he likes but it’s just not —
“That’s too bad, isn’t it?”
He can feel it building in his stomach, in the base of his spine, some all encompassing tension that threatens to snap him but he just can’t —
“Baby please , ah, can you… like this,” Lando whines, free hand moving up from his abused nipple and wrapping around his throat, squeezing gently at the sides. “Just like this, please, please, I need…“
His voice is getting wobbly, tears obscuring his vision — his eyes still trained on Oscar’s neutral face. It’s starting to hurt, his abs straining and his balls aching in a way that makes him want to scream. And he’s close, he’s so close that he can almost feel it behind his eyes, those fireworks, but he can’t fucking get —
He presses down on his neck, endless slew of petulant whines choked off as he flexes his hand tighter, tighter, tighter until the edges of everything get blurry.
All it does is makes him feel ever closer, toes creeping over the edge of orgasm, still without release.
With a desperate gasp, he lets go, his brain tingling as it all rushes back to him, as he snaps back into his body. His shaking, desperately wound-up body. He just needs —
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” He can feel the tears pouring down the side of his face, hips and hands undeterred by the rush of embarrassment and shame and need. “Oscar please, I’m sorry I — can you? Me? Fuck me, please just let me come, I —“
Lando twitches when the bed dips under him, looking over to see Oscar sitting next to him, still looking pointedly at his face. He’s fully hard, the heavy line of him easily visible in joggers.
“D’you know what you’re sorry for?” Oscar asks, tone weirdly gentle considering Lando’s about three seconds away from choking himself into oblivion, on the off chance it finally makes him cum.
And Oscar touches him, hand delicately overlaying where Lando’s spans his entire neck. It doesn’t even cover it, doesn’t even start to cover it, but oh god just the heat of him alone might be enough if —
“Gotta answer me, baby.”
“N-no,” Lando whimpers, movements growing sloppy and irregular with his shuddering breaths. “I don’t know, I know don’t, I don’t — please, I’m sorry,”
Because if he’s sorry then Oscar will touch him, and if he’s sorry then maybe Oscar will choke him, and Jesus Christ he is sorry if whatever he’s done deserved this.
Oscar lifts his hand, and Lando feels like his world has fallen apart.
“Winter break!” He cries out, clamping down on himself painfully, his voice cracking under the pressure. “For being, fuck, being a tease. On stream, and, ah, yes.”
Oscar puts his hand back on his neck, sliding it up to his jaw, resting when his thumb sweeps over Lando’s unsteady bottom lip.
“Such a good boy, yeah?” Lando tenses impossibly tighter, his stomach and back and chest screaming.
“I’m good, I’m so good, so so good. Good for you, I —“
Two fingers, blessedly warm and perfectly Oscar, press into his mouth, cutting him off. Lando’s eyes roll back as he moans around them, hips spasming when they hit the back of his throat.
He tries to talk around them, tries to tell Oscar thank you, but between the tears and the sweat and the constant almost in his stomach and the noises he can’t stop making it’s… It’s futile, doing anything besides sucking desperately on whatever Oscar will give him, tracing the surprisingly delicate lines of his knuckles with his tongue.
The tears flow harder as he gags, starting to drool around them. He looks up at Oscar with watery eyes, silently begging. For release, for more, for anything.
“I want you to make yourself come, ok?” Oscar asks, slowly pulling his fingers out, allowing Lando to answer. Spit trails down his chin, his voice shaky and rough.
“But I can’t —“
Oscar shushes him, clean hand carding through his hair lovingly. “I’ll help, but don’t stop.”
Quickly, Oscar hikes up one of Lando’s knees, leaving him even more exposed. Before Lando can process it, his hazy mind fighting to keep up, Oscar’s spit-slick fingers are pressed up against him lightly, teasingly, just enough pressure to make Lando thrash his head against the pillows.
“Be good,” Oscar admonishes, tightening his grip in Lando’s hair at the same time he pushes a finger in. The pin-prick pressure on his scalp, the stretch from Oscar’s finger — Lando’s chest heaves as he fights for air, thigh shaking as he tries to keep his knee where Oscar put it.
Fuck he’s right there, it’s so close he can taste it, he can feel the heat building and it’s just —
Oscar’s mouth is on his, he’s sucking on his tongue and it’s too much and he’s bending his finger at the exact right angle —
Lando nearly screams when he finally comes, back snapping into a vicious arch as his eyes screw shut, his brain going completely blank. It’s hot, the cum on his chest, his stomach, Oscar’s mouth still moving against his — murmuring a helpless stream of ‘keep coming for me baby, that’s right, so perfect. So perfect for me.’, urging Lando’s hand to keep working himself through it.
It’s like the world floats away, body immediately going limp in the afterglow. Oscar pulls away, pulls out, letting Lando steal a full breath.
“Thank you,” He finally gets out, the words slippery and mumbled together. This has to be what heaven feels like, bone-tired with Oscar’s hand still in his hair. His head flops to the side, face to face with Oscar’s lap, when he realizes, eyes wide. “You’re wet.”
The spot on his joggers is nearly obscene.
“Well, you’re pretty hot, so.” Oscar smiles wryly, not moving to hide himself from Lando’s slack-jawed stare.
Lando licks his lips. “Can I?”
His eyes flick up to Oscar’s face: under eyes pink and lips bitten red, eyes glassy as if he’d, well.
“Oh, I, uh. Yeah that was… enough. For me.”
Lando can’t help but laugh a little, tinged with disbelief and endorphins. “Did you fucking cum in your pants?”
“Course not,” Oscar flushes impossibly redder, Lando’s wrung-out brain slowly coming back online enough that he can see the sweat in Oscar’s hairline, the nail marks in his palms from where he’d dug in – patron saint of patience. “Yeah, actually, erm. I mean, pretty complimentary, I reckon.”
Lando flops back against the pillows, giggling uncontrollably; so Oscar was fucking worked up, he did want him just as badly, if not more. A second wave of sweet relief courses through him at the realization that he hadn’t somehow lost his charisma over winter break, or whatever.
“Shower?” Oscar offers, placing a gentle kiss to Lando’s cheekbone before standing, adjusting himself uncomfortably in his sticky joggers.
“Think you can hold me against the wall?” Lando perks up at the thought, the image of Oscar’s arms straining under the water, hair hanging in his face and –
“And break something? Only if you explain it to Jon,” Oscar’s halfway to the bathroom as he calls back, a clearly playful rejection, only to turn and see Lando, clearly considering.
“Well –”
“No.”