proudly insufferable

Feels like there’s a lot of those going around this year.

He’s so deep inside his own head that he doesn’t notice that Oscar has risen from the couch until he’s standing over him, casting a shadow that Lando barely has time to note. Oscar reaches out, hand coming down sure and certain against Lando’s, effectively putting an end up to the drumming.

Lando blinks up at him, apologetic. “Sorry.”

Oscar simply shakes his head. His fingers are dry, curling around Lando’s at the knuckle. He can feel the whorls and ridges of Oscar’s skin, his touch firm. Still, Lando’s hand itches; thrumming with desire to get back to their tapping. He feels his fingers flex under Oscar’s palm, testing the strength of their restraints.

But Oscar doesn’t let up, his grip steady.

“You good?”

Lando considers his response, cogs turning in place in his mind. Whirring like a machine, settling on a final decision quickly — knowing what he needs before he really knows. “Just — buzzy,” he shrugs, foot still tapping beneath the table. “You know.”

It’s a fact, Oscar knowing. Nobody can be around Lando for longer than a few minutes without coming to the realisation that he’s more or less incapable of stillness. And Oscar — well, they have years of companionship now, enough so that Lando doesn’t bother to try and mask it anymore. He hates the expectation of almost motionlessness that comes with meetings and debriefs and even the downtime before racing; has never been able to understand how Oscar does it. So sedate, all the time. There’s a flare of envy in Lando’s stomach when he sees Oscar scrolling through his phone mindlessly between practice sessions, his body one, long, sinuous line of practical serenity against the couch, shoulders back and down, jaw held soft and loose.

As though proving a point, Lando’s own jaw aches at the joints suddenly, a reminder of the lock and key he has it under. He takes the time to unhinge, mouth popping open, the stretch immediate and relieving.

There’s a better way, he knows. He watches Oscar’s eyes drop to his lips, carving a line across his jaw, and Lando knows instantly that they have the same thought. That if he could read Oscar’s mind right now, there’d be no difference to the words flashing through his own, a siren sound of an idea.

Between the two of them, it often feels so easy.

“We’ve got a few hours before the next session,” Oscar says plainly, not bothering to keep his voice low. The words are innocuous anyway, even if Lando can read the hidden meaning without having to try.

“Yeah,” he breathes, keeping his eyes on Oscar. There’s a warmth spreading through his shoulder already, seeping into the muscles held tight along his back. His fingers still ache on the table, his foot still a kick drum beat, but he knows it’ll all fade away in an instant. “Plenty of time.”

Oscar quirks his lips. “Come on, then.”

There’s more force behind the way he touches Lando’s hand now, more intention. He tugs, pulling Lando up out of his seat with practiced vigor, walking backwards a step at a time as Lando follows without argument, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to keep up. It earns him a soft laugh from Oscar, injected with so much fondness that Lando can’t help but glow, capillaries bursting beneath his skin.

He pauses at the front of the couch when Oscar reaches it, bending with the pressure at the back of his knees, settling back against the cushions like he never left.

“We probably don’t have time for anything else,” Oscar explains. “The prep would take too long.”

And he’s right — Lando knows he’s right. But he wishes he weren’t, wishes they weren’t here at the track, weren’t waiting for the next chance to jump into the cockpit. But he’ll make do.

Getting Oscar’s dick in his mouth may not be the most perfect solution in the world, but it’s a close second. A shiver crawls along his spine like the whisper of a breath at the mere thought, skin suddenly overheating beneath the heavy fabric of his McLaren hoodie. Oscar notices it, a gentle smugness to the curl of his lips that has Lando’s gut swooping.

“Take that off,” Oscar nods towards him, eyes dropping to Lando’s chest and back up.

“Bossy,” Lando mutters. He half expects Oscar to call him out on it; remind him how much he likes to be ordered around. But Oscar’s knowing eyes say enough, brow lifted as Lando reaches for the hem of his hoodie anyway, making quick work of tugging it over his head, his curls in disarray when he reappears.

It’s magic, the way his mind shuts down the moment he slides to his knees in front of Oscar; who is already parting his legs to make room for Lando. He shuffles closer until he’s caged in between Oscar’s thighs, knees bare on either side of him.

The buzzing hasn’t dissipated entirely, not yet. It’s still there, fading into a hum at the base of his skull, television static rather than live electricity.

He ducks his head down, pressing his lips against the inside of Oscar’s knee. It’s barely even a kiss, really, but he feels the motion of Oscar’s muscles tightening and relaxing around him at the touch, a reaction that lasts barely a nanosecond but has Lando smiling all the same. Dipping his head further, he moves until he’s all but nuzzling the front of Oscar’s shorts — he’s not even half hard, the bulge insignificant against Lando’s cheek. He rubs his face aimlessly against the fabric, flitting his gaze up through his lashes.

Oscar is watching him, expression a portrait of gentle affection that has Lando’s heart stuttering, missing a beat even when it’s a look he’s seen a hundred times before.

“Ready?” Oscar brushes fingers through Lando’s curls, featherlight.

Lando nods, nosing at the front of Oscar’s shorts where he can feel him growing.

Tapping two fingers against Lando’s cheek, Oscar murmurs, “back up, then. Can’t get these off with you doing that.”

All sense gone, Lando is incapable of hiding his mourning at the distance when Oscar pushes him back softly. He aches to be closer again, back where he needs to be — thankfully, Oscar knows. He always does. It’s with experience that he manages to undo his button and kick his shorts and underwear off with one hand, hips rising up from the couch just enough to slide them down and away.

Lando should be embarrassed, he thinks, that they’ve done this so much now that Oscar is as well-versed in declothing himself so efficiently as he is. But he has a one track mind, journeying around a circuit on loop as he moves back in as soon as Oscar’s naked from the waist down. Distantly, Lando recognises the ridiculousness of it — Oscar still in his papaya shirt, Lando clothed bar his hoodie. But he needs his mouth on Oscar now, the thought of stopping to remove any more clothes barely crossing his mind.

It’s not necessary, not for this.

Doesn’t matter that Oscar’s only just chubbing up, either, that he’s not even halfway to full hardness. As soon as he’s settled back into the cushions again Lando strikes — his hands coming up to rest on Oscar’s perfect thighs, palms encompassing the whole of them. He marvels at that for a moment, the span of his hands across the length of Oscar’s quads, fingers spread wide and thumbs dipping to the inside, brushing the ridge of Oscar’s kneecaps.

He moves his hands slightly, just to feel the soft down of hair; Oscar’s legs are covered in it and it does something weird to Lando’s insides, has his navel jerking like he’s gone over a bump in the road with his car. There are so many differences between them; Lando practically hairless, the topography of Oscar’s hands so slim and delicate, the pale creaminess of his skin making Lando’s glow even more golden.

“You okay down there?”

Oscar’s semi-smirking, the tip of his tongue pink where it’s caught between his teeth, when Lando drags his gaze up.

“Fuck off,” Lando says without heat, his grin belying his words.

He feels fucking fantastic, honestly, and they haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

Speaking of… he squeezes Oscar’s thighs once, twice, ducking his head and nosing along the sensitive skin on the inside of one of them. He’s gratified by the shudder that vibrates through Oscar’s body and into his own, a chain reaction that has him groaning low in his throat. A haziness descends upon his head before he’s even suckled the tip of Oscar’s cock in between his lips, the combined taste of soap-sweat-musk making his eyes flutter to a blissful close.

“There you go,” Oscar murmurs somewhere above him, sounding like he’s far away. His hand comes to rest upon Lando’s head, curls twining around his fingers, though he doesn’t apply any pressure, doesn’t hold him there.

He doesn’t need to.

They’ve done this enough now that they’re both used to it — enough that Lando knows how controlled Oscar can be, even like this. It’s a wonder every time, a skill he knows he doesn’t possess himself; the ability to hold oneself back when pleasure is being teased right at the precipice.

But this isn’t about that. This is about Lando getting out of his head, letting his body come to an almost stand still. He can feel Oscar thickening in his mouth, the weight of him forcing his tongue to the bottom of his jaw. Bit by bit he sinks further down, until his mouth is full, lips stretched to the extreme; until he knows Oscar is fully hard, can feel the girth of him everywhere.

The buzzing in his mind fades into nothingness, a clean white slate. He sees lights behind his eyelids, seared onto the back of them, before they disappear too. There’s a dreamlike quality to the state Lando finds himself in when he does this, be it on his knees or on Oscar’s lap, collapsed against Oscar’s chest and filled to the brim.

“Doing so well,” Oscar talks him through it, his voice still distant, but so soft it makes Lando’s back teeth ring.

He makes an affirmative sound, muffled around Oscar. The tip is at the back of his throat now, but Oscar doesn’t push, doesn’t force it any further. He just — stays there, one hand curled around the nape of Lando’s neck, thumb tracing circles into the skin there.

Lando’s jaw already aches a little, popping at the hinge. He forces himself to take some deep breaths in through his nose, acclimatising to the velvet hardness in his mouth. He feels so full already, so content with it; letting his mouth fill with spit, not moving to wipe it away when it starts to leak from the corner of his mouth. It’s always a little messy. Oscar never seems to mind.

In truth, Lando thinks he could stay like this for hours. They’ve never done longer than one, not with his mouth — his arse is a different story altogether. He can fall asleep like that; could like this too, he thinks, already drifting in and out of consciousness as the deep, steady waves of relaxation crest within him. There’s no static now, nothing but the sound of his own breath and Oscar’s soft spoken words of encouragement, a balm to Lando’s fragmented mind.

He’s perfect, Oscar. The perfect size. Enough to cause a stretch, to make Lando work for it, but not enough that it becomes unmanageable too quickly. He knows they don’t really have the time, not today — but the idea of challenging himself, of keeping Oscar in his mouth like this for as long as he can, until his knees and jaw give out — it sends sparks along his spine, even now, even when he’s not hard and this isn’t about that.

And then there is disruption.

A shift in the atmosphere like someone’s cracked a window in a room that didn’t know it needed air.

He turns automatically, and sees a guy sliding into the seat across from him and plonks himself down like he owns the chair, the table, the very concept of chairs.

“Hi,” the guy says, smiling. “This isn’t my table.”

George arches a brow. “Fascinating.”

“I was at the one over by the speakers, and honestly I could feel my brain liquefying. So I—" a gesture around them, casually, “relocated.”

George stares. The man is...actually kind of hot. In a disheveled, sun-warmed, definitely-forgot-to-button-his-cuff kind of way. His tie is loose. His shoes aren’t designer. He’s got the kind of face that looks better in soft lighting and a tan he probably didn’t even try to get.

“You’re not supposed to crash seating charts,” George says, because it’s what he should say. Because that’s how you maintain order in a society.

The guy just shrugs. “Neither is serving ribs at a formal wedding, but here we are.”

George’s mouth quirks despite himself.

“Alex,” the guy says, and holds out a hand like this is a job interview. “Technically cousin of the groom. Technically allergic to seating plans. And you are?”

George eyes the hand. Shakes it. Regrets it, instantly, because Alex has one of those warm, easy grips that lingers in your palm after he’s let go.

“George,” he says. “Friend of the bride. And a strong advocate for seating charts.”

“Ah,” Alex grins. “You’re one of those wedding traditionalists.”

“I’m one of those people who spent far too much on this suit to be sharing a table with a man who just committed seating anarchy. Rebecca has planned this wedding meticously.”

Alex hums, looking him over in a way that should annoy George but doesn’t. “Very nice suit. Is it Tom Ford?”

George doesn’t answer. He preens internally, yes. But out loud he just takes a sip of his water and says, “You don’t look like someone who knows designers.”

Alex beams. “I don’t. But you do. So it was a lucky guess.”

George presses his lips together. He refuses to smile. Alex picks up a bread roll and starts buttering it. “So, George. Are you one of those miserable people at a wedding, or do you just have resting bitch face?”

George lets out a laugh. An actual one. Dammit.

“I was hoping to be bitchy in peace,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” Alex says, not sorry at all. “I ruin brooding and bitchy moods. It’s in my blood.”

They’re halfway through salad when Alex says, casually, “You don’t have a plus one?”

George lifts an eyebrow. “I had options.”

“Of course.”

“But none of them matched the suit.”

Alex leans in, eyes bright. “Did you match your date to your suit, or your suit to your hypothetical date?”

“I matched my suit to the wedding’s floral arrangements. Don’t make it weird.”

Alex nods seriously. “You’re terrifying. I like it.”

George should roll his eyes. Should, maybe, plan a quick escape. But Alex is laughing again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and George feels an annoying heat spark in his chest. The kind that says: you’re not going to forget this one.

By the time they’re on dessert, Alex has told three mildly inappropriate stories, asked George to explain what a pocket square is for, and stolen two bites of George’s cake with zero shame.

And George is...still here.

Still talking.

Still letting this possibly-shirtless-under-his-jacket menace charm him in ways that feel against his better judgment.

“Alright,” Alex says, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I feel like I’ve used up your tolerance for chaos. Should I give the table back to its rightful owners?”

George looks around. No one’s come. The seats are still empty. The only thing that’s full is his chest, buzzing like a stupid carbonated drink.

“Stay,” he says. “You’re tolerable.”

Alex’s grin could power a small city.

“Can I be...tolerable enough to get your number?”

George pauses. “If you promise never to wear that tie again.”

Alex looks down at his tie. “You wound me. This is vintage.”

“It’s polyester.”

“Still counts.”

George blushes. Writes his number on a napkin. Slides it across the table. Alex picks it up like it’s something valuable. Like he’s just won a game George didn’t know they were playing. And George, for once, doesn’t mind losing.

George is going to kiss him. Not now. Not here. But soon. Probably before the DJ plays the first Bruno Mars song. And when he does, he’s going to taste like lemon tart and chaos and something brand-new.

Weddings aren’t so bad, he decides.

His whole body is a tight line and his hand is around his cock, slick with conditioner. He breathes shakily. Just another minute. His strokes have gotten so slow, his hand shaking. His sternum aches, but like this a collarbone is nothing. His other hand is clenched in his hair at the crown of his head. He blinks his eyes open, water running into his mouth. It’s—fuck, he shouldn’t have looked. It’s his own cock that does it to him, looking at his own cock, the needy way the head has gone red, the rub of his own foreskin, fuck—

Marco lets go and slaps his balls, quick, which sometimes works. It doesn’t this time; all it does is ruin the orgasm, a half-felt ripple of a thing, leaving him torn up and with jizz on the shower curtain. Fuck, he thinks, he fucked it.

So that part sucks.

*

He mentioned it once to Cele, because Marco thought it was pretty widely understood. Cele did not.

Cele had started it, actually, had said, “Okay, I’m gonna go jerk off,” and started wandering around Marco’s hotel room looking for his stuff.

“Before a race?” Marco had said, before he realized Cele must be just— saying stuff.

But Cele had blinked at him, placid. “Yes, Marco,” he said.

Marco squinted. “That’ll fuck with you a little,” he reminded Cele.

“Um, no it won’t,” Cele said, confused and not really fighting. But if he had decided something, he had decided something. Even Vale couldn't talk Cele out of half his shit.

Marco had sighed, big, trying to crack open the tight feeling in his chest. He fiddled with the hotel pillows. “Okay, okay. Whatever you say, Celin.”

Cele podiumed. Marco was happy for him, shook his shoulders, kissed his cheek. Lay in bed that night still dry-mouthed from the plane home, aching and hard, even though he’d sort of implied it was a race thing and the race was over.

Two months later, Cele was sitting hunched like a big bird under one of the bottom bunks at the ranch, leaning against Marco’s shoulder, hand down Marco’s shorts. They were supposed to be heading out at the end of the day. Instead Cele was jerking Marco off for the third time ever, an honor apparently randomly bestowed twice in one year now, quick and tight and kind of very awkward in Marco’s underwear, while Marco panted against Cele’s neck and stared at Cele’s ignored boner in his track pants.

“Oh god,” Marco whispered, “Oh god, oh god.” He bit Cele’s neck just a little, trying to make this reciprocal, before he remembered that was something he liked that Cele might not. But Cele just grunted and took his hand back to lick it — he should stop bothering, he never remembered to lick it often enough to really get Marco wet, it was probably better to just rub Marco’s precome all over him, slide his foreskin. “Celin, please,” he said, “Please—“

Cele groaned and said, “Okay,” and changed nothing. “Wow, you’re so hot, Marco.”

The door swung open before Marco could give away how well that worked on him. It didn’t even swing open slow like a horror movie, but quick and normal and Pecco stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder. They all froze. Cele specifically froze with his hand down Marco’s shorts.

Pecco glanced at them sitting there on the official for-riders-and-guests VR46 bunk bed. He grabbed his watch and wallet off a spare table where neither of them had noticed it. He looked again. Cele was bright red but unapologetic. Marco was holding his breath.

Pecco stiffened his shoulders and swallowed. His chin came up. “Play with his balls more,” Pecco said to Cele, who just stared at him. 

Cele, actually, was glaring at Pecco. Pecco was a little drunk, Marco realized, after the ranch dinner with a few of Vale’s special guests. Marco hadn’t been paying attention to Pecco’s wine glass. He was flushed, and holding himself too steady, overcompensating. Cele’s stubborn jaw worked. He stared straight at Pecco, and thrust his hand down to grasp Marco’s balls.

Marco forgot the wine glass. He tried not to move, or breathe. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Pecco nodded jerkily, something straining towards jocular, and closed the door a little hard on his way out.

“What does he even know,” Cele mumbled, sullen.

“He—um—“

Cele blinked at Marco, mood shifting. “Oh, I know” he said, drawing a knee up on the bed and hugging it with his free arm. “I didn’t notice until your second year, but—“

“That was when it started,” Marco said quickly.

“Oh. Well. I see.” There was a very strained pause, for Marco, with Cele’s hand still on his dick. “I was always mad. I wanted it so bad too. And then we became friends but you’d stopped. Doing it with friends I mean.”

“Celin—“ Marco started, thinking he should explain, thinking he should say ‘I’m mostly straight.’ But Cele’s loose grip on his balls transformed into a little roll of the fingers. He thought about Cele— Cele wanting it bad. Cele rolled his balls again. Heat spiked through Marco. Sweat sprung up in his pits, on his face.

“Tell me—“ again that you wanted it.

“What?” Cele said, rolling his balls in his big hand. “What, Marco?” he asked, intent, face close. He could bite Marco’s neck, if he wanted.

Marco had bigger problems. “Cele, Cele, ‘m gonna come,” he admitted, suddenly lit up with it, unstoppable. He humped up into his underwear.

“Oh,” said Cele in his low voice. “Wait, uh. Here.” His thumb and forefinger circled Marco’s dick and held tight. The orgasm built with nowhere to go. Marco shuddered, stomach flexing like he was coming, hot and sweet and full with it, balls a sharp ache. But Cele was good at it, actually, and just held on as Marco bucked. 

“Fuck!” Marco said, “please, please. Oh god. Oh, oh god.” He was shaking, full, full. There were voices somewhere distant; dinner had broken up. Cele wouldn’t let it out. Marco heaved for air like something was on his chest, like he’d fallen and had it knocked out of him.

“Oh, you’re good at this,” Cele rasped, surprised, focused. Marco couldn’t focus at all. “Marco, you’re really good at this.”

It ratcheted up higher, a last push, his body singing and desperate, feet planted on the floor, legs spread, cock straining, held at bay by Cele’s sweaty fingers. He bit Cele’s shoulder to muffle it when he wheezed something like a scream.

“Oh my god,” Cele said. “Oh my god, Marco.”

“Don’t let go yet,” Marco said, grabbing Cele’s wrist.

The whole thing is Logan’s fault and he doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to be apologetic about it, grinning manically whilst Oscar throws daggers in his direction, wishing he could pulverise his friend with the power of his mind.

Oscar saw the sense in spending the weekend at the lake with a few friends, cooling off in the chill of the water, overcooking meat on the portable barbecue and drinking more beers than would be strictly wise — and he’d been happy to agree to that, pretty much. But of course Logan had to go and hook up with some guy in his French class two days before they were due to leave, and now he’s ditching Oscar to travel down with his new beau in another car instead.

“It’s full,” Logan had said, a slight wince the only sign that he was feeling sorry at all. “But it’s okay, I’ve hooked you up with another ride — it’ll be great, don’t worry about it.”

But Oscar can’t not worry. Small talk isn’t his strong suit — the thought of having to make conversation with practical strangers makes him physically cringe. He’d tried to argue it; had made a comment about not really wanting to go that much anyway, but Logan wasn’t happy with that, of course.

So now he’s here, waiting to be picked up at the doorstep of the apartment block which houses both himself and Logan; Logan already having left twenty minutes before.

The car that pulls up is a faded red colour, being driven by a tall, tanned guy that Oscar vaguely recognises from around campus. In the passenger seat sits another dark haired man, who looks to be about the same height, with very bright blue eyes.

The driver rolls his window down, looking at him expectantly. “You Oscar?”

“Yeah, hi, um —?”

“Alex,” the guy says, as he pops the trunk of the car open from the inside. “Just toss your shit in the back, mate.”

Oscar does so, dubiously balancing his duffel bag on an already stacked pile of luggage. As he’s ducking his head down, he notices two more passengers in the back, a suitcase taking up the space of the third seat between them. He recognises them both instantly, and fuck Logan. Fuck Logan so much.

He should’ve known, really. Logan had looked far too happy about the whole thing, but Oscar had put it down to him having gotten laid — not this, which he’s now convinced is all part of some hare-brained scheme concocted by his best friend.

“Alright, mate?” Lando chirps at him, offering a blinding smile that absolutely does not make Oscar’s heart start beating rhythmically in his chest.

He’s going to kill Logan for this.

Then he realises he might have bigger problems.

“Um,” he says, looking between Lando and the other guy; his mate Max, Oscar knows. “There’s no room.”

Alex swears from the driver's seat. “Fucks sake, did Logan not tell you? I told him to warn you.”

“We’ll have to squeeze,” Lando explains. “It’ll be fine. We do it all the time.”

A drip of nervous sweat tracks its way down the valley of Oscar’s spine as he closes the trunk, opening the door on Lando’s side with clear concern.

“Look, it’s no bother, I told Logan I was happy to stay behind—-“

“Rubbish,” Lando says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You sit here, I’ll perch on your lap.”

Oscar’s mind whites out for a second.

“Excuse me?” He asks, voice hoarse.

“Watch out, his arse is proper bony,” Max pipes up, grinning at them both as Lando flips him the bird.

“It’ll be fine,” he nods earnestly at Oscar. “I’m not that heavy.”

“I’m sure you aren’t,” Oscar rushes to say, glancing worriedly at the seat. “But —,”

Lando nudges him towards the door. “Seriously, mate, we do this all the time. I’d sit on Max’s lap but he’s going to fall asleep about five minutes into the drive and I’ll end up stuck in the footrest or something knowing my luck.”

“Can you both just get in?” Blue-eyes snaps impatiently from the front passenger seat.

“George,” Alex reprimands lightly, flicking his eyes to meet Oscar’s in the rearview mirror. “He’s right though, we need to make a move.”

And it’s not like Oscar has any choice then, is it? He’s cursing Logan’s name silently as he folds into the car, buckling himself just in time for Lando to crawl in after him. For all of Oscar’s reservations, it doesn’t seem like Lando has any; he’s straight into Oscar’s lap, getting himself comfortable with his back pressed to Oscar’s chest, his weight warm against Oscar’s thighs.

“Ready,” he says cheerfully, reaching forward to close the door. He tilts his head backwards, his curls brushing against Oscar’s nose. “You’ll have to hold onto me to make sure I don’t fall.”

He doesn’t even wait for a response before tugging Oscar’s arms around his waist, holding them in position until he seems sure Oscar isn’t going to drop them.

“Alright, are we all in?” George asks.

“Yep,” Lando grins, wriggling dangerously in Oscar’s lap. “Fire her up, Alex.”

The car roars to life beneath them, the vibrations of the engine doing little to still the minute movements of Lando’s body and Oscar prays to a God that he doesn’t really believe in, begging for an end to this drive that doesn’t end in total embarrassment for him — or worse, a reputation as a total pervert.

——

He’s fucked. Like actually severely fucked.

True to Lando’s word, Max is out like a light within the first few moments of the journey, head lolling back against the seat in a way that is sure to give him a crick in his neck. In the front of the car, Alex and George have the volume of the radio turned up to deafening as they squabble over the directions, leaving Oscar pinned beneath Lando quite literally.

It wouldn’t be so bad, except his dick is twitching in his pants every time Lando moves and he’s moving a lot. Squirming away like a worm, overexcited and apparently intent on ruining Oscar’s life.

“Um,” he winces at the way his voice comes out; high and sort of squeaky.

“Huh?” Lando tilts his head back, pressing his arse further into Oscar’s lap as he does. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Just, um,” Oscar clears his throat as he tries to subtly move Lando forward. “You’re, like, moving a lot?”

“Shit, sorry,” Lando pulls a face. “Always been useless at sitting still.”

“It’s fine.”

It’s not fine.

Oscar tries to think about anything other than the warm pressure of Lando’s body against his own. He thinks about his professors, Vettel and Webber, fucking; he thinks about the mouldy yoghurt his housemate left in their fridge last year; he thinks about the guy in the gym who always insists on taking his shoes and socks off on the weight training platform.

None of it works.

He can feel the way his body is reacting without his consent, utterly powerless to prevent it. It feels like a horror movie — like watching a car crash in slow motion. There’s no way Lando won’t feel it eventually, and then — what? Oscar swallows a miserable sigh, resigning himself to a fate best not thought about too long. He’s ready for the floor to open up and swallow him whole; contemplates opening the car door and diving out of the moving vehicle just to free himself from the insane situation he’s found himself in.

At that exact moment, Alex drives the car over some sort of pot hole in the road, causing Lando to half lift up off of Oscar, crashing back down directly onto the practically rock-hard bulge in his jeans. A noise breaks in Oscar’s throat, startled and undeniably turned on — something that might have been a moan had he not bitten it off in time.

“Er,” Lando mutters, frozen in place suddenly.

“Sorry,” Alex shouts over the music, grinning. “All good back there?”

“Yeah,” Oscar coughs, heat flooding his cheeks. “Fantastic.”

He feels Lando shifting like he’s trying to turn his head towards him; the weight of his gaze is almost unbearable, boring a hole into the side of Oscar’s face which he’s sure is bright red by now.

Luckily, nobody else in the car seems to have noticed anything untoward happening in the back. Max is still snoring lightly, and George is admonishing Alex for his driving, voice almost drowned out by the music echoing through the vehicle.

It’s no easy feat, keeping his eyes trained resolutely to the back of Alex’s headrest in front of him. Lando still hasn’t looked away, is still seemingly paralyzed in position on Oscar’s lap, and Oscar still has his arms around his waist, and god, he’s never wanted to die more. He’s half expecting Lando to start causing a scene — one that Oscar knows he’d very much deserve —, demanding that Oscar be dropped off on the side of the road immediately. Or even for him to make a comment, something sly and low that will make Oscar’s stomach roll with more than just embarrassment, because he’s a freak.

What he’s not expecting is for Lando — still looking at him, still with his head turned to the side, breath fanning across Oscar’s temple with their proximity — to purposefully grind back against Oscar’s bulge.

The effect is instantaneous. Oscar hisses like he’s been burned, thighs tensing up and jaw slamming shut so fiercely that he thinks he hears it click somewhere at the back of his teeth. His arms tighten their circle around Lando’s waist, involuntarily squeezing him back and holding him in position.

His head spins. He tells himself it’s an accident, immediately dropping his arms — as far down as possible, lax against the seat behind him.

And he hears the distinctly frustrated sounding breath that Lando huffs, the hot blast of the air on his face.

Lando turns his head back to the front of the car, and Oscar’s so sure that it’s done. That it was a mistake, something done without intention.

At least until Lando does it again, his lower back arched over the swell of his arse as he forces it down.

Oscar’s finger scramble at the fabric of the seat, curling over the edge where his legs are bent at the knees. Blood pounds in his ears, a rush of sound that somehow blocks everything else out so that he’s only aware of that. That and the sound of his own breaths, fast and heaving.

His teeth ring where he gnashes them together too roughly, swallowing down a groan as Lando starts grinding backwards, his hips a slow circle of torment. And it’s ridiculous — it’s insane. His best friend is sleeping with only a case separating them; if Alex or George turned around now —

Oscar stifles a moan, biting his lower lip so hard he tastes the metal of rusty coins.

Without looking back, Lando gets closer, his back hot through the cotton of his shirt where it touches Oscar’s chest. He’s got his phone out now, and Christ, Oscar didn’t even notice him shimmying that out of the pocket of his shorts. He’s so turned on he can barely think, and Lando’s —

Lando’s just grinding away, the tip of his tongue poking through the corner of his pink, spit-glossed lips, eyes staring down at his screen like he’s intently focused on that and nothing else.

Fingers flexing, Oscar chokes on a breath when he feels the head of his cock graze between Lando’s clothed cheeks, the fabric between them both thin and he curses the heat not for the first time, for forcing him to wear so little —

“You alright?”

George is frowning at them in the rear view mirror, expression mildly concerned.

“Hm?” Lando looks up from his phone lazily.

“Oscar looks a bit hot,” George explains; he reaches forward, like he’s playing with the controls, and Oscar feels a blast of cold air through the centre of the car. “Better?”

It feels like his tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Hng,” Oscar manages to croak. “Y-yeah, thanks, that’s —,” Lando chooses the moment to ‘readjust’ his position on Oscar’s lap, one great hand coming down onto Oscar’s thigh.

“We’re good,” Lando confirms, shooting George a toothy grin.

Christ. He might actually be evil.

Makes sense, Oscar thinks distantly. He’s always liked them a bit fucked.

When George turns back around, Lando ducks his head, eyes focused on his phone but his words clearly intended for Oscar.

“Quiet,” he murmurs. “Unless getting caught is your thing.”

Oscar’s mind short circuits, an appliance left plugged in for too long and overloaded with electricity. Lando’s still pushing back and down, his hips moving in this circular motion that has Oscar feeling mental with each brush over his cock, and he can feel the arousal building. The pressure in his stomach that feels hooked somewhere deep.

Knows he’s going to come in his pants in a car with four other guys in it.

It should be an embarrassing enough thought to make him put a stop to it. But it only seems to escalate his desire; the way he’s helplessly bucking forward minutely against Lando’s plush arse.

He gets one hand on Lando’s thigh when he comes, grip bruising; clamps his teeth down into the back of his neck as he feels himself spill over into his boxers, the sticky warmth coating the front and uncomfortable against his softening dick. Lando gasps, breathy and high in his throat, and Oscar feels vaguely satisfied at being able to get a traction, the shiver down Lando’s spine that reverberates in his body.

It takes him a moment to realise what’s just happened, nausea settling in the pit that once contained his arousal. There’s going to be a wet patch on the front of his shorts and he won’t be able to explain it away, and everyone’s going to know and —

“Chill out,” Lando whispers in his ear, mildly teasing. His tongue flicks out, Oscar shuddering as it makes impact with his skin. “You can tie my jacket around your waist.”

It’s — sweet, almost. Not a perfect solution by any means, and Oscar still honestly has no idea what the hell is going on, but he nods, dumb from his orgasm.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Alex says automatically, even though the way he jolts is a dead giveaway, evidence enough without even factoring in the way he instinctively stretches, arching his back up from the seat obscenely. George really needs to stop looking, or he’s going to get into trouble — into more trouble.

“I need you to check my phone,” George says again. “Toto keeps messaging me on Teams.” His watch has been bussing incessantly for the past 15 minutes with notifications, but whatever Toto wants, it’s too long for George to read on the preview. He had tried, in desperation, to get the angle just so, but the roads were too twisty for it to be feasible. Also, he didn’t really fancy crashing into a cow. Alex would never let him live it down.

“Mate, I’m not even checking my own emails,” Alex says, sounding genuinely dismayed. “Is that really what you woke me up for? Jesus. He knows we’re travelling today, just tell him that you didn’t have signal or something.”

“Alex,” George says again, and he hates the way he sounds so needy about it. He always tells himself that he’s going to be more like Alex, seemingly unbothered about work but somehow still successful, still taken seriously. And yet. “Please, it’ll just take a sec.”

“You absolute maniac,” Alex says, grumbling as he fishes George’s phone out from the centre console. “There’s something so wrong with you. Give me your face.”

George angles himself so that he can keep one eye on the road while Alex holds up the phone to unlock it. He still feels a little tense after, waiting for Alex to sort through his apps.

“Okay, Toto says that he needs some report for his 3 o’clock, and he’s asking where it is. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he sounds stressed,” Alex says, frowning at the screen.

George had sent the report to Toto yesterday, obviously. He wasn’t incompetent. There was even a printed copy sitting on his desk, which George had printed off and carefully colour-coded before he and Alex left. He breathes out sharply, trying to quell the irritation threatening to rise up inside of him.

“Okay,” George says. “Can you go to Outlook and open my sent folder?”

Alex mutters something under his breath, but he does what George says. “Fine, but I’m adding in a quick, go fuck yourself at the end of the email, okay? I still can’t believe he sent us out to the arse end of nowhere.”

“Alex,” George says, going for admonishing, but privately he thinks — yeah. Any reasonable person would agree that the client is outrageously far away, and most of the work doesn’t even need to be done face-to-face. He had expected Alex to push back about it more, if he was being honest, the prospect of a six-hour journey and a week trapped in the same hotel as George in a remote town surely enough to make him squawk — Alex loved to complain.

He hadn’t, though. He had accepted the calendar invite when George sent it, and when George saw him in the work canteen, he hadn’t even grumbled.

It’s another hour before they make it to the hotel. George’s eyes feel dry, his back sore from being cramped into the seat for so long. He’s more tired than he feels like he should be, given that he basically hadn’t worked all day, brain like soup inside of his head. He isn’t at all equipped to deal with the situation developing at reception.

“You must have another room,” George says, trying very hard to keep his voice level. “We need another room. We need two rooms. There are two of us.”

“The booking was for one double room for two guests, and I’m afraid, as I said, we’re completely full tonight,” the woman behind the desk says apologetically. She’s not even looking at her computer anymore though, entirely given up the pretence of trying to find a solution to their problem.

“Is there another hotel around?” George asks. “If we cancelled the booking—”

“The Kings Arms has rooms, about an hour back down the road,” she says very nicely, but George groans. It’s bloody far away, in the wrong direction. He doesn’t want to get back in the car.

“Okay,” he says, trying to psych himself up for more time on the road. “Could you call them, and see—”

“George,” Alex interrupts, and when he rests a hand on George’s elbow, it’s like George is a spooked animal he’s trying to gentle. His palm feels warm through the thin fabric of George’s button-down. “Look, it’s fine. We’re both tired. And it’ll be a laugh, okay? I promise I won’t try to molest you in the night.”

“Ha,” George says, trying not to let it show on his face that what he’s worried about is actually the opposite thing. He’s worried — the idea of Alex wet from the shower, the prospect of knowing what he wears to sleep. Seeing him first thing in the morning, pillow-creased and unguarded. Even the idea of seeing him sitting on the hotel bed, bending over to untie his shoelaces. He can’t stop once he’s let the thoughts into his head. He’s pretty sure he’s getting hard already, and he knows that he won’t be able to see Alex around the office anymore. He’ll have to get a new job. But if Alex had already agreed. 

“Okay,” he says, licking his lips self-consciously. He’s wearing his nicest trousers today, and hopefully the dark fabric will hide his sins.

Alex grins and slaps him on the back; he’s already reaching down to pick up their cases by the time George manages to get himself together.

The first thing Alex does when they get to their room is raid the mini-bar.   

“I know, I know, we’re not supposed to,” he says, before George can even point out that it’s against the rules clearly laid out in the employee handbook. “But they fucked up booking the room, so I think they owe us.”

It feels like a mistake later, when they’re both stretched out on the bed, inches apart on the duvet. Alex is still wearing his shorts, and the soft skin of his thighs are just there, impossible to ignore. His socked feet keep almost knocking into George's socked feet, and he keeps laughing even though George isn’t trying very hard to be funny. He’s just being George.  

“You’re my favourite co-worker,” George blurts out. He was already feeling giddy from the fatigue and the wine, and now he’s suddenly feeling brave too, the way Alex is smiling at him stronger than any drink. “I was really happy when I found out this trip was going to be with you. You’re so—” He realises what he’s saying too late, the embarrassing words tripping out of his mouth. “Good at your job,” he finishes lamely.

Alex laughs again, delighted, almost spilling his drink on the bedspread. “Georgie, I can’t believe you slapped me with the ‘co-worker’ designation. I thought I meant more to you than that, but it’s fine. Now I know you only likely me for my contribution to our evil capitalistic overlords, I get it.”

“No,” George says, feeling confused and panicked. Alex was already sitting so close to him, but in the past few seconds, it feels like the space has shrunk even more. The room is so small, and there’s nowhere else to hide, Alex’s body right there, right next to him. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” Alex says, and the smile on his face is wicked now. It makes him look even more handsome. “I’ll tell you a secret too, to make it even. I’m glad they fucked up the rooms. This is more fun.”

“Is it?” George says, and he can feel himself blushing. He feels, dramatically, like he might be dying. If Alex means what he thinks — he’s going to embarrass himself, and he’s still wearing a bloody tie. It feels tight against his throat, strangling.

“Yeah,” Alex says, still grinning like a shark. His face must be inches from George’s now. If George wanted to, it would be easy to close the distance, easy to bring their lips together. He wants to.

“Bed time, do you think?” Alex says, and then, as suddenly as the mood had flipped, Alex is pulling away again, one eyebrow arched like he can read George’s mind. “I know I promised to keep my hands to myself, so.”

The makers of Kinktober 2025 are back again with a brand new list! The graphics are once again created by latte-cucumber. Check out our AO3 collection, or keep reading for more information.

More information

Kinktober is a kinky October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.

If you have any questions, check our FAQs. Unfortunately, due to personal commitments, we won't be opening our askbox for questions this year. We've made it as rules-light as possible, though, so if your question is "Can I do this?", the answer is almost certainly yes!

Prompts

Condoms – Bratting – Watersports

Orgy – Embarrassment – Bestiality

Hate Sex – Suspension Bondage – Mind Control

Body Writing – Subspace – Master/Slave

Glory Hole – Cloning/Selfcest – Body Modification

Held Down – Riding Crops – Feeding/Stuffing

Dirty Talk – Cockwarming – Aphrodisiacs

Face Sitting – Switching – Scat

Orgasm Delay/Denial – Discipline – Whips

Gentle Sex – Chains – Noncon

Age Gap – Breathplay – Religion Kink

Phone Sex – Findom – Edgeplay

Frottage – Temperature Play – Emetophilia

Strength Kink – Roleplay – Vore

Corsets – Power Imbalance – Human Furniture

Nipple Play – Conditioning – Predator/Prey

Rough Sex – Begging – Furry

Deepthroating – Rope Bondage – Transformation

Public Sex – Daddy/Mommy Kink – Cigars/Cigarettes

One Night Stand – Pain Play – Snuff

Coregasm – Overstimulation – Predicament Bondage

Sharing – Boot Worship – Lactation

Vibrators – Caught In The Act – ABDL

Leather/Lace/Latex – Spreader Bar – Drugging

First Time – Non-Sexual BDSM – Knifeplay

Swallowing – Collars – Fuck Or Die

Spanking – Feminization/Masculinization – Inflation

Strap-On – Safewords – Torture

Quickie – Pet Play – Wet And Messy

Licking – Clamps – Oviposition

Fingering – Micro/Macro – Writer’s Choice

Bonus prompts:

Kink Discovery

Stripping

Coming In Pants

Omegaverse (Non-Traditional Dynamics)

Pornography

Sub/Dom Drop

He had always known that the solution was — well, from careful scientific enquiry, he had deduced that more was preferable to less. If he let his hands linger on Alex’s waist as he slipped past him in the kitchen, or god, the week they had shared a bed in Portugal, and George had gotten to sleep with Alex pressed up against his side night after night. George had felt good for weeks, for months, a shimmering under his skin that had dissipated only gradually when Covid forced them farther apart.    

He fantasised about it sometimes — having more. It was impossible not to think about it when he was twisted in the sheets, his skin crawling. George knew they didn’t have that kind of friendship — they were British, first of all, and more to the point, Alex didn’t want him like that. The most they were allowed was an affectionate dig, a laddish clap on the back, a cutting laugh. For all that he sometimes let himself think how it would feel to have Alex in bed, his body braced over George on a mattress, filling up George from the inside, driving all the sickness away, in reality, it felt overwhelming to imagine even hugging Alex.  He wouldn’t be selfish like that.

But if there was ever a time —

“Congrats, Albono,” George muttered, his fingers wrapped carefully around Alex’s bicep, letting the warmth seep into his skin, the good feeling he got from Alex pushing down the spike of panic he had gotten when Alex said the word engaged. “Can’t believe she said yes. Did you get her a huge rock, or what?” 

Alex rolled his eyes, but from the way he blushed, he could tell that the answer was yes. George hadn’t pulled his hand away yet, letting himself revel in the goodness of Alex’s body, feeling himself grow stronger, clearer. Then a sudden shifting of Alex’s muscles sent a rush through him, and George thought, fuck it. If this was the way things were going to be going forward, Alex too busy with his wife to want George around, George left alone and wretching — he was going to take his chances while he still could.

When George tugged on Alex’s arm, Alex folded into him easily, his chin tucking over George’s shoulder like they did this all the time instead of never at all. George let himself squeeze once and then twice, hugging tight enough that he could imagine never letting go. He breathed in once, twice, lingering too long, every part of him buzzing with it.

Alex’s eyes had been wide when George finally pulled back, his hands slow to leave George’s back.

That had been the night before Barcelona testing, and while George wouldn’t have gone as far as to say there was a good time to find out the news, the hug had been enough to sustain him through pre-season without top-ups. In fact, it wasn’t until Australia that he realised he hadn’t felt it since, hadn’t needed it in the same way as he had when every part of his body was straining for Alex, yearning.

He was still waiting for it to wear off of course, for the sickening hunger to come back. And when it did, it was probably going to be even worse than it had been before, he cautioned himself. He had had it for long — there was no way he would’ve been able to shake it so easily. The other shoe was going to drop.

Still, by the time Montreal rolled around, the thought of it had faded to an occasional flicker in the back of his mind, the very thing that had once governed his life fading into the background noise of the season. He was grateful, he was. He had something else to be hungry for, something that needed his full attention, and for once, he could give it. His hands didn’t so much as twitch on the wheel when he went to lap Alex during the Sprint, and Alex didn’t move from the racing line. 

Last season, the chance to be so close to Alex during the race, trundling along in his dirty air for even a few corners would’ve gotten him through the rest of the day easily. He would’ve been grateful for it, would’ve lingered for an extra beat before calling in to complain.

Now, he jabbed the radio button immediately, thinking of the precious seconds he was losing to Kimi while he was stuck looking at Alex’s rear wing. “What the hell is he doing? He’s just in the middle of the road.”

It was like Alex had forgotten to drive, George thought angrily, like Alex had forgotten he was in the car. George was going to give him a piece of his mind when they got back to the hotel. Only one of them was in the title fight. Alex had gotten his dream, with Lily. This was what George had left, and even that was starting to slip through his fingers. The cold metal of a second-place trophy didn’t have the same effect. 

Only when Alex had pulled open the door to his room, the words died in George’s throat. Alex was — he didn’t look well. He was trembling, his face sheened with sweat. The room behind him was dark.