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.