lesbian for oscar piastri

Additional Tags: POV Alternating, Soft Dom Oscar Piastri, Bottom Lando Norris, Slight Age Difference, Light Dom/sub, Subspace, Mutual Pining, Light Angst with a Happy Ending

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Additional Tags: POV Alternating, Soft Dom Oscar Piastri, Bottom Lando Norris, Slight Age Difference, Light Dom/sub, Subspace, Mutual Pining, Light Angst with a Happy Ending

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14

Like most things between them, it starts off as a joke and ends up somewhere in the middle of ‘not funny at all’ and ‘actually kind of fucked up’.

Max can’t remember how it began, not really. He’d made one half-arsed, off the cuff comment about Lando not even being able to shut his mouth when he was sleeping, and it had escalated from there.

“I don’t sleep with my mouth open,” Lando had protested, his voice taking on that whiny edge that Max knew meant he was ten seconds away from trying to kick him in the balls. Max reached a discreet hand down between his legs instinctively. “I’m not a mouth breather.”

“You do. You are,” Max said absently, too busy trying to catch Lando by the ankle before he made contact. “S’not a big deal, Bob. Cute, innit?” Instantly he wanted to take it back. He didn’t mean it like that — except he didn’t not mean it like that, either. Lando was kind of adorable when he slept, his mouth popped open and wide, features slack in rest. Cute was the only word for it. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Lando pouted, but he’d finally given up on trying to get at Max’s balls, at least. “Don’t believe you. How come nobody’s said anything before?”

“‘Cause it’s not a big deal,” Max repeated, rolling his eyes. He still had Lando’s foot trapped in his hand, digging his thumb gently into the socked arch of it. “I was just making a joke, Bob. Relax, yeah?”

Lando had still grumbled, still denied the truth of his open-mouthed sleeping habits, but it had been half-hearted at best; too busy settling back into his seat, trying and failing not to look like he was enjoying the impromptu foot massage too much. Max had taken it as a win, filed the faux argument away in the back of his mind for future use, and the conversation had moved on to the organisation of their next stream together easily.

He’d only remembered the whole thing weeks later, when he was staying with Lando in Monaco for a few days.

They’d been golfing all day beneath the heat of the summer sun, both sweat-drenched and equally determined to win. Max had won in the end, because he was a better golfer than Lando even if the other would never admit it. Later, after a few too many beers and with pasta settling in their stomachs, they’d been lounging on the sofa in Lando’s apartment, too full and lazy to pay any real attention to the Netflix series playing out on the wide screen.

Lando had fallen asleep twenty minutes into the first episode, splayed across the sofa with his legs stretched to one side and his head resting on Max’s shoulder. The positioning was nothing new; Max was careful with his movements so as not to jostle him, whilst simultaneously ensuring Lando’s neck wasn’t at an odd angle. From experience, Max knew the amount of bitching there’d be the next day was never worth it.

He’d watched a few episodes mindlessly like that. But the next time he’d hazarded a look down, Lando’s face was turned up towards him, mouth soft and open. Max had only intended to snap a photo, obtaining evidence that he could show Lando to prove the point.

He really didn’t know what he was thinking when he slipped his thumb past Lando’s lips, into the wet heat behind.

With his phone camera, he’d taken a few photos. His thumb rested lightly on Lando’s lower lip; pressed into the hollow of his cheek; Lando’s tongue curled around the tip, chasing salt from the skin. The whole pretty picture was absurdly obscene. With his eyes closed, long lashes resting on the tops of his cheeks, the creases of his face soft and flat — he looked peaceful, like that, with Max’s thumb in his mouth.

The next day, Max had shown Lando the first photo. Just the one, hardly incriminating at all, his thumb barely in Lando’s mouth yet. Made a big deal about his open lips, how he hadn’t even flinched.

“Honestly, mate, I think you could sleep through anything,” he’d said without really thinking it through. “Reckon I could’ve got my whole hand in there if I tried.”

Lando had gotten all red in the face, like he usually did when he was irritated with Max and trying to figure out how best to turn the tide in the other direction. Except he didn’t seem all that annoyed. He’d looked at Max with a sharpness around his eyes, blue-green even more striking against the flush of his skin.

“Yeah, you reckon?” He’d asked lightly, tone almost musical. “Maybe you should. Try. Next time.”

Then he’d left Max there choking on his own tongue, Lando laughing his entire way down the hall. The twat.

The more Max has turned it around in his head, the more it sounded like a challenge. Naturally, he’d risen to it. Added an extra digit each time, saliva coating each one, dripping down into his palm. It was almost clinical at first, seeing how much Lando could take when he was at rest. How much he seemed to like it, even in sleep; opening up further for it, making these soft little sounds, tonguing the intrusions like second nature.

Max had built his way up to the fist. Lando had taken it beautifully, in the end. Jaw popping just slightly, enough so that Max was sure Lando would wake — but he hadn’t, had just kept breathing through it, teeth barely grazing skin, a whistle tone around the sight of Max’s entire hand in his mouth.

It was erotic, Max half hard in his joggers, painfully aware of how fucked the whole thing was. But he couldn’t really bring himself to feel bad about it; not when he’d shown Lando the photos, had seen that high flush on his cheekbones, the obvious interest in his breathy voice when he’d asked Max what it had felt like. If he’d been good.

It should have ended there. Max is distinctly aware of this. It doesn’t stop him from standing over the arm of the couch, Lando’s head tilted like an offering, lips parted almost humorously wide. It’s not funny, though, not really. Now when Max is sporting a chub and naked from the waist down, wondering whether he’s officially mad; whether he’s really going to go through with this.

Already knows he is. With Lando looking like that, positioned like he’s waiting for it, like he’s ready for it. It’d be a shame not to, wouldn’t it? For both of them. Max is only human.

Even with the way Lando’s positioned, it’s not as easy as he expects it to be. He has to bend his knees slightly to line up, hips tilted forward so he can start to feed his dick between Lando’s lips. It’s a little dry at first, until the intrusion has Lando’s mouth filling automatically with saliva, slicking the way for the rest of Max’s length. He takes his time, careful with it; doesn’t want Lando to wake up, at least not yet. It’s pain-staking, the way he has to pause after each inch, eyes tracking the rise and fall of Lando’s chest, the way he switches to breathing through his nose like he’s been expecting this somehow.

Max can feel himself begin to firm up properly in the heat of Lando’s mouth. It’s not even a blowjob, not really. Lando isn’t doing anything and his lips are lax around Max so there’s no seal. But something about it has Max agonisingly hard anyway; the wrongness of the situation settling into pure arousal in his gut, the edge of shame he feels adding to the molten heat already building there.

Lando shifts at the same time as the spongy head of Max’s dick touches the back of his throat, and he’s momentarily frozen, hands reflexively coming to Lando’s head. He stops them just before they land, hovering awkwardly. It’s tense for a second, Lando making a noise between a moan and a sigh, but. He doesn’t rouse.

In Max’s chest, his heart beats a tachycardic rhythm, the pounding of it jackhammering against bone and tissue. His dick twitches, lips parting on a breathy noise.

After a moment, he starts to — not panic, exactly. But he doesn’t know what his endgame is here. He can’t get off like this, with his dick just kind of — resting in Lando’s mouth. At the same time, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life. He thinks about it — can only imagine the picture they’re painting right now, the view someone would have if they entered the room. Decides the best course of action is to take the photo, just like usual, and then escape to the spare room where he can jerk off until his balls are empty and shrivelled.

He forgets, in the dizzying insanity of the situation, to check that the flash is off on his camera.

It feels like time slows down; the burst of light illuminating the room, bathing Lando’s face in harsh white; the flicker of his eyelids; the moment they open, wide and alarmed as they meet Max’s gaze. Concerningly, it does nothing to flag his erection; if anything, it’s the opposite.

Then that fear gives way into a haziness that has Max swallowing audibly, throat clicking. He opens his mouth to say something — anything, honestly — but can only manage to moan when Lando seals his lips around the velvet hardness, cheeks hollow and throat relaxing to take Max down deeper. The angle makes it easy for him to slide in, hand dropping to Lando’s curls in surprise.

“Fu-ck, Bob,” he hiccups through the shock, groaning guttural when Lando hums around him. “That’s so hot.”

The sparks at the base of his spine intensify, a stark reminder of how long he isn’t going to last here. He curls his fingers in Lando’s hair, tugging as a warning, but Lando just doubles down; sucks harder, one hand reaching up over his head to dig into Max’s thigh above him, muscle tense in his grasp.

Max comes with a gasp, this deep, shuddering thing that has him whiting out for a moment; spilling hot and long down Lando’s throat.

When he withdraws, Lando is licking his lips, eyes piercing even through the cloudiness. “That’s one way to wake me up,” he quips, rolling his eyes like it’s normal. The roughness of his voice has Max’s stomach clenching, legs shaky as he props himself up against the arm of the couch.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, a little winded, hand brushing through Lando’s hair softer now. “That was —“ he trails off, unable to find the word.

“Hot. Mind-blowing,” Lando offers through a grin. “Fucked up?”

He’s not wrong, is the thing. Max can only nod dumbly, his laughing breathless.