self-indulgent corner

27 years old and part of the 🏳️‍🌈 community

some of the things i write might be 21+ and contain themes you might find icky (for example: age gaps) so consider yourself warned

english is my 3rd language (i'm southeast asian), please expect grammatical errors

i don't have notp, but i have drivers i'm not fond of

however, you can guess who my favorite driver is

The silence was broken by a click of a door opening, followed by a series of footsteps across the carpeted floor that sent all blood rushing down. Oscar tried to lift his head despite the ache in his neck, muscles straining with the effort to track any movement that happened near him.

It was futile; the cloth that covered his eyes was thick enough to block his vision and all Oscar could do was depend on his hearing for any sign, any, to ease his erratic heartbeat. His wrists had started to ache; the rope burnt against his skin, partly from the many times Oscar tugged on them to test their strength. The knot was simple enough, Mark had said, that it could be undone in several minutes. Now, Oscar knew Mark could be a God damned liar.

“Enjoying your time, pup?” A velvety voice spoke right next to his ear, causing Oscar to twitch in surprise. His movement was suspended by the rope tying his arms and legs to the bedposts.

“I wish,” Oscar bit back, forcing himself to sound haughty even when his voice shook. “Is this your idea of fun? I’d rather sleep.”

Mark laughed at that. A firm hand closed around his straining cock, drawing out a squeak from Oscar. “I haven’t started yet, pup.” Cold liquid dripped onto his prick and Oscar hissed at the sensation, wriggling under Mark’s touch. Despite the firmness in Mark’s voice, Oscar felt bristles grazing his hairline and a soft brush of lips against his forehead, and he couldn’t help but melt a little into the gesture, leaning into Mark.

One of these days, all his staring will be giving him trouble. But George doesn't know how to stop, not when his boss, his team principal, is always looking delectable in front of him. George doesn't even know what delectable is and how a man can look delectable. Then he met Torger Wolff.

George would like to think that he's polite with his gaze. He knows where and when to look. Perhaps it's the paranoia; there's always a lens following him everywhere he goes and because of it, he's wired into a constant state of alertness. You will never catch him ogling his boss in public.

His mind, however, would beg to differ.

Once, under the scorching heat of Bahrain, Toto unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and George felt like he was a Victorian girl, depraved of intimacy that he nearly combusted right there at the sight of his boss' collarbone. He was lucky Bahrain was hot; he could play off the flush of his face to the weather and not to the immoral thought running in his head.

The problem is: his mind runs on its own. It refuses to stop.

Right now, George is trapped in a meeting with the engineers and the team principal himself. He makes himself look like he is paying attention; he nods at the right time, flashing an encouraging smile even when there's nothing in the results to smile about, and trying his best not to get a hard-on.

Across from him, Toto is talking animatedly. He's always a big talker, expressive with his hands. George wonders what else that hands can do. Toto is big all over; he is tall, taller than even George who considers himself the tallest in the grid, with big hands and broad shoulders, which are constant head-turners.

His gaze flits to the way Toto is sitting. Strong, thick thighs splaying wide as if he wants someone to settle between them. George will. Toto just needs to ask and he will drop to his knees for him. He wonders what else is big⸺

"⸺Gie? Georgie?"

George blinks owlishly, coming to his senses. "Yes?" To his mortification, everyone else has left. There's only him and Toto in the room.

When his gaze meets his boss', he finds Toto staring at him with an amused smile. "What is going on in your head, Georgie? Mind to share with the class?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing. I'm just tired," George says quickly, pushing the chair away to rise to his feet. "Sorry, I think I need to rest⸺"

"Is there something you need to say to me?"

He feels blood draining from his face. He can barely hear himself speaking over his thunderous heartbeat. "No, there's⸺no, nothing, I'm sorry for zoning out, I⸺"

"Georgie," Toto calls out, voice soft yet firm, "lock the door and come here."

Then he pushes his seat away from the desk and lets his legs fall open. It is obscene. It is everything George has ever dreamed of.

George's eyes immediately drop to his lap before flitting back up, in time to catch a smirk on Toto's face. He feels his face heat up.

"Come," Toto says again with a quirk of his fingers.

The massive bottle of wine on the top of his desk is surely a welcomed distraction after the mess that was the race. Oscar pads across the carpeted floor to examine the bottle, lips curling up into a slight smile, knowing exactly who the sender is. It's relatively easy to guess, considering that he only told one person, aside from Mark, about his room number.

Also, he might have done something else entirely.

Just as Oscar sets the bottle down, there is a quiet click before his door swings open. The door shuts close, followed by a series of footsteps, before a warm body attaches itself to Oscar, moulding against the line of his back. A pair of arms circle around his waist, not leaving a space between them. The gesture is presumptuous but definitely not unsolicited.

"You're done trash-talking me?" Oscar asks with a lilt in his voice.

Behind him, Carlos lets out a grunt, pressing his face to the back of Oscar's neck. "You are infuriating," he mumbles, voice muffled. The way his lips brush against his neck with every word causes Oscar to shiver in the embrace.

Oscar pushes Carlos away to turn around, finally facing the older man. Carlos lets out a small noise at the loss of Oscar's body heat against him, before he crowds close, caging Oscar against the desk.

"Infuriating and a better driver than you." Oscar can't help but let out a laugh at that and, again, push Carlos' head away like he's a stubborn mutt. "Off, you're heavy."

"You wish you are better than me." The jab is half-hearted at best, considering the way he keeps staring at Oscar like he wants to eat him. "You like it though."

Oscar takes one shallow breath. Who knows that Carlos Sainz and his infamous dark, intense gaze will be his undoing?

"You're so funny," Oscar says distractedly. His voice comes out thin and woozy. He knows his face must be flaming red by now. "Come on, let's get this done."

Carlos visibly brightens at that and for a moment, it is easy to pretend that they adore each other, that the dumb rivalry that runs on the track only exists for people to see. Sports is a competition. There is no place for stupid crushes on someone who might as well be the enemy.

"Done. I get this wrapped up and⸺Lance, you okay?"

Lance blinked owlishly at the mention of his name. The steady buzz of the tattoo machine had ceased, but he could still feel the vibration all the way to his teeth. His head felt light but in an odd way and he couldn't feel the tip of his fingers. He should have taken the offer for a break.

"Lance? Oh, poor boy." There was a rustle before a warm palm gently cupped his face. Lance nudged back against the touch pitifully. "How are you doing, chico? Do you need time?"

Yes, time is good, Lance nodded his head, squinting his eyes to fight against the haze in his vision, what he needs is some time alone with his ultra-attractive tattoo artist. Nothing else matters in this world.

He heard a choked-out laugh before the touch withdrew. "Nooo," Lance whined, long limbs flailing to get that hand on him again. "Where're you goin'?"

The owner of the hand didn't return, which left Lance extremely dejected. He sat slumped in his chair and, through his woozy head, he wondered where went wrong. Perhaps he was being too much. But it wasn't his fault that he found his tattoo artist attractive. He was an adult man, a bisexual man, with fully functioning eyes. And his tattoo artist kept calling him 'baby', which did nothing to appease said attraction.

He was so not getting another tattoo, lest he would do something stupid like fall in love with his tattoo artist.

"Fernandooo," Lance called out, half-whining again. His chest ached, but that was probably because he just had needles poking his skin.

"Lance," Fernando said from somewhere nearby, and Lance perked up at the sound of his voice, "I'm wrapping your tattoo up, baby. I don't want this to get infected."

At the explanation, Lance let out a sigh before leaning back against the chair. Fernando probably gives amazing aftercare, if this is how he treats his customers, Lance thought dreamily.

"Oh, Dios⸺adrenaline got you badly, eh," Fernando murmured from above his head and Lance felt himself go crosseyed in his attempt to stare at Fernando. "Here, drink this." Something was poking his lips before Lance dutifully latched on it. "Can you do it, baby?"

Lance nodded his head despite the odd way his neck was bent in an odd way. Fernando had given him juice. It was something that came in a tiny box children had but clearly, Fernando didn't trust him to hold it properly because he put the box on the table next to his chair.

Surprisingly, the juice seemed to clear his head.

His vision was no longer hazy and, to his joy, he could now see Fernando's beautiful hazel eyes. Lance smiled at him, a little goofy around the edge

Thank you, Fernando, Lance said inside his head, but what came out was, "You're so hot."

"Yeah," Fernando said through a laugh, "adrenaline really got you badly, baby." He pat Lance's cheek, whose eyes widened in a mix of surprise and terror. "Don't act so surprised. You said a lot of things when I worked on your tattoo. It was very flattering."

"What else did I say, Fernando?" Lance called out, but Fernando only flashed him a cheeky grin and a wink before he disappeared into the backroom. "Fernando!"