Irreparable Damage (Talent)

His head is in Lando’s lap, face up, eyes wide as he takes heaving breaths in between moans that wrack his entire frame. Lando cups his face, hands encompassing the length of Oscar’s cheeks, thumbs brushing absent-mindedly over his temples. Oscar’s hot to the touch, flushed red all the way from the top of his head to the middle of his thighs, where they’re straining against the sure grip Arthur has on them, waging a futile battle to close his legs that Arthur won’t let him win.

“Good, baby?” Lando murmurs, managing a smile when Oscar whines, digging his heels into the mattress as his hips make an aborted attempt to thrust up into Arthur’s face.

It’s barely a thrust at all, really, not with the way Lando’s knees probe into Oscar’s waist on either side, helping Arthur to hold him down. It must hurt, the bones of Lando’s knees against the soft, fleshy sides of Oscar’s belly, but Oscar’s too far gone to notice or care, eyes wild where they’re staring into Lando’s.

“Please, Lando, please, I —,” it’s almost a sob, the way he’s pleading, eyes wider than Lando’s ever seen them before. The brown has long since bled into black, arousal at its highest peak; glinting, almost enough for Lando to see his own reflection staring back at him.

He shushes Oscar gently, hands tightening their grip around his face. “Not yet,” he coos. “You know you can’t come yet.”

But he knows Oscar’s close, knows what he has to do to make sure this night goes according to plan.

To accentuate his point, he creeps the fingers of one hand down the expanse of Oscar’s chest, over the hard ridge of his abdomen, relishing the way he tenses up even more at the touch. It feels a little cruel, having to curl his fingers around the base of Oscar’s cock and squeeze, the noise Oscar makes is similar to that of a wounded animal; high and desperate, bodily jerking at the sensation as Lando staves off his impending orgasm.

“I’m sorry,” he pats the side of Oscar’s cheek, eyes flicking down to the mass of dark hair between his legs. “Arthur. How much longer?”

The wet, sucking noise that echoes around the room when Arthur surfaces is utterly lewd, Lando’s dick twitching underneath Oscar’s head. It’s disorientating, seeing Arthur’s blue eyes look almost as dark as Oscar’s, the skin around his mouth wet and glistening in the lamplight, reddening from friction.

“We do not want to hurt him, no?” Arthur raises a brow and Lando bristles at the question; at the mere accusation that he would be so impatient as to not take Oscar’s comfort into account.

“Obviously not,” he snaps despite himself, something green and sharp and ugly flaring in his stomach.

Arthur just smirks at him, like he was expecting that reaction. Like he wanted it, maybe. It douses some of the envy, fresh cold flooding his throat; still, he has to force himself not to retort further, saved only by Oscar’s hand reaching up and touching his lip shakily.

“We good?”

Even in the midst of pleasure that must be bordering on painful by now, Oscar still manages to find the clarity of mind to check on Lando. Everything else fades into the background as he smiles down at Oscar again, knowing that his expression must look dopey and not caring about that one iota.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the finger tapping at his lip. “Of course.”

“Didn’t know you were the jealous type,” Arthur grins, cocky and attractive and almost enough to have Lando putting a stop to this whole thing.

But he won’t. Doesn’t want to, not really. Not when they’re so close to giving Oscar everything he’s asked for.

There’s a past between Oscar and Arthur that Lando selfishly would rather not exist at all, but he knows better than anyone that it’s the here and now that matters.

“Wouldn’t you be?” He says coolly instead of rising to it, gesturing to Oscar laid out between them, pink and creamy and relenting.

Arthur smirks again. “Touché.”

And maybe it’s a little fucked up that Lando feels proud at that; whatever. He likes knowing his boyfriend is hot and wanted; likes knowing that they’re only doing this because he allows it. That Oscar would never even consider the idea if Lando wasn’t entirely on board.

And he is — truly. He knows how to keep the jealousy at bay, how to turn it into something useful instead.

“Keep going,” he half orders, allowing himself a smile at the way Arthur immediately slinks back down to do as he says. “Get him nice and wet for us.”

Arthur seems only too eager to listen, and Lando can’t be sure whether it’s the act of eating Oscar out itself or a willingness to appease Lando. Either way, he doesn’t dwell on it too much, attention diverted immediately back to Oscar when his breath hitches, loud and cracking through the air like a whip.

Lando can’t see what Arthur’s doing from his position, but the noises are enough to fill in the blanks, his imagination working to cover the rest. He can hear Arthur’s tongue, slick and sliding as he pushes it into Oscar, drawing an unceasing torrent of half-words and cut off sounds from him. He must be using his fingers too, the muscles of his arm flexing as he works them in alongside his tongue, opening Oscar up further than would usually be necessary.

But then nothing about this is usual.

Half of him wishes that he was the one doing the pain staking amount of prep, relishing the opportunity to take even more time than he typically would with Oscar. But he knows he’s where Oscar needs him, his touch grounding and keeping Oscar in the moment; he slides his hands down Oscar’s biceps, effectively pinning him down to the mattress, folding at the waist to brush his lips across his forehead.

“Doing so well, Oscar,” he crows as Oscar whines, trying to fight against the hold Lando and Arthur have on him. “Just a little bit longer.”

He hopes. As close to the edge as Oscar is, Lando knows he isn’t far behind, the ache between his legs heavy and demanding. Arthur can’t be faring much better, either. He looks like he’s trying his damndest not to rut against the sheets between Oscar’s legs as he continues to work, slurping in a way that goes straight to Lando’s cock. From the effect he’s having on Oscar, Lando has to acknowledge that Arthur must be good at this. He expects the jealousy to come back, as he watches Oscar’s face twist in pleasure, but it doesn’t; replaced entirely by a molten heat deep in his gut instead, fierce arousal curling around his organs.

It’s dizzying, the knowledge of what they’ll be doing. Lando hasn’t stopped thinking about it since Oscar brought it up — hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the steps Oscar’s been taking to get himself ready for this. He hasn’t allowed Lando to help, furtively locking himself away in the bathroom for extended periods of time, parcels coming in the mail with whispers of what might be contained inside; varying sizes and shapes, white hot wracking Lando’s body whenever Oscar’s giving him even a peek.

Blinking through the descending haze of eroticism, Lando makes eye contact with Arthur, surprise cutting through like a blade when he realises Arthur was already watching him, dark eyes intense.

“How many?” He clears his throat, voice hoarse. “How many fingers?”

Arthur pulls off with another wet sound, face shining and pink. “Four,” he pulls them out of Oscar, groaning when he looks down. “Lando, you should see this — he’s so loose, come here…”

Oscar doesn’t even make a sound when Lando slides out from under him, half crawling down the bed to join Arthur, breath catching at the sight of Oscar’s hole — flushed and gaping, clenching around nothing but air and barely managing to close.

“Fuck,” he reaches forward, sliding three fingers in easily as Oscar gasps, lube dripping between Lando’s fingers and out of Oscar. His are wider and longer than Arthur’s, but he knows instantly he could get all four in with little to no resistance; Oscar’s body hungry and demanding. “That’s mint.”

A strange choking sound leaves Oscar, and it takes Lando a moment to recognise it as a laugh.

“Great,” Oscar’s voice is strained and distant, blood rushing to his cheeks even with the bored tone of it all. “You’ve got such a way with words.”

Arthur hums his agreement, his body leaning against Lando’s. “I think beau is better.”

And god, Lando hates the smugness of it. He gets one large hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, squeezing at the nape with a little more force than is strictly friendly. And Arthur likes it — Lando feels the way his body half collapses further, held up only by the strength of Lando’s, eyes blinking in surprise as red flood Arthur’s face, his mouth hanging open on a noiseless sigh.

“Christ,” Lando mutters. He swallows — tells himself to get a hold of himself — and eyes flickering back to Oscar. “Are you —?”

“Yeah,” Oscar gasps before Lando can even get the sentence out, hands reaching mindlessly; one catches Lando’s hand, the other digging crescent moons into Arthur’s chest with his untrimmed nails. “Ready, please, please, I need it.”

“God,” Arthur’s voice shakes and Lando can’t even bring himself to take the piss; not when he gets it, not when he understands so wholly what Arthur means with that one, wounded word.

Vaguely, he recognises that he’s the one who has to take control of the situation from here. He knows Oscar — knows how blinded by desire he can be, how he’ll push himself to take a challenge his body can’t handle. And Arthur… well, he knows less about Arthur, but there’s a haziness to his gaze that Lando’s somewhat familiar with, the sign of someone who needs instruction; who craves it, who might be lost without it.

He’s pretty. Lando can see, finally, what Oscar sees in Arthur.

Feeling less confident than he’d like, he nods his head at Arthur. “Lie down on your back — the other way.”

He’s done research for this; had to, really. And there’s something satisfying about Arthur’s willingness to obey him, how he immediately folds down next to Oscar, lying perpendicular to him.

They’re a sight to behold. Lando’s throat dries in an instant.

He tugs Oscar up to a sitting position, hands covering Oscar’s much smaller ones. “Need you to go on top,” he murmurs into Oscar’s ear, enjoying the shiver that runs through Oscar’s body. Lando’s eyes meet Arthur’s, wide and blown. “Arthur’s going to get himself wet for you, aren’t you, Arthur?”

There’s something almost cute about the pace of Arthur’s nod, the way he reaches for the bottle of lube. It’s already half empty, so much of it running between Oscar’s legs, inside him, but Arthur doesn’t skimp — he pumps a few handfuls out, hissing as he slicks his pretty cock up, the first stimulation he’s had all night.

Lando gets his hands on Oscar’s waist, helping to hold him up as he gets into position. Oscar’s tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth, his expression a mask of grim determination; he impales himself on Arthur’s cock with ease, his rim loose around the intrusion, not nearly filled enough, and Lando can only groan lowly at the sight.

“Put your fingers in,” he tells Arthur, mindful of the pained look on his face. He pushes Oscar’s hair back from his forehead as Arthur slides two fingers in alongside his dick, Lando kissing the moan out of Oscar’s mouth. “You good, baby? You ready for more?”

The response is almost lost between their lips, quiet and breathless, but he hears it. The soft plea that’s only for him.

It takes some manoeuvring, getting on his back facing Arthur, tugging Arthur’s legs around so that he can get into position; taking care not to dislodge Oscar. The feeling of Arthur’s balls hitting his has them both grunting, another sensation that Lando hasn’t accounted for — torturous, given how neglected his own dick has been so far too. He expects it to be awkward, this part, but it isn’t; not with Oscar held like a rag doll between their hands, and Arthur willingly doing whatever Lando asks of him, giving over control like it’s all he wants.

“Okay,” Lando runs his palm along the notches of Oscar’s spine. He hooks his thumb around his hole, tugging and earning a hiss for his trouble.

Arthur’s been stock still for a few moments, body tight like he’s trying his best not to move, and Lando feels a flash of pity for him.

“You’re doing well,” he says to both of them, biting back a smile at the jump in Arthur’s throat. “I’m going to push in now.”

He knocks Arthur’s hand away, his fingers slipping out ot Oscar easily, and then Lando is holding Oscar open as wide as he can manage; tilting his hips as he pushes the tip of his cock there.

The reaction is instant; the tremor that wracks Oscar’s entire body, the bitten off moan that Arthur emits. It feels insane, and Lando isn’t even in yet — barely breaching Oscar’s entrance, the head of his dick bullying into the tight space left beside Arthur’s.

“Breathe,” Arthur is saying to Oscar, his hands flying across Oscar’s sides, and Lando’s never felt more grateful for him.

It’s a lot. It’s overwhelming for him; he can’t imagine what it’s like for Oscar, his legs trembling with the effort of holding himself up, of not taking Lando in too quickly. It’s wet and hot and tight, lube spilling out of Oscar and down the side of Lando’s dick; precum too, he’s sure, from Arthur who feels like he’s leaking like a faucet, and it should feel disgusting but it doesn’t.

“There you go,” Lando bites out as he slides in bit by bit, the drag of Arthur’s cock on one side and Oscar’s wall on the other.

An age seems to pass before he’s in as far as he can be; not quite bottomed out but enough that it feels impossibly tight, his hand curling around Oscar’s stomach.

“Fuck, that feels —,” Arthur whines, head thrown back.

“Yeah,” Lando agrees roughly, thumbing at Oscar’s lip, heat flashing when it comes away slick with spit, dropping at the corner. “Osc, how’s it feel?”

“Full,” Oscar says thickly. His head hangs down and when Lando tilts it up he can see the blissed out fog in Oscar’s eyes, satisfaction flooding him.

He catches Arthur’s gaze meaningfully. “Good boy,” he says. “Arthur’s going to hold you up so I can fuck you, okay?”

The sound Oscar makes is desperate and undoubtedly affirmative, and Arthur’s quick to take over the task of holding Oscar’s weight, strong arms curling around Oscar’s waist as he tries to sit up without moving too much. It’s no easy feat, but Lando is grateful for the clear care Arthur is taking with Oscar, thankful that Oscar was right about him when he’d vowed Arthur would be the best person for this.

“Jesus, he’s so tight still,” Lando grunts through gritted teeth as he tests the give of Oscar’s arse around him.

“S’good,” Oscar insists, words slurring. “Can do it.”

And he can — Lando knows he can, knows how much he wants this. How desperate he’s been for it.

It’s not so much fucking as grinding his hips up, pulling out halfway at maximum before he’s shoving back in, the squeeze of it practically unbearable. He knows he’s not going to last long — doesn’t think any of them are by the sounds Arthur is making in his throat, the bitten swell of his lips as he tries to silence himself. Oscar looks fucked out already, a constant stream of pitiful noises leaving his slack mouth, his body boneless and held up entirely by Arthur, half resting against the muscles of his chest.

“Not going to last,” Arthur admits around a heaving gasp.

“Get him off,” Lando nods his head. “Get Oscar off first.”

He watches as Arthur gets his hand around Oscar, his own hips fucking up a little harder than previously, and it’s dizzying — the way Oscar comes just like that, barely any stimulation required on his cock. The sudden squeeze around Arthur and Lando has them both grunting, Lando’s hips erratic. Oscar whines high in his throat, body somehow becoming even more lax, breaths hitching as Arthur keeps jerking him off; not even in time with Lando’s grinding, but it doesn’t seem to matter in the end.

Lando feels it when Arthur comes, the hot pulse of it around his own cock, somehow one of the filthiest parts of the night for him. There’s something about it that has his stomach clenching, his fingers bruising — one hand on Oscar’s thigh and the other digging into Arthur’s wrist, hips bucking aimlessly as he comes himself.

The bed feels gross beneath them, their softening dicks sliding out of Oscar easily. The sound he makes at the feeling is bereft, and Lando is quick to soothe him, hands reaching wherever they can as Oscar collapses into a pile sweaty limbs atop both Arthur and Lando.

“Merde,” Arthur laughs breathlessly.

There’s a twitch in Lando’s thigh, body protesting at the pretzeling it’s been through, but he ignores it in favour of running a hand through Oscar’s hair. “Everything you hoped?”

Oscar grunts against his chest, face smushed as he reaches mindlessly for Arthur. “Mint,” he yawns. “Fucking sore.”

Lando snorts, meeting Arthur’s eyes with a roll of his own. “Two dicks will do that to a guy.”

“Hm,” Oscar hums, eyes half lidded and heavy. “Someone’s going to have to carry me to the bath.”

“Lando can,” Arthur says immediately, looking just as sleepy as he blinks at Lando, Cheshire Cat grin beaming. “After we nap, of course.”

The thing is, it’s so fucking hard to deny him anything that Oscar can’t even remember the last time he tried. So when Lando whispered hotly against his ear, inviting him to slip away for a few minutes, there was no way he’d say no.

And this is the inevitable outcome, he supposes—kisses down his neck, their cocks brushing even through endless layers of clothing. He feels delirious with it, teeth sinking into his already swollen lower lip, squirming under the attention.

“You’re so easy,” Lando murmurs against his neck, not even bothering to unbutton anything. The fabric is damp where his mouth presses, and Oscar shudders. “So hard already.”

It should feel a little humiliating, Oscar thinks. And it does, actually, a little bit.

However, the younger driver is so out of it he barely registers the small, pained sound that leaves him when Lando grabs his right hand—the one tangled in his curls—and drags it down between them.

Oscar’s first thought is: is he actually taking my hand to his cock? What are we, teenagers?

But no. Lando does the opposite: he presses Oscar’s own palm against his shaft, guiding the movement with his hand wrapped over his.

What the fuck.

“Oh my god. Lando.” The sound comes out devastatingly small, wrecked, his body trembling along with it. It’s too dark here, the music muffled behind the closed door, but Oscar has to believe Lando will listen. The other driver only hums in response, though.

The guided movement doesn’t stop.

No, instead Lando only presses his hand a little harder, sloppily trying to force a rhythm—up, down, up, down. And if Oscar is being honest, it doesn’t even feel that good—it’s too messy, no real skin-on-skin, and it’s not even Lando’s hand.

But there’s something hotter about it, being known like this, trusting someone like this.

A soft chuckle resonates against his skin. When Oscar finally opens his eyes, Lando is smiling, because, yeah, of course he is. “What’s the issue?” he teases. “Too much?”

He’s so annoying.

Oscar uses his free hand to grab him by the nape once again and he pulls him up into a kiss—messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue. It rips a groan out of both of them, spit gathering obscenely between their mouths.

Suddenly, the hand that was touching him stops guiding his movement for a second, and Oscar realizes that the older driver is actually pulling his pants down to mid-thigh. It’s not comfortable—far from it, actually—but it brings a new kind of hope: that Lando will finally touch him properly, not with that stupid half-assed handjob.

But, yeah. Of course not.

Oscar tightens his fist when he realizes it’s still his own hand, now against his boxers.

"Better?" No, he wants to answer, but it is. Without the thick fabric of his trousers in the way, it’s more intense, more immediate. The heel of his palm brushes his sensitive tip and he whines softly into Lando’s mouth.

There are teeth catching his lower lip, voices echoing faintly outside, and the movement is faster, harder. Lando grinds his heavy cock against Oscar’s thigh and—

White floods his vision.

His whole body goes taut, the grip on the other’s nape turning violent enough to make Lando hiss as Oscar comes against his own boxers.

It’s awful. It’s so fucking good.

He can’t stop shuddering, and Lando is saying something, probably, but all Oscar hears is his own breathing—too loud, too desperate from such an intense orgasm.

“Show me,” is what he hears. Oscar only whines in response, dying to pull his hand away—from the wetness, from Lando—to cover his face. “Oscar, show me.”

Honestly, he doesn’t even know what Lando means, but Oscar lets himself slump back against the cabinet, ignoring the dull ache, and pulls his hand away just enough to reveal the damp patch on his underwear. Distantly, he hears Lando gasp—and then he’s kissing him again, like the older driver can’t help himself.

“You’re so fucking hot, oh my god,” he whimpers, not making any sense. Oscar feels pliant under his hands, letting it happen—whatever Lando wants: kissing, touching, the slow, gentle grind of his hips.

A knock snaps him back to reality. Oscar’s eyes fly open.

“Alright, boys,” a voice echoes from behind the door, and Oscar freezes. Lando doesn’t, though, not even a little. He’s still moving his hips, still mouthing at his neck, still rubbing himself against the sticky mess on Oscar’s boxers.

Artturi, Oscar realizes.

Another knock. The voice sounds more amused this time whe he says, “Oi. Boys, enough. You still have a party, yeah?”