#jondo

"Surely this isn't legal," Lando mutters, rolling the bottle between his hands. As if he hasn't brought this up a thousand times already.

"Unfortunately, it is," Jon says. He does sound appropriately regretful. At least he'll be around to keep Lando out of any questionable hands. "Just get it down, you'll be alright."

Like it's that simple.

Lando pops the cork. It smells a bit like marshmallows, something like liquorice when he brings it closer to his mouth. It doesn't taste all that bad either. Vague and sweet, thick on the tongue and warm on the way down his throat. It heats him up pleasantly from the inside. Doesn't feel all that bad, really. Did it even work? He doesn't feel—

"Stand up," Jon says.

Lando stands up.

Well. Shit and also fuck.

"Touch your toes," Jon says, and Lando does.

"So freaking weird," Lando says, folded in half, face buried in his knees.

Jon laughs, and says, "Alright, you're all good."

He straightens up without having to be told. He knows in theory how it'll work—Will, over the radio, will be able to give him solid orders and he'll have to obey. But it'll slip off once he's told something along those lines, given the okay. Carry on, Lando. You're alright.

He doesn't understand the mechanics of it, really, nor does he think it's really necessary. But the team can't afford another Hungary. No matter how many times Lando's promised to be good this time around.

"C'mere," Jon says, and Lando's across the room before he can think. Jon's grinning up at him, too overjoyed to be anything but endearing. "Give us a kiss." He taps his cheek, and Lando bends to kiss it.

"Would've done without the frickin' potion," Lando mutters, while Jon laughs up at him.

He nearly forgets that he's taken the potion—excuse him, pocioun—by the time he's getting ready to head out on track. He's gotten through media and all the other pre-race bits without any incident at all, which, as Jon keeps saying, is nothing short of miraculous.

Jon's run off to have a piss, and commanded him to stay out in the hall. Like an asshole. So Lando's just stood here staring at the wall, palms itching. He wants to stretch, do a jumping jack or ten, anything but stand here. But Jon's exact words had been just stand right here. So. He's just standing. Right here.

It immediately puts him on guard when Oscar rounds the corner. Racesuit down around his hips, water bottle in one hand, tugging at the collar of his fireproofs with the other.

This is the worst case scenario, Lando thinks. He doesn't know if Oscar's still pissed at him about the team orders debacle. This is not the time to sort all that out, probably.

Oscar stops, just a few feet away. Looks Lando up and down.

"How's it feel?"

Lando's brain goes to about seven thousand different places before he realizes Oscar means the potion.

"Oh," he says, shifting uncomfortably. He can move his feet, but not much else. "Not much different than normal, really."

Oscar's gaze sharpens, tightens up like a harness. Lando's chest does something similar.

"But you did take it," Oscar says.

"Yeah," Lando says, feebly.

Oscar says, "Get on your knees."

Lando gets on his knees. Shit. Shit and fuck and also hell. What's he gotten himself into? What is Oscar going to do to him?

What Oscar is going to do, apparently, is stare silently down at Lando for a long, long minute. The sort of sleepy ambivalence Lando's used to from him has taken a sharp turn into something more powerful, something more threatening. Oscar takes a step closer. Close enough that Lando can smell the garage on him, hot metal and fuel. The vague spice of his deodorant hovers somewhere under all of that.

Swimming under or in or alongside the fear, Lando thinks: this could be kind of hot. Oscar's hot. The situation is hot, minus the whole actually-can't-disobey-at-all bit. And even that could be hot, with some ground rules.

There are no rules, though. None that Oscar's obligated to follow.

Oscar smiles, then. This crooked little thing that's sharper than Lando's used to.

"See you on track," Oscar says, and turns, and just fucking leaves Lando there. On his knees. On the fucking floor. Stuck here, until Jon comes along and saves him.

That’s the other part of the routine.

After the videos, he gets a massage from Jon. 

“Hip,” Lando wriggles a bit to confirm, feeling the spike of tightness. “Back, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jon parrots, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. He pulls Lando’s polo shirt up over his crotch, bulge all hard and throbbing in the harsh light of his driver’s room. “Cock stinging a bit too?”

“Yeah,” Lando breathes out, voice going hoarse. Doesn’t matter that they’ve been doing this since Lando was 19, it still makes his mouth go dry every time Jon offers to put his hands on him. Sometimes he forgets it’s not just part of his job, that next door Oscar is having a very different, hands off experience. He’d thought, before, maybe, about Michael and Daniel, but whatever that was didn’t make it out of McLaren alive, and Lando stopped caring, like he always does. “Should do that too, probably.”

It starts out how it should, by the book. Jon stretches out the parts that seize up in the car, massaging oil slick hands over the small of his back, cracking along the parts of his spine that take the biggest hits. His hip, Jon rolls out, extending his legs and ignoring the wet spot collecting on the front of Lando’s leggings.

He’s come before, just from the hip flexor work. Fucking embarrassing.

“Alright,” Jon says, unbothered, slipping his hand into Lando’s leggings. “Let’s have a look at this then.”

Lando’s never known hands as clever as Jon’s. Not from the apps, or the club, or the friends of friends of friends who’ll sign an NDA and stick around for longer than a night, as long as he keeps being nice to them. 

Jon treats his dick like it’s nothing more than another muscle. He kneads, and works at it, bending it and pulling. Lando wouldn’t call it a handjob, not really. It’s a massage, a workout.

It’s fucking sick, Lando thinks, bucking his hips forward.

“Hey,” Jon chides, slapping the back of his hand against Lando’s balls. His leggings are down around his knees now, restricting his movement but giving Jon access to his skin, rubbing down his thighs at the same pace as he strokes him. “Chill out. It’s a marathon mate, not a sprint. Not going to give it a good workout if you just...”

Jon does something close to a raspberry, wet noise from his lips, tongue flying about. 

“...all over yourself, is it?”

Lando nods, digging his fingernails into the leather of the table, scratching along lines he’s dug into the material in Spain, the Netherlands, Singapore. If he breathes just right, he can almost ignore how good it feels, convince himself it stings like getting a knot in his muscle worked on.

Every time he feels like it’s building - the pace picking up, his muscles contracting - Jon will ease off. He’ll take his hand off and shake it out, or spurt more oil onto his palm. Sometimes, he even takes notes, tapping something out onto his phone with the hand he’s not got covered in dick juice.

“Good,” Jon tells him, when his eyes start rolling to the back of his head from the effort of keeping his load inside him. “That’s good, Lando. Bit more and you’ll be done.”

The knock at the door is a very unwelcome visitor. Jon stops abruptly, holding his thumb tight over the slit on Lando’s tip, like he’s plugging him up. 

“Knock, knock,” the voice calls, and Lando’s pain-pleasure fucked brain struggles to place it. “Can I come in?”

Jon straightens up, chucks a towel over Lando’s waist and leans down, very close to his face.

“Cover up, mate,” he says with a smile. “Your Dad’s here.”

Lando clutches one end between his knees to keep it in place, his face pink, and his dick spurting pre onto the static fibres of the team towel.

“Alright?” Jon says, wiping his dick hand on his trousers before he claps it to his Dad’s shoulder. Lando curls his toes against the table. Surely he knows, surely he must... “How’s the food out there? I’m fucking starving.”

“It’s alright, actually,” his Dad says. “Stroganoff, and that rice with the bits of...”

Lando whimpers, his dick aching from how close he’s come, so many times. There’s no way for him to make himself turned off, turned down. He swears the smell must be in the air, like a fucking sex dungeon or something.

“Oh god, you should’ve said you were still working,” his Dad shakes his head, clapping Jon on the shoulder. They both look at him, his Dad with fatherly pride, and Jon with a heat that has Lando’s whole crotch throbbing. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He rubs a hand over Lando’s back, the skin smooth with the massage oil, then laughs, wiping it on the towel, pulling it dangerously tight, almost exposing him. 

When his Dad leaves, Lando breathes out a huge sigh, and this time Jon locks the door.

“No more interruptions,” he whispers, when he leans over Lando, hoisting him up on the bed, angling him sideways so his head it at crotch level, ready for it when Jon hooks himself out of his trousers and feeds him his cock, salty to the taste, aching for Lando. It’s his favourite part of all of this, knowing that however much he’ll never say it, Jon needs this too.

Lando’s phone is lying on the side table, and Jon picks it up, typing in his passcode to unlock it on the video he’d been watching, before the massage. He snorts, holding it at his crotch, level with Lando’s face. He knows what Jon is seeing, how close the resemblance is, especially now Lando’s stuffed full with dick. 

“D’you want this then? Could get some of the others in. Bet Rupert would be up for it.”

He shakes his head, quickly, Jon’s hand on his dick squeezing tighter as he does.

Jon smiles, dropping the phone to the sofa behind him, and threading his hand into Lando’s curls, circling along the curl pattern.