#sabri.asks

“Fuck,” Oscar says, and snakes his hand down from Lando’s hip to reach downwards, to where he’s painfully hard in his boxers. Lando's hips chase the contact and Oscar's palm cups him harder through the fabric, a deliberate squeeze that makes his knees go a bit weak. "You're so hard."

"Well, yeah." Lando says it like it's obvious, because it kinda is. It comes out a little muffled where he's started kissing Oscar's neck, behind his ear, tasting salt and the faint woody tang of his cologne. "Been hard since before we left, mate."

The words make Oscar shiver under him, a full-body thing that Lando feels everywhere they're pressed together. They stumble a few steps backward until Oscar is falling onto the bed, sitting and pulling Lando in between his legs. Oscar looks up at him, big brown eyes lit amber by the streetlights coming in through the window. His pupils are blown wide. He has a hand on Lando's clothed cock still, and he leans forward to kiss Lando's hip just above the waistband, soft and deliberate.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Lando sways forward a little, dizzy, needs to put a bracing hand on Oscar’s shoulder. He tangles his other hand into the soft strands of Oscar’s hair and lets his head tip back, eyes falling shut to ground himself.

But the sudden sensation of hot, wet breath on his cock, over the fabric, makes him hiss. His eyes fly open and he looks down to see Oscar laying open-mouthed kisses to his bulge, and fuck. It’s the hottest thing Lando has seen in… maybe ever.

Oscar must notice Lando is watching again, because he looks up at him and brings two hands to the waistband of the boxers, tilting his head ever-so-slightly, a little like a cat. Before he can ask, Lando breathes out, “Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

Oscar gives the bulge one more kiss before pulling the boxers down, and the unassuming tenderness of the gesture makes something inside Lando’s chest flipflop around like a dying fish. It feels too intimate, somehow.

Which is certainly a thought, because Oscar is about to have his cock in his mouth.

Lando tightens his hold on Oscar's hair involuntarily when Oscar licks a long stripe from base to tip and immediately starts to pull away when Oscar lets out a high-pitched whine. "Shit, sorry—"

But Oscar grips his wrist before he can pull away entirely, keeps Lando's hand exactly where it is, and the message is clear: keep it there. So Lando does, fingers flexing against Oscar's scalp. 

It's hard not to tighten his grip even further when the wet heat of Oscar's mouth envelops the head of his cock. Lando can't help the moan that tumbles out into the quiet room—quiet except for the sounds Oscar is making below him, slick and filthy. Oscar takes him deeper, not rushing it, one hand still braced on Lando's hip and the other wrapping around the base.

"Jesus Christ," Lando breathes, watching Oscar's cheeks hollow as he sucks. "You're— Fuck, you're really good at this."

Oscar hums around him, which sends a jolt of pleasure up Lando's spine, and pulls off with a wet pop just enough to say, "Thanks."

Lando is about to tease him for it—who answers thanks when someone says you're good at sucking cock?—but it dies in his tongue when Oscar takes Lando back in, deeper this time, until Lando hits the back of his throat.

Lando's hips twitch forward on instinct and Oscar lets him, relaxes his jaw and just takes it. Lets Lando rock into the heat of his mouth in shallow thrusts, and it's so good it's making Lando's thighs shake. He's not gonna last long like this, not with the way Oscar's looking up at him through his lashes, eyes watering slightly but determined.

"Oscar, I'm—" Lando tries to warn him, tugging lightly at his hair, but Oscar just makes another affirming sound and doesn't pull off. Instead, the hand that had been on Lando's hip slides around, fingers pressing into the small of his back and then lower, tracing the curve of his arse.

Oscar pulls off again for a disappointing moment, and brings his hand up to his mouth. Lando watches, transfixed, as Oscar takes a finger past his lips, sucking it in deep, coating it thoroughly with spit. The sight alone nearly finishes Lando off. But before he knows it, Oscar is taking him back into his mouth at the same time a wet finger presses against his rim, teasing, and Lando genuinely thinks he might pass out.

"Fuck, oh my God, Oscar—"

The finger presses in slowly, and there's a slight burn to it, with just spit and no lube, but Lando couldn’t possibly care less right now. Not with Oscar working it deeper, careful and patient even as he's still sucking Lando's cock, crooking his finger just right, searching for that spot—

Lando's knees actually buckle when he finds it. He needs two hands on Oscar's shoulders now to stay upright, moaning shamelessly. "Jesus Christ, don't stop."

Oscar doesn't stop. He finds a rhythm, finger pressing in steady pulses against Lando's prostate while his mouth works in counterpoint, and it's—it's too much, the dual sensation, the heat coiling tight in Lando's gut. Lando can feel his balance going, the control he usually has over his body completely shot.

"Osc, gonna—" It's all the warning he can manage before he's coming hard, vision whiting out at the edges. Oscar swallows around him and keeps that finger pressed right where Lando needs it, drawing it out until Lando is shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at Oscar's shoulders.

Oscar pulls off slowly, finger sliding out, and when Lando finally manages to look down at him, Oscar's lips are red and swollen, chin shiny. He grins up at Lando. "Good?" he asks, shyly, which—Jesus.

“Yeah, mate, fuckin’—” Lando hauls Oscar up by the shoulders and kisses him, tasting himself on Oscar's tongue. Lando can feel Oscar smiling against his mouth. “Yeah. Good.”

They tumble onto the bed properly, Lando kicking off his boxers the rest of the way while Oscar sheds his own, and then they stay like that. Snogging, basically, their hands wandering. They end up on their sides, facing each other, and Lando maps the planes of Oscar's chest with clumsy hands. He traces the ridge of Oscar's hip bone, the hard muscle of his quads. He must have done a lot of grands allegros back in his day, Lando thinks.

Oscar's hard against his hip, has been this whole time, but he doesn't seem in any rush, content to just kiss Lando breathless. His hand skims down Lando's side, warm and a bit uncoordinated, fingers catching on ribs.

It’s weirdly, like, romantic. Lando doesn’t remember any of his hookups being satisfied with just—this. Touching, kissing. 

Well. That’s—

Lando reaches between them, wrapping a hand around Oscar's cock, finally, and Oscar breaks the kiss to gasp against Lando's mouth. He's thick in Lando's palm, hot and leaking, and Lando works him with slow, twisting strokes, watching Oscar's face contort with pleasure. The angle is a bit awkward like this, but he makes it work.

"Lando," Oscar grits out, hips rocking into his fist. His hand scrabbles for purchase on Lando's bicep, grip loose and unsteady. "Fuck, that's—"

"Yeah?" Lando thumbs over the head, spreading the precome, and Oscar shudders. Lando can feel himself getting hard again, slowly. Oscar makes for a pretty sight, all pent-up and begging.

He tightens his grip, speeds up his strokes, and watches Oscar's hand scrabble at the sheets, the other gripping Lando hard enough to bruise. His head tips back, throat exposed. Lando wants to bite it. Wants to see if he can make Oscar come just like this, or if he can get hard again to fuck Oscar, or—

"D'you want to fuck me?" The words tumble out before Lando can second-guess them, slurred slightly, and Oscar's eyes snap open, dark and molten.

"Do I—" Oscar chokes out a laugh, breathless and a little disbelieving. "Um. Yeah. Yeah, obviously."

"Okay." Lando's heart is racing, and he's pretty sure the room is spinning a bit. "Okay, good. D'you have—"

"Yeah, hang on—" Oscar rolls off the bed, slightly unsteady on his feet, and crosses to his dresser. He rummages through the top drawer, and Lando watches the flex of his back muscles, the perfect slope of his waist, mesmerized. Oscar comes back with a bottle of lube and a condom, tossing them onto the bed before climbing back in. "There."

Oscar settles next to him again, and they're kissing, Oscar's hand cupping Lando's jaw. After a moment, Lando reaches for the lube with fumbling fingers, nearly knocking it off the bed before he gets the cap open. He coats his fingers properly this time, slicking them up, and reaches down between his own legs.

The first finger slides in easily and he works it in and out, adding a second when it stops burning. His head is fuzzy, everything feeling heightened and distant at the same time. Oscar stops kissing him to watch, one hand coming to rest on Lando's thigh. His fingers press in gently, and Lando can feel the calluses there, the same ones he has on his own hands.

"Can I help?" Oscar's voice is rough with want.

Lando nods, wordless, and guides Oscar's hand to replace his own. Oscar's fingers are thinner than his, but he fits in three of them at once, and the stretch makes Lando gasp. They work together like that, finding a rhythm that's a bit uncoordinated but good, Oscar's fingers curling to find his prostate again while Lando rocks down onto them. Oscar keeps his other hand on Lando's sternum, feeling the expansion of his ribcage as he breathes.

Once Oscar is satisfied—and Lando’s already fully hard again, his sensitive cock leaking between his legs—he withdraws his fingers carefully. Lando watches through half-lidded eyes as Oscar rolls the condom on with slightly clumsy hands, slicks himself up. He settles between Lando's thighs, one hand braced by Lando's head to hold himself up, the other guiding himself. He wobbles slightly, has to adjust his balance.

“Okay?” Oscar asks, and Lando wants to kiss him again for it. Because there’s no way he’s still this careful when they’re both clearly gagging for it.

He nods, then Oscar is pressing in, slow and steady.

Lando wills his body to relax, breathing through it the way he would through a challenging stretch—well, he reckons this is a challenging stretch, in a way. Ha.

But it backfires, because Oscar notices the effort and pauses, checking Lando’s face for any signs of pain.

“C’mon, Osc,” he complains. “I’m not gonna break.” He means it to sound demanding, but it just comes out as pleading. 

Whatever Oscar sees on his face, he’s convinced. He presses in the rest of the way in one long slide, and they both make slightly embarrassing noises when he bottoms out. Oscar drops his forehead to Lando's shoulder, breathing hard.

"Need a second," Oscar mumbles against Lando's skin. “Sorry.”

Lando huffs a laugh, running his hands down Oscar's back, feeling the ridge of his spine, the dip at the small of his back. “Don’t apologize.” It gives Lando a moment too, to get used to the feeling of having Oscar inside him.

A few seconds later, Oscar lifts his head, and the look on his face—open and wanting and almost awed—makes Lando's pulse skyrocket. They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, like they’re each waiting for the other to say something, before Oscar plants a firm kiss to the corner of his mouth and starts to move. Long, rolling thrusts that make Lando's breath catch, make his mouth go slack. 

Oscar finds his rhythm quickly, one hand sliding under Lando's knee to hitch his leg higher, changing the angle, and pushing in deeper.

It’s good. It’s better than good, actually; it’s the kind of sex that makes Lando grateful for natural selection, or whatever other miracle of nature that made sex exist in the first place, that made it a thing humans do, because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to experience this. 

Maybe he’s too drunk to make any sense. Hard to think, when he’s getting fucked like this.

“Swear to God, if you stop now I’ll frickin’ die, mate,” he slurs, cheek rubbing against Oscar’s, up and down in rhythm with his thrusts.

“Wasn’t, ah— Wasn’t really planning on it.” Oscar grins down at him, sweat beading at his temples, hair a mess, and snaps his hips forward again. And again. Building up speed until he's properly pounding into Lando, and he really hopes Oscar doesn’t have neighbours because the sound of the bed creaking is pretty unmistakable. 

Lando wraps a hand around his own cock, matching Oscar's rhythm with unsteady strokes. "Wanted this since I saw you," he manages to get out between gasps.

Oscar’s eyes don’t leave his face, watching every reaction, and there's something almost unbearably intimate about it—being seen like this, being paid attention to. It makes him want to hide, shove his face into the pillows, but the urge to keep looking is stronger, somehow 

“Kitchen?” Oscar asks, breathless.

“No, before, I—” Lando's cut off by a particularly deep thrust. "Fuck, yeah, like that."

Oscar adjusts slightly to improve the angle, lowering himself so he’s chest to chest with Lando. “Couldn’t believe it when you kissed me,” Oscar pants, a warm puff of air into Lando’s ear. “You’re so— Fuck.”

He doesn't say what Lando is, just mouths at the side of Lando's jaw instead, but Lando gets it. He gets it completely.

Lando can feel it building again, that coil of heat in his belly. Oscar's cock dragging over his prostate on every thrust, his own hand working himself between their stomachs, the weight of Oscar above him, the way Oscar keeps kissing him between thrusts like he can't help it—it's all too much. He couldn’t hold back even if he had any self-control, which he doesn’t.

"Close," he gasps out.

"Me too." Oscar's thrusts are getting erratic, less controlled. He gets a hand in Lando's hair and tugs, tilting Lando's head back to nuzzle his throat, and that's what does it.

Lando comes with a strangled sound, spilling over his own hand and onto his stomach, and Oscar fucks him through it, chasing his own release. When Lando clenches down around him Oscar makes this beautiful noise like a wounded animal and follows, hips jerking as he spills into the condom.

It takes a while for them to recover, Oscar collapsed on top of him for a few minutes like a particularly sweaty weighted blanket. Over his shoulder, Lando stares at the ceiling, breathing hard.

The room is definitely spinning now.

Eventually Oscar pulls out, deals with the condom with fumbling hands. "Don't move," Oscar mumbles, and Lando huffs out something that might be a laugh because he couldn't move if he tried. His limbs feel like lead.

He hears Oscar get up, the sound of a tap running, and then Oscar is back, the mattress dipping. The warm cloth against his skin makes Lando hum, eyes already closed. Oscar wipes him down gently and thoroughly—his stomach, between his legs—and Lando doesn’t linger too much on it, or what it means. He just knows it feels nice, the warm pressure of the cloth.

"There," Oscar says and it sounds distant, like he’s behind a wall of cotton. The mattress shifts again.

Lando should probably say something, should probably get up and find his clothes, figure out how to get home. But Oscar's hand finds his wrist on the sheets between them when he tries to move, fingers wrapping around it delicately. Lando lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

"’M just gonna..." Lando mumbles, not finishing the thought.

"Yeah.” Oscar’s thumb is drawing circles on his wrist bone. "Sleep. It’s okay."

“Fuckin’ hell,” Lando’s voice comes from above him, slightly breathless. “Wish you could see yourself right now, Osc, my God.” 

There’s a pause, then, a particular kind of silence that Oscar’s starting to recognize as the sound of Lando having an idea. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lando reach for his phone, which had been lying face down on one of the cushions. 

Oscar starts to pull out—because no, there’s no fucking way—but Lando’s other hand tangles into his hair, keeping him down.

“Relax, mate, it’s your phone, you can delete it later if you want.”

Oscar tries to protest again, squirming, but Lando doesn’t relent. There's nothing he can do other than stay still and breathe through his nose, feeling the weight of Lando heavy on his tongue as he tries not to trigger his gag reflex. He keeps his eyes firmly shut as the camera shutters once, twice, three times. Does everything he can not to think about how he must look right now—on his knees between Lando’s legs, bent forward with his hips pushed out, and that fucking—Jesus Christ.

Career-ruining at best, life-ruining at worst. 

There must be something really wrong with him, for letting Lando do this.

Oscar only opens his eyes when Lando finally leans back. There’s a self-satisfied grin on his face as he scrolls through the photos. “There ya go. Wanna see?”

He hums around Lando’s cock—which has Lando digging his teeth on his bottom lip, a low hiss escaping his mouth—and shakes his head minutely, hoping his eyes express what he can’t speak. No thanks, I’d rather die.

Lando doesn’t even pretend to consider it.

“Well, ’m gonna show you anyway,” he says, and turns the screen to Oscar before he can do anything about it. Protest, close his eyes, bite Lando’s prick off, maybe. Something other than staring passively at what’s probably the most degrading photo of himself in existence.

It’s hard to even believe it’s him, is the thing.

It looks like something out of one of those forums, something Oscar would see when scrolling Reddit past-midnight, under the safety of his covers. One of those that he’d never think about again, except when it popped into his head uninvited during a guilty wank in the shower.

His head is not visible in the frame but it’s not hard to tell what he’s doing, glaringly obvious from the position. It somehow makes it even worse, more obscene than if everything was in clear view. Worse than that is the pale slope of his own back, arched and dotted with moles, where it tapers out into his waist. From this angle, it looks impossibly narrow, like a girl’s. Delicate.

And then, like that’s not enough, there’s the baby pink fabric that barely covers his arse and—impossible to ignore, and he tries, he tries so fucking hard—the tail. Fluffy and white, perking up from the small of his back.

He can’t tear his eyes away. Throat slackening, he feels more drool drip down Lando’s length, adding to the mess he’s already made, wet and pooling at the base. A sick mix of humiliation, arousal, and desperation rushes to his head, and he can’t think, can’t decipher this feeling that threatens to take hold of him. He wants to scream, tell Lando he doesn’t want this, not really, that he doesn’t know what he’d been thinking—what Lando had been thinking—and that they need to stop this right now.

But he doesn’t. 

Because underneath it all there’s an overpowering feeling of correctness. A traitorous thought that this is natural, that this is how things are supposed to be. That this is his place, here, on his knees on the scratchy carpet, and there’s a kind of relief in being made to occupy it. In having the evidence of what he is captured on screen, permanent and undeniable.

It’s—

“Mental, hm?” Lando’s tone is unbearably smug, low and syrupy. “You’re, like, perfect. Such a perfect bunny.”

Oscar lets out a helpless moan, feeling himself leak at the praise, his own cock twitching against the flimsy fabric of the panties. It’s muffled and pathetic, even to his own ears, and that only makes it worse—makes the heat coiling in his gut wind tighter.