collectedreading

[collectedreading]

What would you guys consider the worst movie you've ever seen? Not something that's fun to make fun of, nothing you ironically enjoyed, I mean just an absolutely miserable moviegoing experience that you paid for, hated every second, and wish you had walked out of and asked for a refund.

For me, no joke, Madagascar 3: Europe's Most Wanted. It did not even feel like a real movie to me. It made me see red! I was SEETHING with anger and annoyance throughout the entire thing, and I cannot for the life of me articulate why. I saw it once in 2012 when I was 15, I remember almost nothing about it now, but it struck a nerve with me like no other movie ever has before or since.

Tell me in the tags, which movie makes you disproportionately angry just thinking about it?

[collectedreading]

crack the egg

jon/lando | ~2.4k words | spanking / angst

The worst part is how everyone’s so nice about it, always. Like, you’ll get ‘em next time! Instead of what they should be saying, which is you really fucked it, mate. He did. Fuck it, that is. Even if no one else sees it for what it is, he does, and that’s what matters.

read on ao3 🔒

[collectedreading]

24 + landoscar?? 💖💖

24. voyeurism

There had been a mix-up with the booking. Something about a wedding in the hotel ballroom, plus the grand prix that weekend, meant literally every room was booked.

“It’s fine,” Oscar says with a shrug. “Only a couple days, right?” He looks over at Lando, eyebrow raised, like he was expecting Lando to kick up a fuss. 

If Oscar’s unhappy with having to share, he should’ve just said something himself. Lando isn’t about to pick fights for him. “Whatever,” he says, swiping a key card off the desk and turning to the elevators.

The room is decent, at least. A big sitting area and kitchenette, wide windows with a view out over the water, so high up the cars on the street below look like toys. He could almost forget about the whole –

The lock clicks open and the door swings wide as Oscar walks in, dragging his suitcase behind him. “I’m taking a shower,” Lando announces, shutting himself in the bathroom before Oscar can say a word.

Lando takes his time just because he can, lingering under the hot water, scrubbing shampoo through his hair and then letting the conditioner sit for an extra few minutes, imagining the annoyed pinch at the bridge of Oscar’s nose. By the time he finally steps out of the shower, the mirror is clouded with steam, his skin flushed and pink. He’d been in such a hurry to stake his claim that he hadn’t brought any clean clothes with him, so he wraps a fluffy towel firmly around his hips and opens the door.

Stupid of him not to expect it, to see Oscar lounging on the bed, scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t look up as Lando crosses to his suitcase and opens it, searching for a pair of sweatpants. 

“Are you finished?” 

Lando unearths the sweatpants he was looking for and straightens up, finding Oscar hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. He still needs to do his hair, but he doesn’t need to keep hogging the bathroom for that. The little sink and mirror just outside it will do fine. He shrugs, waits for Oscar to turn his back before he drops the towel and pulls on the sweatpants. He grabs his towel off the floor and brings his bag of toiletries over to the counter as Oscar heads into the bathroom.

The latch must not catch right. The door swings open behind him – not much, maybe a hand’s width – but wide enough that Lando sees a flash of pale skin, dotted with freckles, as Oscar pulls his shirt off. 

Lando opens his mouth to say something, but his words would be lost under the squeak and hiss of the shower starting up. Oscar will surely notice, will shut the door all the way before he gets in the shower. Lando slings the towel over his shoulder and turns away, taking the curl cream out of his bag. He twists the lid off the jar and swipes some onto his fingers, working it carefully through his hair. It’s a peaceful little ritual, if he’s honest, coaxing his hair into the curls it wants to form, gently prodding them into more or less the same direction. 

He’s too focused on his own reflection to notice, at first, what else he can see in the mirror. He lowers his arm and squints at the edge of the mirror and – yeah, that’s not him. That’s – oh fuck.

Through some wonderful, awful feat of physics or whatever, Lando can see Oscar’s reflection, bounced back at him from the bathroom mirror to the mirror Lando’s standing in front of out here. It’s through the gap in the door, so Lando can only see a fraction of him, but it’s enough to make out Oscar, naked behind the glass shower door, his skin slowly flushing pink all over. 

Lando could have guessed, from all their neighboring ice baths, that Oscar’s blush would crawl all the way down his neck and across his chest – but it’s one thing to guess and another thing to know it, to see the proof in front of his eyes. 

Oscar hums, his body twisting as he reaches for the soap.

Lando startles and turns back to his hair products. It’s fine. It’s not like Oscar could see Lando watching him shower. It’s not like Lando was watching him on purpose – he’d just noticed it. He certainly isn’t looking now. 

Oscar makes another noise, and Lando very pointedly does not look. He doesn’t need to know how much Oscar enjoys scrubbing 3-in-1 through his hair. 

Then Oscar makes another noise, and Lando can’t help but look up at that. It sounded… rather moan-like. Pornographic, if he had to describe it in a word. He turns towards the door, about to remind Oscar that he is sharing this room with someone else – with Lando, his teammate – when Oscar moans again. The sound of it echoes off the tiles, quite loud, but that’s nothing compared to the sight of Oscar now.

The mirror’s clouded up with steam, enough to blur the edges of Oscar’s body but not so much that Lando can’t see him. It’s clear enough for Lando to see the water dripping down Oscar’s body, his newly bulked-up muscles and his toned abs, right down to where his hand is wrapped tight around his cock. Lando’s jaw drops, watching Oscar – boring Oscar, with his ugly shorts and his perfect team orders obedience – stroke himself lazy and slow, his hips rocking into his hand just a bit.

Oscar’s eyes are closed, but his jaw hangs open, a stuttered-out groan escaping those pink lips. 

Lando should not be watching this. For all the money in the world, he can’t look away, nor would he ever admit to plucking a bottle of face cream at random from his bag and shoving his own hand into his sweatpants. Lando bites his lip as he curls his fingers around himself, careful not to make a sound. Not that Oscar would hear him over the shower.

It should be impossible for anyone to look so good having a wank. Lando can’t make up his mind on where to look – the water dripping from the curve of Oscar’s jaw and sliding down his neck, the heave of his chest as he draws a breath, the flushed tip of his cock jutting out from the ring of his fingers. Through the steam, Lando can’t quite tell, but – Oscar grunts, sweeping his thumb over the tip – yeah, he’s gotta be close.

Lando wishes, briefly, that he had his camera, then quickly shuts out that thought. The perviness of it all only makes a hot spike of arousal rush through him, right to his cock. Lando bites his lip harder and quickens his pace, dragging a hand up his chest to pinch at his nipple. This time, he barely succeeds at holding back a whine.

He imagines himself pushing the door open wider, dropping his trousers to step into the shower with Oscar. All that slick skin pressed up against him, Oscar’s hand curving beneath his fingers as he grips his cock, speeds up their pace. 

Oscar gasps like it’s been punched out of him. Lando watches hungrily as he comes, pearly white dripping over his fingers. The shower rinses it away almost immediately, but Lando still sees Oscar’s dripping fingers when he closes his eyes, lets himself think about bringing them to his lips and licking the taste from his skin. 

Lando only just remembers to cup his hand over the tip as he comes, careful not to stain his sweatpants. He leans back against the counter to catch his breath, realizing far too late that the room has gone quiet. The shower’s stopped. 

Lando throws himself across the room so quickly he nearly hurtles onto Oscar’s bed. He stops, palm still coated with come, and hurriedly wipes it on the towel still draped around his shoulders. He flings the towel in the corner and flops across the mattress just as Oscar walks out of the bathroom, fully dressed and toweling his hair. 

He’s still pink across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Lando still can’t look away.

[collectedreading]

the current when it serves,

landoscar / charioteer au / 6.7k

“The outcome of things isn’t up to the stars, if I race badly that’s on me, not ‘cause some guy with an agenda told me it’s the case from connecting some glowy friggin’ dots in the sky.” Lando grumbles half of that, aware he’s guided the conversation onto a different path than the one it started on.

“Or race well,” Oscar says, catching Lando by surprise.

“What?”

“If you race well,” Oscar repeats himself, “if you win, that’s also because of you.”

⏩READ HERE⏪

for my favourite little guy @apollossuns 💗

[collectedreading]

landoscar and piercings pretty please? but also like some feminization maybe? THANK

non-famous au landoscar + piercing (for the kink prompts)

“Wish you’d wear something tighter,” Lando murmurs, sliding up behind Oscar and nosing at Oscar’s neck, one hand slipping under Oscar’s boxy t-shirt.

Oscar laughs, dragging Lando’s hand out from where it’s crawling up his abs. “You don’t.”

“I do,” Lando whines. “Can’t see how good your tits look in this.” He brings a hand up to Oscar’s chest and tweaks Oscar’s nipple through the fabric, just for good measure.

Lando hears Oscar let out a small, helpless whimper, but Oscar bats his hand away and spins around, frowning down at Lando. It’d all be a lot more convincing if Oscar’s cheeks weren’t flushed a bright, hectic pink, his trousers slightly tented.

“What?” Lando asks innocently.

“We’re in public.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, at a gay bar. No one gives a shit if I play with your nipples.”

Oscar lets out a tiny squeak, but he gives Lando a disapproving look as he says, “I give a shit.”

“Is this one of those situations where you’re, like, bad embarrassed?” Lando asks. “Or where you’re embarrassed because it’s hot?”

Oscar groans and squeezes his eyes shut, taking a shaky breath. “The second one,” he grits out.

“Right,” Lando says, caging Oscar in against the bar, slotting his thigh between Oscar’s legs and sliding a hand under Oscar’s shirt. “Then I’m going to play with your tits, yeah?” He slips his hand up until he feels Oscar’s nipple, pebbled and hard, the balls of his piercing on either side. “And you’re going to tell me how much you like it.”

Oscar lets out a fractured moan, hips hitching against Lando’s thigh. Lando wonders idly if he could make Oscar come in his trousers in the middle of the bar. He won’t, doesn’t want anyone but him to see what Oscar looks like when he falls apart. But when Lando brushes a thumb back and forth over Oscar’s nipple and Oscar fucking whimpers, Lando knows he could. Knows it’d take barely anything to have Oscar falling apart against his thigh.

It’s why Lando had made him get the piercings in the first place. Before Oscar, Lando had never met anyone who could come just from having their nipples played with, thought it was just, like, a thing in porn. But the first time Lando got his mouth on Oscar’s nipples, Oscar had come all over his stomach with a shocked moan, blinking down at Lando with a dazed expression.

Lando hadn’t thought Oscar would say yes when Lando brought up getting them pierced. Lando had been biting and sucking at Oscar’s nipples while Oscar rode him, and he’d pulled off, Oscar’s nipples wet and shiny with spit, and said, “They’d look so fucking good pierced.” Oscar had barely had time to get a hand on his cock before he was coming, panting out a shocked, “Lando.”

But Oscar had done it and they’d taken ages to heal and now Lando wants to enjoy them. Fucking sue him for wanting to play with his boyfriends’ tits.

Lando slides his other hand into Oscar’s hair and tugs Oscar in for a sloppy kiss, pinching Oscar’s nipple tight between his fingers as he licks into Oscar’s mouth.

But Oscar makes a frantic noise and pulls back, looking down at Lando with a desperate expression.

“What?” Lando asks, trying to sound casual as he thumbs over Oscar’s nipple.

“Lando,” Oscar pants. “You can’t—” He trails off and Lando can feel how hard Oscar is against his thigh, knows exactly how much Oscar likes this.

“Not an answer, mate,” Lando says, pressing his thigh firmly against Oscar’s cock.

Oscar whimpers, even as he pushes his chest into Lando’s hand, like he’s begging for Lando to touch him. But he still doesn’t say anything, just stares at Lando with a half-crazed expression.

Lando can’t resist teasing him a bit. “Doesn’t seem like you like it,” Lando says, pulling his hand out from under Oscar’s shirt. “Reckon we shouldn’t—”

Oscar makes an indignant noise, dragging his cock against Lando’s thigh.

Lando tsks and grips Oscar’s hips in his hands, firm, pinning Oscar against the bar. “None of that, mate,” Lando says, trying to sound unaffected. “Good boys ask for what they want, yeah?”

A moan spills out of Oscar, even as he tries to glare at Lando.

Lando grins, delighted by Oscar’s obvious desperation, and leans in to press a kiss to Oscar’s jaw, smiling when Oscar shudders. His lips are right next to Oscar’s ear when he murmurs, “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Osc?”

Oscar whimpers, but he manages a tiny, “Yes.”

“Then ask,” Lando breathes, fingers brushing against the gap of exposed skin where Oscar’s t-shirt is still rucked up.

Oscar takes a shaky breath and whispers, “Please.”

Lando presses another kiss to Oscar’s jaw. “Please what?”

“Please—” Oscar breaks off on a small, humiliated whine. Lando thinks for a moment that he might not say it, that it all might be too much. But Oscar whispers, voice so small Lando can barely hear him, “Please play with my tits.”

Lando lets out a shocked moan, already sliding a hand up to Oscar’s nipple. “Good boy,” Lando murmurs, and pulls Oscar in for a searing kiss, swallowing Oscar’s frantic sob.

They’re still in public, after all.

[collectedreading]

for the kink prompt - 24 + landoscar plsss🥹your writing is gorgeous and making me discover things abt myself <3 ty in advance

landoscar + inexperienced partner (i was struck by a vision of girl!oscar pegging lando for the first time and this is the end result. for the kink prompts and yes i know this is a month late 💕)

When Oscar grabs the harness and lube, setting them on the bed beside them, she thinks Lando might chicken out. Might kick his heel against her thigh and tell her it was all a joke, that he doesn’t actually want her to fuck him, what the fuck’s she on about. 

But Lando stays perfectly still, sprawled out on the sheets, blinking up at her with wide eyes. His cock’s flushed and hard and huge against his belly and it makes her insane seeing it, knowing that he has all that and he’s still asking her to fuck him. 

He’d begged her for it, really, after he’d seen her strap in the draw of her nightstand. He’d had her pressed up against the wall of her bedroom, her nipples brushing against the cool plaster with each thrust of his hips, his fingers rubbing steady circles over her clit.

“Want you to fuck me like this,” Lando whimpered, breath hot against her ear. “Want you to make me come on your cock.”

She’d shuddered and come so hard she couldn’t catch a full breath, her clit twitching against Lando’s fingers, cunt throbbing around Lando’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Lando moaned. “Jesus, Osc.” His lips slid against her neck and then he was coming, his hitched whines echoing through the room.

Oscar had thought maybe it was just a fantasy. Dirty talk that he knew would make her come her brains out.

But Lando had brought it up again while they’d been lying in bed one night. His head was resting on her stomach, Oscar scratching her fingers idly over his scalp, his soft curls tickling her palm.

“I want you to,” Lando whispered. “Want you to fuck me.”

Oscar took a shaky breath, fingers tightening in Lando’s curls. A tiny grin appeared on Lando’s face, like he knew exactly how much it affected her, hearing him say it.

“Has anyone done that to you before?” Oscar asked, voice strained.

“No,” Lando whispered. “But I’ve, like—to myself.”

“Jesus,” Oscar murmured, dragging her hand down the plane of Lando’s back, tracing the dip of his spine. “And did you, uh, like it?”

Lando moaned at that, tipping his face against her stomach.

“Fuck, you did, didn’t you?” Oscar breathed. She ran her palm over the firm skin of Lando’s ass, imagining how he’d look underneath her, his muscles trembling as she pushed in.

“Yeah,” Lando whispered. “Liked it so much, Osc.”

Lando had eaten her out after. Let her swing a leg across his face and grind against his mouth. He’d stared up at her with a dazed expression, eyes huge and wet, and Oscar couldn’t stop imagining what he’d look like getting fucked. The same wide-eyed desperation, blinking up at Oscar with something like awe. She’d come with a choked moan, soaking Lando’s chin.

Now, as Oscar slips a second finger into him, she realizes he was telling the truth. He likes it. He likes it so fucking much.

Oscar tells him as much as she slips a second finger inside and Lando nods, whimpers. He lets go of one knee and brings a hand up to his chest, fingers brushing over his nipple.

Lando takes it so easily that she doesn’t bother with a third finger, just pushes off the bed and grabs the harness.

Normally, Oscar hates this part. Hates how stupid she must look tugging at the straps of the harness, hates how the harness sits right below the bit of flesh on her belly, the bright blue dildo jutting out obscenely. The whole thing makes her want to turn off the lights, shove a pillow over her partner’s face, tell them to look the other way.

But Lando’s watching her with hooded eyes, fingers still toying with his nipple, thighs still splayed open. His cock’s leaking against his stomach and he’s letting out these tiny little sounds that she’s not even sure he knows he’s making, eyes fixed on her strap.

Her breath catches at the sight, cunt throbbing. She wraps a shaking hand around the dildo, stroking once, feeling stupid even as she does it.

But Lando moans, thighs sliding farther apart. When his eyes flick up to hers, they’re dark and glassy, the look he normally gets right when he’s about to come. 

Oscar knees her way onto the bed and presses a palm against the back of Lando’s thigh, holding him open. He’s still hard, still looking up at her with a breathless expression, still brushing over his nipple.

She pushes in and it’s so fucking easy, easier than anything. Just a hint of resistance and then Lando’s opening for her, a whimper spilling out of him as she slides in.

“God,” Oscar breathes, staring down at where the strap’s disappearing inside him, at his cock leaking against his stomach. “You like it.”

“Yeah, fuck,” Lando gasps, hand flying down to grip his cock. She thinks he’s going to stroke himself, but he just grips the tip of his cock hard, the way he does whenever he’s trying to stop himself from coming too soon.

“Oh my god,” Oscar pants and she feels wetness slipping down her thigh, soaking the straps of the harness. “That’s so—” She trails off and starts fucking him in earnest, reveling in the little uh, uh, uh’s she pushes out of him with each pass of her hips. 

He’s still gripping his cock tightly in his fist, eyes squeezed shut, eyebrows knit together, his whole body clenched tight.

He lets out an awful little whimper and she needs to hear him say it, suddenly, needs to know he likes it, needs to know this isn't a joke.

“Lando,” Oscar says, fingers digging into the back of his thigh. “Lando, look at me, please.”

Lando opens his eyes the tiniest bit and he’s squinting up at her, like he can’t look at her full on or he’ll come.

“Tell me you like it,” Oscar begs. “Please, I need to—tell me you like it.”

Lando’s head tips to the side, pink mouth dropping open, panting against the pillow. He tries to say something, something that sounds like I and like, but the sentence fractures into a moan, his cock jerking in his fist.

And then he's coming, spilling all over his stomach in slow, messy pulses, come leaking between his fingers. He's whining, high and frantic, hips rocking back against her even as he comes.

“That’s it,” Oscar moans, watching him shudder underneath her, his face scrunching up, his toes curling, high, hitched whimpers spilling out of him.

It’s one of the things she loves most about him, how he always seems to lose himself completely when he comes, stops caring about whether he looks good. Like he knows the part she likes most is seeing him surrender himself to it.

She pulls out the moment he’s done coming, afraid of pushing him too far, and starts to slide off the bed, planning to grab a washcloth.

But before she can, hands find her hips and she’s being flipped onto her back, Lando sliding down between her legs.

“Lando,” Oscar gasps, fingers flying to his hair. “You don’t—”

Lando looks up at her, his face flushed, curls sticking to his forehead. “I like it,” Lando whispers. He gives her a tiny grin before he leans forward, dragging his tongue over the wetness on her thighs, sliding his lips over the straps of her harness.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes, tugging him tighter against her. “You like it so fucking much, fuck.”

Lando doesn’t say anything to that, just whimpers and wraps his lips around her clit, blinking up at her with a dazed expression.

[collectedreading]

carlos bimbofication

kink prompts - this one feels rancid even for me, warning for extremely dubious consent 🫥

"It's standard," the doctor tells Carlos. Her white coat has the Ferrari crest on it, half-hidden by the lapel and her stethoscope. "It's only to ensure you don't take any trade secrets to Williams."

As if Carlos were a spy. As if he were trying to leave. One more indignity, to treat this like it's some evil plan of his. But that’s not this woman’s fault. He smiles and nods, and rolls his sleeve up above his shoulder for the injection.

⌇⌇⌇

"Carlos? Are you listening?"

Carlos was listening. He always listens in the engineering meetings; he always takes notes so that he doesn't miss anything. But when he looks down at his notes, trying to figure out how he lost track of the conversation, they're gibberish. He blinks, traces his pointer finger across the shapes like he can reveal the meaning underneath.

Charles, next to him, pats his shoulder. "It's alright. Soon, it won't matter anyway."

Carlos leans his cheek against Charles's hand, because it feels good.

⌇⌇⌇

There's an angry humming noise. Not humming, more like—buzzing.

The driver's parade had been nice. The weather was beautiful, the sun and the wind on his face. He waved at all the fans and they cheered back.

"Mate, you can't just tune me out." Now someone is blocking his way back into the paddock. It's Oscar, and he looks upset.

"Hi Oscar," Carlos says politely. He stands there, because Oscar is still blocking his way. The crowd parts and moves around them, shifting blobs of color.

"You're impossible," Oscar says. It doesn't make sense, the words or the way Oscar is looking at him.

"I have to go now," Carlos says. He doesn't want to be late again. He's been late to a lot of things already this weekend. "Will you let me?"

Oscar blinks. His face has a different expression now. His lips have parted. His cheeks are pink. "I don't care," he says, and turns away so quickly he stumbles a little.

Carlos is late anyway, because he gets lost going back to Ferrari's motorhome. But everyone is very nice about it.

⌇⌇⌇

They send him to medical after his crash. He gets a lot of scans and the doctor talks a lot, and Carlos nods to show he's paying attention, or he's trying to. The doctor tells him to rest.

But as soon as he's alone, the privacy curtain is ripped back again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Oscar asks. "Were you trying to drive me off the road, or are you literally blind?"

"I'm..." Carlos doesn't remember how the crash happened. It must have been his fault, if Oscar is saying it is. "I'm sorry," he says. He should make it better, if he did something wrong.

Oscar is quiet, staring down at him. "You're really fucked up, then?" he asks.

Carlos shakes his head, then nods, because he doesn't know the answer.

"Okay, come on," Oscar says, and helps Carlos pack up his things.

⌇⌇⌇

Oscar helps Carlos find his key card so they know what hotel he's staying at, and then he walks Carlos up to the front desk to ask them what his room number is. The woman at the front desk says something; Carlos knows it's a number as she's saying it, but then as soon as she stops speaking, it's gone. Like water from his cupped palm.

"D'you need me to walk you up there?" Oscar asks. Carlos pinches his own lip, trying to parse the question. He's supposed to go up somewhere. That's what they had been asking the nice woman.

Oscar holds Carlos's elbow on the way to the lift. He lets go once they're inside, and Carlos misses it. Oscar's hand was warm and soft, and Carlos's chest hurts for some reason. He steps forward once, and then again when Oscar backs up, until he's close enough to rest his forehead against Oscar's shoulder.

"You're worrying me, mate," Oscar says, and laughs quietly. His hand comes back to the nape of Carlos's neck. It doesn't seem like Carlos needs to reply.

⌇⌇⌇

Oscar and Carlos are in a hotel room. Carlos looks around. He sees his suitcase, and his sleep mask on the bedside table. "Alright, well. Here you go. Good night," Oscar says, but he's still standing next to Carlos.

It must be Carlos's bed, so Carlos sits and then lies down on top of it. The pillow is soft. He closes his eyes.

"Okay, well." There's a tugging at his feet; when Carlos opens his eyes, he sees Oscar holding Carlos's shoes. "It's just bad manners, mate," he says. He's pink again, in his cheeks and his throat now.

"Okay," Carlos agrees. He arches his feet; they feel better now. "Thank you."

"Okay, like. Do you want me to. Um." Oscar steps again. He's standing right over Carlos. "Need help with the rest?"

Carlos nods, and Oscar nods back. Oscar's hands move over Carlos's body: his waist, his chest, his arms. Carlos is cold before he realizes his shirt is off. Oscar is sliding his jeans down his thighs. It feels good, to be touched. Oscar folds Carlos's clothes and leaves them on the ground.

"Keep going," Carlos manages to say, because Oscar's hands went away, and he misses them.

"Yeah?" Oscar asks. His knee settles on the bed beside Carlos's hip; he toys with the waistband of Carlos's briefs. "You want that?"

Carlos wants anything. He likes that Oscar is here, and touching him, and isn't angry anymore. Oscar's other hand cradles his face, and Carlos opens his mouth for his thumb.

"Is this okay?" Oscar asks, and "Can I?" and "Is that good?" and Carlos just nods and nods and nods, because it's all good, Oscar's fingers around him, in him, Oscar's cock in his mouth. He doesn't know what to want until Oscar suggests it, and then it's all he wants. Oscar inside him, kissing his collarbone. Oscar sucking his lower lip into his mouth. Oscar's come pooling in his belly button.

Oscar tells him he's good, and he is.

⌇⌇⌇

"The initial dose was too high," the Ferrari doctor explains. She has another syringe, another alcohol swab she's rubbing in circles on Carlos's arm. "This should fix that, alright? You'll feel much better in another day or two."

Carlos nods. He's felt fine, but whatever the doctor does is okay.

⌇⌇⌇

Three days later, he gets a text from Oscar in the middle of a briefing. And he realizes he knows what they're talking about right now—it's all familiar to him, of course. His notebook is filled out neatly in front of him. And the text on his phone—

Carlos goes cold, his throat like iron. It can't be right, what he remembers. It doesn't make sense. How that would happen. How he would have done those things. Let Oscar—

Someone asks him a question, and he replies, and everyone seems to smile at him for an extra beat before the conversation picks up again. Carlos unlocks his phone and blocks Oscar's number.

[collectedreading]

CHAPTER 2

Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, Chapter 2/6, 13k words

“You’re like—you know that quote about being an onion?” Lando asks. “Like having all the layers and shit?”

Oscar blinks at him, even as a warm, fizzy feeling floods Oscar’s belly. “The quote from Shrek?”

“Yeah, exactly. The quote from Shrek. You’re like an onion, Oscar Piastri.”

[collectedreading]

oh, OH, kee, please please please, if lando + 28 with whomever or on his own is anything, i'll be ever in your debt 🩷

from this prompt list - curse of obedience

"It'll only last the day," Jon tells him as he passes the bottle over. "Probably only just a bit past the race."

It's meant to be reassuring, but Lando's not assured. Re- or otherwise. The bottle's unlabeled, as tall as his thumb, full to the brim with a pearlescent-green fluid that looks vaguely radioactive. Might even actually be. Who can tell, with witch stuff?

He's never really bought into the whole magick thing. It's never really come up, considering most of this stuff is explicitly banned in Formula 1. But somehow Andrea or Zak or someone even more upper-level has gotten the clearance for this one. Pocioun of Obedience, the release form'd called it.

Why's it spelled that way, anyway? Witches. Bunch of freaks.

"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.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck was that?

[collectedreading]

sweat + spit — landoscar❤️

Sometimes getting everything he’s dreamed of isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Slumped over an exercise bike in a gym that feels more like a sauna, Oscar can’t help but think he would’ve been better off becoming an engineer after all. Sitting at a desk in a nice, air conditioned office, only exercising when he feels like it, and never in a gym with the heating on in the middle of summer, training for the toughest race of the season. 

“How are you not dying?” he pants, looking over at Lando on the bike next to his.

“Trust me, mate, I’m dying,” Lando says. “Think I might already be dead, actually.” He takes a long drink of water, some of it dripping down his chin and onto his shirt. Oscar stares for as long as he can get away with, his eyes tracing the limp twist of Lando’s curls, the dark, damp patches blooming under his arms and along his neck.

“Don’t pass out on me, mate,” Lando says, tugging at his shirt to fan himself. “I’m terrible with blood.”

Clearly Oscar hasn’t gotten away with the staring. Must be the heat getting to him. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, watching a drop of sweat slip down Lando’s thick neck. Oscar doesn’t feel fine, not in the slightest. His face feels hot, his muscles aching, but worse than any of that is the rabid desire pounding through him. Oscar wants to lick that drop of sweat. He wants to drag Lando to the floor, to shove his face in those damp patches beneath Lando’s arms and breathe in the smell of him where it’s strongest. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you really don’t look so good,” Lando says, slipping off the exercise bike. “Here, take this.”

Lando’s holding out a water bottle, waggling it right in Oscar’s face. Oscar tracks the movement: Lando’s knuckles shine faintly with sweat, his long fingers curled neatly all the way around the plastic. Lando sighs, adjusts his fingers, and then presses the bottle right up against Oscar’s cheek. 

Oscar groans at the cool water on his overheated skin. 

He waits for Lando to giggle, or maybe mockingly groan right back at him, all high and whiny, but when Oscar dares to open his eyes, Lando’s watching him intently, his pink lips parted in a perfect ‘o.’ Slowly, Oscar summons the energy to raise his hand and take the water bottle from Lando’s slack fingers. He takes a long drink, contemplates dumping the rest over his head. Thinks about pouring it slowly over Lando’s head instead. Twists the cap back on.

“You get all red,” Lando says, immediately blushing himself. “Sorry – I mean – you know, obviously, it’s just…” Lando touches his fingertips to Oscar’s cheek, lingering for a breath before yanking away again as though he’d been burned. 

“Yeah,” Oscar says faintly. He’s been living in his body for twenty-odd years, knows his face goes red after an hour in the sun, or a cringe of embarrassment, or when the guy he’s had a crush on for years touches him gently on the cheek. “You’re all sweaty,” he says, reaching up to tug on a damp lock of Lando’s hair.

Lando wrinkles his nose. “I know,” he says. “I’m disgusting.”

“No, it’s…” If ever there was a time to go flat out, Oscar thinks, this is it. “It’s hot.”

“Yeah, no shit, mate.” Oscar watches the smile slip right off Lando’s face, his jaw dropping. “Wait, you – oh. Oh.”

Oscar slides off the exercise bike on unsteady legs, keeping his balance with a hand on Lando’s shoulders. He rocks forward on the balls of his feet, then keeps leaning in until he’s close enough to press his lips to Lando’s cheek. 

Lando lets out a tiny, muffled squeak. When Oscar pulls back, he doesn’t quite look Lando in the eye. There’s a distracting smear of wetness on Lando’s cheek, right where Oscar’s lips had just been. 

“Is that it?” Lando asks. Oscar’s eyes snap up to his, staring hungrily as Lando pulls his shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. “Bit tame, Osc.”

Oscar leans in again, bypassing Lando’s pursed lips to shove his face in the mess of Lando’s hair, pressing a wet kiss just behind his ear. Lando jolts like he’s been electrified, his broad hands clutching at him as Oscar stoops to kiss down Lando’s neck.

“Off,” Oscar mutters, grabbing the hem of Lando’s shirt and pulling it up until he can’t anymore, the fabric caught by Lando’s arms. Lando whips his arms up so fast he misses clobbering Oscar’s nose by millimeters, yanking his shirt over his head and letting it fly off somewhere behind him. His tanned, toned chest is covered in a faint sheen of sweat. 

Oscar can’t take his eyes off him. He takes Lando by the waist and dives in again, laying a trail of kisses from the hollow of Lando’s throat down to his chest. Lando’s skin is slick and faintly salty; Oscar drags his tongue down the middle of Lando’s chest, startling a curse out of him. 

“Osc, what are you doing?” Lando asks, as Oscar changes course, sinking his teeth into the muscle of Lando’s pec. “Fuck, Oscar, what the – oh fuck,” Lando gasps.

Lando’s skin is turning pink where Oscar just bit him. “Tell me to stop,” Oscar says, flicking his tongue against the pebbled peak of Lando’s nipple. 

Lando’s gasp this time is shuddery, breathless. Oscar grins. “Don’t,” Lando says, his hand clutching the back of Oscar’s neck. He doesn’t push him, just holds on as Oscar keeps licking his chest, until the funk of sweat is gone and all Oscar can taste is his skin. 

Lando doesn’t stop him when Oscar sweeps his tongue between the ridges of his ribs. He lifts his arm obligingly, letting his wrist come to rest across the back of Oscar’s neck. Oscar likes the weight of it, warm and steadying. He can feel Lando’s fingers twitch as Oscar noses his way up Lando’s side, lapping up any droplets of sweat he comes across. 

And when he reaches Lando’s armpit, pressing his lips to the sweat-drenched hair there, Lando doesn’t stop him.

[collectedreading]

Only Fair

Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz, Charles Leclerc/Carlos Sainz/Alexandra Saint Mleux/Rebecca Donaldson | E | 4k words

“And keep your mouth busy if you’re going to be strange,” she continues. It sounds distracted, flippant. “Kiss each other, or something.” Charles jerks back at that, right as he’s about to feed his dick in between Alex’s glossy, bitten red lips. His heart does something that’s clearly demonstrating its displeasure, because it’s gone all heavy in his chest, and his veins suddenly feel as if they’re filled with ice. Or maybe lava. No, no definitely ice. “What?” he yelps. “No!” Carlos, notably, doesn’t say anything. Charles finds himself entangled in a weird sort of polyamory that shouldn't feel right, but it kind of does.

[collectedreading]

Sit Quiet

Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 2.7k words, oneshot, EXPLICIT

Lando raises a brow. "You want him to hear you, don't you?" "That's –" "Always knew you liked Max," Lando smiles into it, leaning forward to reach his desk – trapping Oscar between his arms. "Wanna say hi?" He seizes, gone stiff against his chest. "Lando." "That's not a no."

Cock warming while Lando's called into Max's stream. That's it, that's the fic.

[collectedreading]

uncertainty principle — 814, driver!lando x single dad!oscar, 15.0k

Lando Norris is not immune to karting prodigies and their unfairly attractive fathers. Thus begins a modern love story.

[collectedreading]

What this blog is about: what im reading

What am I reading? Mostly F1 at the moment

And who? anything with Oscar or Lando, some lestappen and any pairing where the story compells me

Other fandoms outside of F1

+ star wars clone wars > anything with obi wan

+ Star Trek the newer trilogy

+ marvel avengers, MCU, Spider-Man, Deadpool, x-men

+ supernatural festival occasionally

+ Harry Potter > Drarry or Dramione

Tropes I Like:

Anything time related, time loops, just hopping through time and visiting, time travel fix it, reincarnation

Wanting and longing

Magical realism, superpowers, shifting and A/B/O

Streamer AU, and any AU really, but also one of them not being famous

Kinks you might encounter here: anything and everything, I've been reading fic and rpf for years, and you can be sure I've read everything

[collectedreading]

Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri Characters: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, George Russell (Formula 1 RPF), Max Verstappen, Lily Zneimer, Logan Sargeant, Charles Leclerc Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Not Racing Drivers (Formula 1 RPF), Exes to Lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, but the enemies is very vague, lando vs media, Oscar Piastri Loves Lando Norris, Lando Norris Loves Oscar Piastri, he cant keep his mouth shut, Social Media, the horrors of twitter, Tags to be added, Streamer Lando Norris, Musician Oscar Piastri, Crack Treated Seriously, Unconventional Format, Texting, PR relationships, it is very dsmptwt 2021 core, this is written by a dsmp to f1 pipeline author, Unreliable Narrator, because the narrator is twitter Summary:

Lando can’t seem to keep his mouth shut.

He may or may not have cancelled Oscar on Twitter. Or X. Whatever the fuck it’s called.

Oops?

[collectedreading]

59 (lying curse/forced to lie about something) with maybe perhaps jendo :') <3

(luv @vroombeams)

ur wish is my command!!! <3

jendo + lying curse

They’re back-alley shit, tiny little bottles like poppers, writing so small it’s illegible. Jenson eyes them with a face that Lando knows means he’s going to have something boring to say.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Boring. He’s so predictable. “It’s fine, done it loads of times.”

Jenson rolls his eyes, like Lando’s confident lie hadn’t quite landed, but he picks a bottle up and inspects it anyway, half a smile hovering around his mouth.

“And what does it supposedly do?”

“Makes you horny,” Lando says, wriggling a hand into Jenson’s waistband, “but like, for ages.”

Jenson jumps when Lando’s fingers, cold from being wrapped round a can of Coke, reach his dick. He twists the cap of the bottle and gives it a sniff, experimental, like it’s a glass of nice wine and not a cheap concoction bought from a friend of a friend. Not that Jenson knows that: Lando has sort-of-on-purpose let him think it’s from the proper shop in the hills behind Monte Carlo, regulated magic. Nobody under the age of forty buys from those places, anyway.

“So, Viagra.” Jenson says slowly. Lando nods and twists his hand in further, gets a full grip of Jenson’s cock.

“Exactly. But better, ‘cos it’s magic.”

Jenson shrugs, the smile cracking across his face. “Right, fine. You little horror. If I can’t leave the house for three days because I’ve got a stiffy, I’m blaming you.”

Lando preens. Jenson’s getting hard already in his hand: he’s got high hopes for his free weekend. “I’ll keep you busy.”

He yanks his hand free and cracks the second bottle open, downing it in one. It doesn’t taste good - vaguely oily and synthetic, a hint of florals. He grimaces and feels the tell-tale ripple of a spell spreading through his body all at once. Jenson laughs, flicking the button of his jeans open and pulling down the zip, rubbing himself absently as he looks as Lando’s face. Lando glows with it, knowing he can make Jenson like this. But he’s no spring chicken any more - marathon sessions aren’t a thing, and Jenson’s more likely to fall asleep during Lando’s post-fuck TikTok scroll than he is go for a second round, so. Here they are.

“Tastes nice then?” Jenson says, still rubbing himself idly. Lando thinks the words like shit but it’ll be worth it, and what comes out of his mouth is -

“It’s well nice. Like, minty." He pauses. “No -” 

Jenson gives him a funny look. “You okay?”

Not really, I feel like I just glitched mid-sentence, Lando thinks. But he says: “Yeah! I’m great.”

Jenson’s watching him like a hawk: he’s stopped touching himself, and he’s leaning over the table peering at Lando like he might be able to spot anything suspicious. Lando wonders if he should have checked Reddit for reviews of this brand of spell before he downed one, but - well. Never mind.

“Ask me another question.”

Jenson rolls his eyes. “What’s your name?”

Stupid question, he thinks. I know my own name. “Valentino Ro - oh, fuck.”

Jenson’s eyes are big and wide now, but he doesn’t look worried - he looks like he thinks it’s very, very funny. “And where are you?”

“Las Vegas.” Lando says, miserably. The Monte Carlo sunshine is beaming through the windows. Jenson snorts.

“And,” Jenson’s practically vibrating now he looks so pleased, the prick, “where did you get these spells from?”

Fuck’s sake. Lando can feel the spell twisting the shape his mouth makes as he tries to say it, so he changes tack, reaching for Jenson’s open fly. He’s still hard, which is interesting: he’s always kind of liked it when Lando’s a bit squirmy and embarrassed, before it turns to defensive. He pulls Jenson’s dick free from his boxers, a bit rough, and drops to the floor, elbowing his way into space between Jenson’s knees. Jenson lets him take the weight of his cock into his mouth for longer than Lando expects before he says, laughing: “Lando. Where did you get the spells?”

Lando pulls off and looks up. Some guy who works behind the bar at Jimmyz got them, he thinks, and he giggles as it comes out: “The posh shop up near the padel place.”

Jenson’s hand snakes round under his chin, holding his face there for a minute with a look of exasperation. “So instead of giving me a magic blue pill you’ve made yourself a liar.”

Yes. “No?” 

He dips his head again, gets back to the task in hand. He’s getting laid either way. Jenson won’t mind.

* 

“You like that?”

His back is arched, breath coming in short, animal pants, sweat rolling off him. His fingers are twisted in the bedsheets and Jenson’s are twisting inside him, three of them, sturdy and long like the rest of him, stuffing him tight. He’s breathless and frantic and he’s been like this for an hour, it feels like. I’ll show you stamina, kiddo, Jenson had said, and he’d been as good as his word.

It’s an effort to form words, but he gasps it anyway. “No.”

Jenson laughs and curls his fingertips up until Lando sees stars. “Good.”

[collectedreading]

Hello 🤸‍♀️for the prompt game: Oscar + Curse of obedience OR Drunken/drugged/sleepy confessions

well HELLO this one was so much fun!!! i would actually kind of like to expand on this because my brain ran off with it so... watch this space haha.

oscar + curse of obedience

(fyi technically lando is getting oscar to do things percieved as loosely sexual by oscar without his consent here but. oscar is SO fine with it)

Lando’s really run out of ways to have fun with it, Oscar can tell. His eyes are darting round the room - all fifteen square feet of it, piled with Lando’s jumpers and Lando’s shoes and Lando’s racesuits.

“Don’t see why we couldn’t be in my driver room,” Oscar says waspishly. Lando turns his back to the door, as though Oscar might make a run for it. Keep him in there. If he tries to leave, order him not to, Sophie had said firmly, as though Oscar might deliberately do something stupid enough to land him on the news.

“Shut up, Oscar,” Lando says, and Oscar feels his mouth close of its own accord. Lando’s eyes widen. “Fuck, sorry! Forgot. You can talk, sorry.”

“Thanks,” Oscar says carefully. He wonders what exactly the management team are doing right now - hunting down the world’s most noise-cancelling headphones, maybe. Their main concern seemed to be fan signs around the track, in case the curse worked by reading too and marry me Oscar in glitter gel pen had taken a legally dubious turn en route to the motorhome - they’d bundled him into a golf cart like he was in witness protection and instructed him to keep his eyes on his phone at all times, like he was busy. And - well, once they told him to do it, he’d had no choice. And now he’s here, trapped in Lando’s driver room, entirely at his mercy. He’d expected worse: Lando had tried a few tentative do ten star jumps, Oscar and Oscar, you need to make a noise like a cat as loud as you can, falling about with laughter every time, but he seems to have got bored before he’d managed to to think of something awful like Oscar show me your browser history. The team will find someone who can fix this, Oscar thinks optimistically. It’ll be fine in time for quali. 

“Hey,” he says, an idea forming in his head. “What if you instructed me to win the drivers’?”

Lando’s head snaps up from his phone, tilting slightly. “It’s not possible, though.”

“I don’t know, do I. Curses are curses. It’s magic. Maybe the FIA would decide last-minute to make this race result winner takes it all and I’d win it.” Oscar grins, suddenly pleased with the situation. “Command me to win the race or something, see what happens.”

Lando looks less pleased: it might not be possible for Oscar, but it is still, technically, possible for him. “Nope,” he says shortly. Then he downs up at Oscar, a slow smile creeping over his face. “Not going to be that nice to you.”

It makes Oscar’s skin prickle hot and cold, the way he says it. He says, croaky: “How nice are you going to be?”

Now’s not the time. If there’s something to talk about - and Oscar isn’t sure there is beyond a ramped up, manic kind of flirting, occasional nonsequiturs about Oscar’s sexual preferences that Lando walks back moments later as though they were jokes - it definitely isn’t while he’s locked in a tiny cube unable to defy instructions. He wishes he could snatch the words back, but it’s too late. Lando’s looking at him curiously.

“Take your top off.” He says. Oscar feels his hands move before he can complain, and by time he’s even opened his mouth Lando’s added quickly: “And don’t argue with me.”

He’s undignified about it, hands wrestling his polo shirt over his head, and he sits with it in his hands, twisting the fabric nervously. It sits helpfully over his lap, where his dick has decided to take an interest in being entirely at Lando’s disposal. Oscar wonders if he could get Google Assistant to read out the phrase lose your boner if he typed them into a text, save him some embarrassment.

Lando steps closer to him, looking like he’s thinking hard about his next move. “Hmmmm. Open your mouth.” 

It falls open, right on cue. He flinches when Lando slides his thumb in, resting it on Oscar’s tongue, and he flicks his eyes up to Lando in confusion. He clutches the polo shirt tighter. He’s definitely almost entirely hard now, and it’s his own fault entirely for being so obvious about it, because Lando’s next words are a curious: “Show me.” 

Shouldn’t curses need to be more specific, Oscar’s brain thinks. Oscar’s hands, though, are pulling away the polo shirt to reveal the straining front of his shorts, made worse by the salty and faintly antiseptic taste of Lando’s thumb still resting heavy on his tongue. Lando’s eyes are glued on Oscar’s crotch, his breathing a bit shallow: he presses his thumb down harder and says, wonderingly, “Fuck. I could do what I wanted.”

Oscar makes a noise, even more undignified with his open mouth, that’s halfway between don’t and please.

“Oscar,” Lando says, nudging up closer to Oscar again, until his legs are either side of Oscar’s left thigh. 

Oscar waits. He’s got no choice.

With his left hand, Lando reaches behind himself and flicks the lock to CLOSED.