#tf sport

[viper-motorsports]

[dailywec]

[opelman]

H. Koizumi / S. Baud / D. Juncadella (Corvette Z06 GT3.R / TF Sport) by S. Le Bozec Via Flickr: 24 Heures du Mans 2024

[bigboysfalldeep]

The neighbour - male hypnosis

Turan stood in front of his closet, just wearing black boxers, looking for something to wear. His fingers brushed across multiple shirts, when a sudden thought flashed inside his mind. An image, a glimpse of something that had happened before.

Blinking a few times, he pushed this thought away, but he couldn't shake it off completely. He heard a man's voice, faint but clear.

"It feels good, doesn't it?"

Turan ran a hand across his face, confused.

He remembers something, a feeling, such a good feeling, and he knew, he needed that again.

The familiar buzz, faint but insistent, creeping along his skin as his mind began to blur. His heart rate quickened, his breaths grew shallow. He swallowed hard, already anticipating the rush that would soon take over.

He grabbed a pair of black shorts, and slid one leg in, then the other, the thin fabric clinging to his skin.

Turan exhaled sharply, the sensation electric, the first wave of that familiar fuzziness washing over him. It was subtle at first, a gentle hum in the background of his mind.

He sighed deeply, almost involuntarily, his body already responding to the feeling.

"Keep going."

The silky material hugged his legs snugly, a strange comfort settling into his muscles. His fingers lingered on the waistband for just a moment longer than necessary, stroking the fabric, enjoying the way it felt against his skin.

He could feel the fuzziness intensifying, the edges of his thoughts becoming blurry. With a deep breath, he grabbed a matching jersey, pulling it over his head and down over his chest. The material brushed his skin, sending a fresh wave of sensation through him.

Turan couldn’t help it—his hand instinctively slid down his torso, fingers grazing the fabric, feeling the heat building beneath his skin.

His breath hitched, eyes closing as he stroked himself, the motion slow, deliberate. It felt good—too good.

"Let this feeling linger, feel it, crave it."

His heart raced, the fuzziness deepening. His mind, once sharp and focused, now felt distant, wrapped in cotton. It was like falling, slowly but surely, into a trance.

His fingers lingered on the shirt, tracing the lines of his chest, his stomach. His mind kept telling him to stop, to focus, but his body moved on its own.

He stroked harder, his head lolling slightly to the side, a quiet moan escaping his lips.

His entire body felt electric, every inch of him hyper-aware of the fabric pressing against his flesh. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his pulse pounding in his ears.

With effort, he pulled his hand away, even as his fingers ached to continue.

There was a single piece missing, his socks.

He swayed slightly, his legs weak beneath him, but he forced himself to stay upright.

With shaky fingers, Turan bent down to pull on his white socks. It was harder than it should have been.

His body was no longer fully under his control. Every movement was slow, almost sluggish, as if he were moving underwater. But somehow, through the haze, he managed to slip his feet into the socks.

The simple act sent another shiver of pleasure up his spine, the feeling so intense he could barely stand it.

Turan was barely aware of the world around him now. His head spun, his body trembled. He swayed on his feet, eyes unfocused, heart pounding.

His hands moved of their own accord, sliding down his chest, his stomach, lower~

"Let it all go."

Something snapped inside him.

The trance, the fuzziness—it all exploded at once, flooding his mind, drowning out everything else. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurred.

His hands moved without thought, mindlessly stroking his body, tracing the lines of his shirt, pushing himself to the edge.

Turan stumbled toward the mirror, barely able to keep his balance. His reflection stared back at him, but he hardly recognized the man he saw.

His eyes were glazed, unfocused, lips parted as he breathed heavily. His hands moved across his body with a mind of their own, stroking, pressing, exploring.

In front of the mirror, Turan's hands slid lower, his body trembling, his eyes unfocused as he stared at his reflection, barely aware of what he was doing anymore. The trance had him completely, and there was no escaping it now.

The palm of his hand pressed against the length of his throbbing dick, the shorts barely able to contain him.

He let out a moan that was building up inside him for the last minutes, as his head lolled to the side again.

Beneath his strokes, he felt dampness now spreading through the fabric of his shorts- he was leaking, his body unable to fight the pressure and pleasure coursing through him.

"You will only be able to cum, if I allow it."

Turan tried hard, his muscles straining beneath the fabric of his clothes. All of him was begging for a release, to submit, but it wasn't time just yet.

He pulled away again, his legs disobeying him.

Turan stumbled into the living room, mindlessly turning on the TV before sitting down.

A beautiful, blue spiral appeared before him, spinning and turning, solidifying the conditioning already rooted deep inside his mind.

The wet patch at his crotch spread further, staining his shorts visibly. He was gone, lost in the haze, his body gave in completely.

For what felt like an eternity, he sat there, watching the screen while stroking himself absentmindedly.

Then, from behind him, he heard the door creak open. A flash of awareness sparked in his mind—a brief moment of clarity through the fog of pleasure.

Someone had entered the room. Turan’s breath hitched, part of him hoping—praying—that it was someone who would help, someone who could pull him out of this.

But when he turned his head slightly, still unable to fully stop his movements, he saw his neighbour, Jack, standing there.

The young man leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.

Turan’s heart pounded harder, but it wasn’t from the pleasure anymore—it was fear, or maybe confusion.

His body was still moving, his hands still stroking his own body through his clothes, one hand through the wet fabric of his shorts, the other through the tight, damp fabric of his shirt.

Jacks’s smirk widened as he pushed himself off the doorframe and slowly walked toward Turan, his eyes gleaming with something that made Turan’s stomach twist.

There was no concern in his expression, no confusion—only satisfaction.

“Well, well…” Jack said softly, his voice smooth and almost patronizing as he closed the distance between them. “Look at you.”

Turan tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked breath as his hands continued their mindless stroking, the trance too strong, the sensations too powerful to stop.

His muscles ached with the need to obey the hypnotic commands still locked inside his brain, making him touch, stroke, lose himself.

Jack stopped in front of him, reaching for Turan's chin, lifting it up, so their gaze's met.

"Get up, boy."

Without thinking, Turan got up, the wet and damp fabric clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

“You’re doing so well,” Jack murmured into Turan's ear, his voice dripping with praise. “So obedient.”

Turan's pulse skyrocketed, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, panic, and desire.

He wanted to push Jack away, to tell him to stop, but his body was still locked in that hypnotic state, unable to resist the commands that had been planted deep within him.

Jack’s hands roamed slowly over Turan's body, moving in sync with Turan’s own trembling movements.

His touch wasn’t forceful, but it wasn’t gentle either—it was calculated, deliberate, like Jack knew exactly what he was doing.

“You’re probably wondering why this is happening,” Jack continued, his tone low, almost conspiratorial. “Why you can’t stop yourself, why you’re stuck in this trance every time you put on these clothes."

Turan’s heart raced, the words sinking into his fogged brain.

Why? Why had this happened? The memory of the night they met, that strange session that felt like a blur now, flashed through his mind.

Jack chuckled softly, his hands firmly running across Turan's firm chest.

“You see, I am a hypnotist.”

Turan’s body went rigid against Jack’s palm, his breath catching in his throat.

A hypnotist?

Jack's strokes got firmer as he continued. “I needed to find a way to have you, boy. You’re so hot, so desirable. I needed you. And this…” He gestured to Turan’s trembling, mindless state. “This is the way I love most.”

Turan’s breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps now, his body trembling with both the overwhelming sensations from the trance and the shock of Jack’s words.

“That’s a way I can have you, boy” Jack said softly, almost soothingly. “There is no resistance, no denying. And this… this is how I make sure that happens.”

Jack’s hands moved lower, sliding over Turan’s hips, stroking the fabric of his shirt as he stroked harder.

“And the best part? You love it. You can’t help but love it. These clothes, the trance, the feeling. It’s all been conditioned into you.”

Turan’s eyes fluttered shut, his body trembling violently as Jack’s words sank into his fogged mind.

He wanted to resist, to fight, but the sensations, the trance—it was all too much. His body continued to move, helplessly responding to the commands buried deep inside him.

Jack’s grip on him tightened, his voice a soft purr in Turan’s ear. “Good boy. Just let it happen.”

Turan’s knees buckled, and Jack held him up, guiding him through the haze, through the sensations, through the trance that had become his prison.

Jack’s hands slid lower, his fingers grazing Turan’s hips, teasing him through the fabric. Turan’s breaths came out in short, ragged gasps, the intensity of the sensations overwhelming him.

His knees were weak, his whole body trembling, and he could feel the arousal building inside him, relentless, consuming.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Jack’s voice was low, taunting, his lips brushing against Turan’s ear as his hand moved deliberately, stroking him.

The sensation was unbearable, sending waves of pleasure through Turan’s body, making him gasp and shudder. “I can feel it, boy. You’re right on the edge.”

Turan’s body responded with a surge of arousal, his hips instinctively pressing into Jack’s hand, his breaths coming in desperate, uneven pants.

He was so close—too close. His mind was a fog, drowning in the pleasure, the trance holding him captive.

Jack's smirk widened as he leaned in, his lips brushing against Turan’s ear.

“Good boy.”

Turan’s arousal throbbed painfully, trapped beneath the tight material of his shorts. He was so close, the sensations too much to bear.

His breaths came in desperate, ragged gasps as he stood on the brink, teetering between pleasure and collapse.

Jack’s hand slid lower, brushing over Turan’s waist before pressing against the bulge of his arousal.

The pressure was light at first, teasing, but then Jack pushed harder, his palm rubbing against Turan’s throbbing length, eliciting a low, guttural moan from deep in Turan’s throat.

His knees buckled slightly, his body trembling violently as the wetness spread under Jack’s palm, the fabric growing damp as Turan’s body gave in completely.

Jack’s smirk widened as he felt it—felt Turan’s release soaking through the shorts.

“Good boy,” he murmured, his voice filled with dark satisfaction. “That’s it, boy. Just give in.”

Turan moaned softly, his body sagging as the waves of pleasure finally overwhelmed him, leaving him weak and trembling.

He could barely stand, his legs threatening to give out beneath him, but Jack was there, his arms wrapping around Turan’s waist to steady him.

“You did so well,” Jack whispered into Turan’s ear, his voice soft now, almost comforting as he held Turan upright.

“I need you like this, boy. I need you to be like this, so I can have you for myself.”

Turan’s body trembled in Jack’s arms, his breaths still coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His mind was a mess, still fogged by the trance, the pleasure, the shock of what had just happened.

He wanted to say something, to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could do was lean into Jack’s hold, his body too weak, too spent to resist anymore.

And as Jack held him there, his own arousal evident now, Turan couldn’t help but submit fully, his body surrendering to the control, the power, the inescapable reality that this was what Jack desired.

And there was nothing Turan could do about it.

[user211201]

Listen Up: Swimmer

--- Originally posted on 2021-04-21 by newyoutf ---

Jon twisted back and forth under the showerhead, singing along to the music blasting from his phone on the counter.

The music lowered in volume for a second, making way for two loud dings. Jon reached out from the stream of water and fumbled with the screen in his wet hands. It was a message from Oliver, his best friend, “Hey bro, got something you should listen to.”

“Bro?” Jon wondered. Since when did Oliver say “bro”? Jon blinked, struggling to think for a moment. Oliver talked like that all the time, he was American after all... wasn’t he?

Attached to the message was an audio file. Jon figured it must have been a new song by one of the pair’s favorite pop divas, perhaps a new leaked track. Jon hit the play button, placed the phone back down, and returned to the hot water.

A harsh static buzz and what sounded like garbled speech boomed from the phone, taking Jon by surprise. The corrupted audio cleared up after a moment and a deep, male voice started.

“Welcome. This audio program is custom designed. Just for you. Ensure you are in a comfortable, private place. You will not want to be disturbed.”

“Oliver,” Jon rolled his eyes, thinking that surely something starting this ridiculous would be some sort of joke or meme. After all, Oliver had always been a dumb joker. “Wait,” Jon felt confused, he could have sworn Oliver was a quiet, twinky lad like himself?

Jon realized couldn’t form a solid impression of his friend in his mind. They met at their university in London and became best friends, bonding over their mutual love of pop music and ogling the campus jocks. But now it was like that reality had been shattered. Those memories gave way for ones of meeting each other at the campus gym shortly after Oliver arrived from the US. Oliver was his best, hot, American friend, right? Jon’s cock twitched at the new image of his friend as he placed his face under the stream of hot water in an attempt to clear his head.

“Relax. Take a deep breath, in and out.”

Jon unwittingly followed the instructions. The frown fell from his face and his body relaxed, taking in the warmth of the water.

“You’re Oliver's best friend. Makes sense, given you’re a total alpha too.”

“Both wha- ah! Ah!”, Jon planted his hands against the wet, tiled wall as the words sent pleasure rippling through his body. He looked down feeling a strong warmth against his leg but it wasn’t the hot water. His semi-hard cock had blasted a rope of cum against his leg. “What the fuck?” Jon mumbled.

“What a coincidence that you’re both six-foot-four. It serves him well in the gym, the same way it serves you well in the water.”

Jon howled in ecstasy, spluttering and moaning, as his five-foot-nine body stretched higher. His soft cock drooled hot cum as it rapidly began to rise. His arms pushed against the wall, lengthening for better performance in the pool. He stepped backward as his head struck the showerhead and rose even higher. Hot water poured down the front of his much longer torso and legs.

“Your shoulders are so broad. Typical of you swimming jocks.”

Unable to resist the command, Jon's shoulders crunched and throbbed, thrusting out larger and bulging with muscle. “God! W- What the fuck i- is... ugh... happening?!” he roared, terrified not just by the growth gripping his body, but the incredible pleasure it wrought on him.

“Those are some long, meaty fucking arms, Jon.”

“F- fuck!” Jon roared, spraying a massive load up the back of the shower feeling his narrow arms explode with thick mounds of muscle, rippling across his biceps and triceps. The growth spread down his arms, his forearms bloating with tight, lean muscle. His wrists cracked as they thickened.

“Hands that big must be useful for pushing through the water.”

Stifled screams rumbled from Jon’s tightly clenched mouth. His hands were pressed against the back of the shower, clicking and twitching as they began to swell across the tiles. The fingers accelerated longer and longer. His palms spread monstrously broad. He flexed his hands, in total awe of their disproportionate size; perfect for pushing through the water.

The experience was like nothing Jon ever felt. A sexual eruption taking place across every cell as the words rewrote his body. “Can’t... resist... so g- good,” Jon grunted, gasping for air.

“You clearly work out for the aesthetics as well, not just the pool. Your shredded chest is proof of that.”

Jon couldn’t even attempt to fight anymore, but nor did he want to. His chest puffed and bulged, distorting the path of the water running across it. The previously non-existent pecs pushed outward from his widening chest. His cock trembled as the changes took hold in his abdomen, causing his flat stomach to erupt with tight, thick abs. Jon gripped his ass, feeling it swell into his huge hands while he erupted cum across the tiles once more.

*“That’s the spirit, Jon. You’re a *stud.”

Jon felt those words echo in his ears and rumble down his throat. Grunts and pants became deeper and deeper as his thickened and voice morphed. His head groaned as it enlarged to fit his frame. Hair began to flourish out of his cheeks and across his upper lip while the mop of medium-length hair on his head retreated, leaving a short, handsome cut in its place. He stroked his cock with one hand and clasped his face with the other feeling his jawline refine and the angles of his face sharpen. He turned to the mirror cabinet, seeing just a sliver of his improved visage. Jon gasped at the sight and immediately ejected another load of cum.

He didn’t just look like a swole swimming jock. He felt like one too. He rejoiced in his mind being filled with thoughts of the pool, weightlifting, spotting his bros at the gym, and fucking them afterward.

“Good to see the bottom half matches the top.”

Jon’s legs trembled. He clutched the slippery tiles harder to hold himself up, the pleasure reverberating through his legs almost too much to bear. Muscles spasmed in his calves, swelling with every little twitch. Muscle wasn’t all that was gracing his legs. Dark hair grew forth from the skin, coating his powerful legs in a layer of fur. Jon swore under his breath, impressed by the hair spreading up and down his legs. He thought about how he refused to shave like other swimmers, he liked the hair, and regardless his superior form needed no extra boost. His body responded to the suggestion, triggering a fine layer of hair to sprout from his forearms, between his pecs, in a trail over his abs and across the tops of his feet.

Memories of the pool, the beach, and victories across university swimming tournaments swarmed his brain. Trophies and medals materialized in the bedroom just next to where he was showering.

“Damn, it’s no surprise you outperform everyone in the water with feet that massive. And you know what they say about that, Jon.”

Every one of the toes on Jon’s size eight feet surged with pleasure. He moaned loudly as they began to push across the floor of the shower while his soles stretched to catch up. He recalled new memories of having large feet, how they propelled him to victory in the pool, and the comments people would make: “Bigfoot”, “You know what they say...”, “Where can you even buy size sixteens?”

“Sixteen?!” he repeated in his mind. The brief shock turned to anticipation as he felt his soles continue to march forward longer and wider, his toes twitching while they reshaped long and meaty. Jon growled aloud as he expelled another load, “God, yeah... so f- fucking... big.”

The jock trembled under the stream of hot water, desperate for sexual release. He looked down as the expanding feet settled into excessively large size sixteens, curling his long toes as his six-inch cock began to quiver in its desperation to grow larger as well. It felt as though it were perpetually hardening, only to then push longer and girthier instead. Jon grasped his wet cock and thrust into his grip hard and repeatedly. He relished in the sensation of the veins bulging and the shaft thickening.

*“I guess what they say really is true, isn’t *it?”

The audio toyed with him, pushing his cock just that little bit longer and pumping it ever so slightly thicker. It pulsed and twitched, gradually and slowly with every breath. His uncut, British foreskin slid further backward, as a larger, blunter head swelled outward. Jon smirked as he groaned and growled, stroking faster and faster, enthralled by the beautiful nine-inch weapon he now possessed.

“Cum.”

“Oh yeah! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Jon made three final long, hard tugs on his thick pole before roaring in delight as unspeakable ecstasy filled him. Cum rocketed upward against the water rushing from the showerhead, ejecting what remained of Jon’s old genetic material while orgasm after orgasm pounded his body.

Exhausted and dripping wet, he stepped slowly out of the tub, unsteady on his new legs and feet.

*“Remember to share this recording with your friends*.”

And with that, the playback stopped. Jon looked at himself in the mirror, still shocked, but enraptured with his new body and looks. He grabbed his phone and wiped the water from the screen, struggling to unlock it with his longer fingers. He typed out a reply to Oliver, “That shit was fucking lit mate!”

A few miles away, a sweaty Oliver was busy lifting weights, waiting for his friend to give him some indication that something had happened. He had to place the weight down slowly as his mind blurred for a moment. He saw the images and memories that he had of his friend change and shift. Gone were the images of a quiet little twink, replaced by those of a loud, masculine swimming jock. Oliver smiled cockily realizing what had just happened. Then, as if on cue, his phone vibrated with Jon’s reply. Following was a photo of a huge, semi-hard cock swinging above two gargantuan feet. Oliver felt his own cock stiffen slightly at the image.

“Hell yeah, bro! You should be selling these pics like I do,” Oliver sent in response, getting a deep chuckle out of Jon.

Both men now looked at their phones, horny and pondering who next to share the mysterious audio file with.

[pitstoplexi]

Oh f1 is probably so fun to watch

My average experience:

[sportsentranced]

becoming lando

The race was over, but frustration lingers in the air like static electricity. Lando sits alone in his motorhome, still in his racing suit, unzipped just enough to reveal the black Nomex shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat.

His breathing is steady, but his fingers twitch slightly as he scrolls mindlessly on his phone, reliving the mistakes, the missed chances, the seconds that had cost him victory.

He doesn’t see me. They never do.

I hover just behind him, my presence a mere ripple in the air. A whisper of movement, an unseen breath brushing against the back of his neck. Slowly, deliberately, I press forward, sinking into him like mist creeping through an open window.

The moment I make contact, he stiffens, his back arching slightly, a shudder rolling through his body as though caught in the grip of an invisible chill.

He draws in a sharp breath, leaning his head back slightly. His body tenses, every fiber of his body reacting to the intrusion.

I begin with his arms. Slipping into them is like donning a second skin, like putting on gloves, the sensation electrifying, as if my essence is threading through his nerves, intertwining with his very being.

His fingers twitch in response—at first uncertain, like an involuntary spasm, and he drops the phone. But then I will them to move. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands lift, and I flex his fingers, spreading them wide, then curling them into fists before releasing. He exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

His hands move on their own, dragging slowly across his chest, fingertips grazing the damp fabric of his Nomex.

I can't hold back.

The feeling of his racing suit, smooth like silk, warm, and the tight nomex shirt, damp with sweat, clinging to his skin.

It feels so good and I feel his warmth surging through me.

His brows knit together in confusion.

“What the hell—” he murmurs under his breath. His voice is hoarse, strained. He tries to shake off the foreign sensation, but it’s too late.

I continue, pressing deeper. My presence slide through his thighs, into his legs, taking hold, fusing with his movements. His knees lock, then weaken, a wave of dizziness making him sway.

His fingers curl against his chest as I traced them along the fabric, feeling the rise and fall of his breath—our breath. His mind grows hazy, sluggish, as I weave myself through him.

"No... I—"

A jolt of warmth shoots through his thighs, his calves tightening involuntarily. His fingers clenched into the fabric of his suit, gripping at nothing.

He tries to stand, but his legs feel strange, unsteady, as if the signals from his brain weren’t reaching them properly. His body was warm, his pulse strong, and I feel every beat as I mold deeper into him.

The tingling in his limbs spreads, a heat pooling in his chest as his mind fights against the fog creeping in.

I am not just taking his body. I am taking his control.

Lando grits his teeth, his jaw tightening as he fights back. He tries to lift his arms of his own accord, tries to plant his feet firmly against the floor, but his movements are sluggish, delayed, like he is moving underwater.

“N-no… what is this…” he exhales, shaking his head sharply, trying to clear the haze forming behind his eyes.

The warmth spreading through his limbs is no longer just post-race exhaustion—it is me, filling every inch of him, overriding his senses, dulling his resistance.

His lips part as another breath shudders out, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as the haze thickens behind them.

He stumbles forward, catching himself against the dresser, his reflection coming into view. And I feel it—the sharp jolt of realization as he sees himself, sees the way his hands trembled as they move against his will.

“What…” His voice is hushed, breathy, confused.

I savor the sound. The richness of it.

The slight rasp from the strain of the race. Hearing his voice echo through me makes me being tingle as another ripple of heat pulses through us.

He tries to lower his hands, but I hold firm, guiding them instead over his chest, tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the curve of his ribcage.

The Nomex shirt clings to him, still warm, slightly sticky from sweat, the fabric pulling and shifting beneath our touch.

Lando inhales sharply. His chest expands beneath my fingers, heat pooling deep inside him.

His pulse quickens.

I am not rushing.

Seeing his reflection, close and real, increases the sensation.

The sight makes me ache for him.

So pretty.

His hazel eyes, wide and dazed. His racing suit, clinging to his body, the faint sheen of sweat glistening against his neck. His lips, parted, breath shaky, as if caught between disbelief and surrender.

I drag our fingertips up, brushing them over his collarbone, feeling the heat trapped in the hollow of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, another shaky breath escaping his parted lips.

His lips.

I move his hand up, fingers grazing over them, feeling their softness, their warmth. Lando gasps. His body gives a weak jerk, as if trying to pull away from himself.

He is still resisting. But it is fading.

I take my time adjusting, settling into the way his body moves—the way his muscles flex, the way his weight shifts.

His lashes flutter. A quiet, broken sigh left him as I pressed deeper.

The haze in his mind thickens, his thoughts slowing, slipping further from reach.

I feel the last of his resistance, the way his body trembles beneath my control. His muscles tense as I keep stroking his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the damp fabric of his suit. The Nomex clings to him, slick with sweat, molding perfectly to the contours of his body.

His heartbeat pounds beneath my palm, faster now, as if his body is trying to fight back even as his mind begins to slip.

Lando tries to speak—his lips part, a small breathy sound escaping, but no words come. His throat works in a slow swallow, and I can feel it—the effort, the desperation—but his voice is lost, drowning in the haze overtaking his thoughts.

His head tilts back, his body arching slightly as another wave of warmth rolls through him. His eyelashes flutter, his pupils blown wide, unfocused.

Still, I take my time.

I run our fingers up his sternum, feeling the heat pooling under his skin. His breaths stutter, short and shallow, as if each inhale takes more effort. His chest rises and falls beneath my touch, the rhythm growing slower, heavier.

Lando’s body is betraying him.

I shift, pressing deeper into his mind, feeling the last shreds of his awareness slipping through my fingers like sand. He blinks sluggishly, lips barely forming half-spoken protests, but they dissolve before they can fully take shape.

It's simply overwhelming.

Waves of pleasure and heat surge through him, and I instinctively let my hand drift lower, when I feel it.

His hard cock bulges underneath the fabric, pressing through his suit, as he's edging on the brink of defeat, yet it feels so good.

I grab him, another involuntary spasm, and I let out a broken moan using his voice for the first time.

We squirm hearing this, breathing deeply.

But I don't stop. I cannot.

I run our fingers along his shaft, feeling it twitch, rippling through the suit's fabric.

His limbs relax. His head lolls slightly, another quiet sigh escaping his lips as his body leans into me—into us.

He’s almost gone.

I lift our hand again, cupping his jaw, tilting his head so we can see his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes—those beautiful, hazy eyes—stare back at us, unfocused, half-lidded, filled with confusion, with surrender. His lips are parted, soft, breathy, and I let our fingers ghost over them, feeling the heat, the life that is now mine.

A final tremor runs through him.

A small, strangled sound escapes his throat—a last attempt at resistance. But his body betrays him again. His lashes flutter, his breath slows, and his weight fully settles into place as the last of his mind melts into nothing.

For a second, my senses blur—his body adjusting to my presence, my mind settling into the shape of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint ache in his muscles from the race, the lingering dampness of sweat beneath the snug Nomex fabric—it all floods into me at once.

I take a deep breath. My breath. His breath.

Lando’s lips are still parted, his expression dazed, his hazel eyes unfocused in the mirror. A thin trail of saliva glistens at the corner of his mouth. His body is slack, his limbs still tingling from the takeover.

The heat threatens to consume us both, and I let it happen.

Our eyes roll as we tilt our head back. The entire body is stiff, rigid, near collapse, when it all settles.

His lips part, a soft, dazed sigh slipping out.

I steady us.

The last tremor fades from our limbs, the final echoes of his mind dissolving into nothing. His body is mine now, completely. The warmth lingers, wrapping around me, through me, soaking into every inch of him. Of us.

I take a deep breath.

His lungs expand under my control, filling with air, with heat. The feeling is intoxicating—the stretch of his ribs, the slow rise and fall of his chest. My chest.

Then, I exhale.

And his voice—my voice—escapes in a slow, shuddering sigh.

The sound sends a deep, electric shiver through me, curling down my spine. God. Hearing it, feeling it, the low, breathy way it leaves our lips—it makes the reality of this moment even richer.

I swallow, just to feel the way his throat moves, the muscles flexing under my control. Another breath. Another shiver.

I lift our hands next, flexing his fingers, feeling the subtle strength in them, the warmth lingering in his palms. The fireproof fabric of his suit brushes against our skin as I roll his shoulders, stretching into this body, adjusting fully to the weight of it.

It takes a second to fully sink in.Then, I look up.

And there he is.

The mirror stares back, reflecting me. Him.

Lando Norris.

His eyes, still slightly unfocused, dazed from what just happened. His lips parted, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his flushed skin. His racing suit hangs open, exposing the black Nomex underneath, the fabric still damp, still warm.

I take a step closer. His reflection moves in perfect sync, every small shift, every breath mine to command.

Slowly, I lift our hand, dragging fingertips along our jawline, then over our lips. So soft. So real.

A slow, satisfied smirk curls onto our face.

"That felt so good," I let out a deep rumble, a mix of a sigh and moan.

My body shudders.

I run a hand through my hair, watching the way the strands shift beneath my fingers, feeling the lingering dampness from his helmet.

Then, my gaze dropped lower.

That’s when I noticed it.

A deeper wetness. Clinging inside the suit, pressed against our skin.

Not just sweat.

A slow realization creeps over me, my fingers ghosting lower, pressing lightly against the fabric. A sharp inhale escapes our lips. His body twitches, a subconscious reaction beyond his control.

Ah.

Lando came into his suit.

Through the struggle, through the takeover, through the sheer intensity of being consumed—his body had responded in ways his mind hadn’t been able to process.

Heat pools beneath the layers of fabric, a sticky, undeniable confirmation of his surrender.

A smirk curled at our lips.

“Oh, Lando…” I murmur, voice barely more than a breath.

A twitch. A flicker of something in the depths of our consciousness. Embarrassment? Shame? The last embers of his awareness trying to surface, trying to deny what had happened.

I stroke our chest again, slower this time.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

A soft, involuntary whimper slips from our throat.

I chuckle, tilting our head, watching the way his reflection quiveres—his body still reacting, still betraying him.

I press a hand against our stomach, fingers trailing lower, teasing, feeling the heat trapped beneath the layers of his suit.

"That’s totally natural. Trust me."

His body shudders, breath stuttering, but he can’t fight it. He was too deep, too lost.

I am in control. And I'm enjoying it.

His body is mine now.

And I take my time feeling it.

I smile. Slowly, deliberately, I lift our hand, dragging a thumb across his cheek, wiping away the saliva. The touch sends a shiver through me—it’s so real, so intimate. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, his body still buzzing with residual energy from the race.

I flex my fingers next, watching them curl and uncurl. Strong, steady, familiar yet new. I roll our shoulders, shifting in the tight embrace of his racing suit. The Nomex clings to us, warm, slightly damp in places, stretching with every small movement.

God, he feels good.

I spread our arms wide, testing the stretch of his limbs, the subtle pull of fabric across his chest. The snugness of the suit only enhances every sensation—the way it molds to his body, the way it moves with me.

"Mm, Lando… you really do look good in this," I murmur, our voice thick with amusement.

The sound of it sends a shudder through me again.

His voice. His voice.

It’s richer than I expected, soft but with that slightly raspy edge from the race. I repeat his name, slower this time, letting the syllables roll off our tongue.

I smirk at our reflection.

"I bet you loved hearing your name all over the radio today," I tease, tilting our head, admiring the way our jawline catches the light. "But I think I love it more."

I lift our hands again, running them along our chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the slick fabric. The heat of his body is intoxicating, the lingering dampness making the material cling even tighter.

I take my time savoring the moment.

The reflection staring back at me is breathtaking.

Messy, sweat-damp curls cling to his forehead, a few unruly strands curling just above his ears. His skin is flushed, glowing with the remnants of exertion, a light sheen of sweat catching the light. His lips—our lips—are still parted slightly, softened in the aftermath of surrender.

The stubble dusting his jaw makes his face even more touchable. I reach up, running our fingers along it, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingertips.

“God, Lando…” I murmur, watching the way our lips move, the way our voice sounds as it spills into the quiet room. “You’re so pretty. So perfect like this… all dressed up, still warm from the race, still mine."

I tilt our head slightly, admiring the angle of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the way the Nomex clings to our collarbones. The suit is still unzipped just enough to reveal the damp fabric beneath, the black material stretched taut over his chest.

But I want more.

Slowly, I reach for the zipper, teasing it down another few inches.

The second the suit parts further, the scent hits me.

Warm. Salty. The deep, musky smell of sweat and adrenaline, mixed with something undeniably Lando. It clings to his skin, soaked into the fireproof fabric, lingering in the folds of the suit.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath, feeling a deep, almost primal satisfaction settle in my chest.

I need more.

Lifting an arm, I bring it close, pressing our face into the crook of it.

I inhale.

The scent floods my senses—heat, exhaustion, the raw, intimate proof that this body raced today, that it fought on the track, that it belongs to me now.

A quiet, pleased hum vibrates in our throat.

“So good…” I breathe, exhaling against the suit.

I hold the position for a moment longer, just feeling—the dampness of the suit, the warmth still radiating from beneath it, the way every inhale makes me dizzy with possession.

And then I lower our arm, exhaling slowly, savoring the way the scent lingers.

A smirk tugs at the corner of our lips.

But I’m not done admiring us yet.

Turning slightly, I let our gaze drift down, trailing over the lines of our body, the snug fit of the race suit, the way it hugs every curve, every muscle.

My eyes land on our hips first, then lower.

I turn us slightly, angling our body just right.

And there it is.

The suit clings to our ass, perfectly outlining the curve of it, the way it shifts as I shift.

I bite our lip, running a hand slowly down our stomach, stopping just above the waistband of the suit.

"God, Lando," I whisper, amused, breathless. “You really are something special, huh?”

Deep inside, I can still feel him.

A flicker of resistance, weak and distant, like a faint echo struggling to resurface.

I grin.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I murmur, tracing a slow pattern along our stomach, dragging fingertips against the damp fabric. “I’m going to enjoy every inch of you.”

Lando is still in there, trapped, silent, helpless.

I move toward the sofa, adjusting easily to his balance, the rhythm of his walk now second nature. Every motion feels right. Every breath, every step, completely mine.

Lowering onto the cushions, I sink into the warmth of the fabric, stretching out our legs, letting them relax. Lando’s boots feel heavy, snug around his feet, still laced tightly from the race.

I reach down, wrapping our fingers around one ankle, pulling it closer. The laces drag under our touch as I loosen them, the tension slowly unraveling. Then, I ease the boot off, lifting it toward my face.

I inhale.

The scent is rich, layered—rubber, sweat, the faintest hint of heat still clinging to the fabric. It’s him. Completely, unmistakably him.

A slow exhale. The warmth spreads through me again, deeper now, heavier. I flex our toes inside the sock, feeling the newfound freedom, the lingering warmth where the boot had hugged tight.

I bring the shoe closer, pressing it to my face, burying my nose and mouth deep inside.

The scent is overwhelming—everything Lando is, captured in this single piece of him. I inhale deeply, greedily, letting it flood my senses, sink into my lungs. It’s rich, intoxicating, unmistakably his. The warmth that had been steadily spreading through me flares hotter, deeper.

A slow, shuddering exhale leaves my lips, muffled against the inside of the shoe.

My free hand drifts downward, tracing over the snug fabric of the Nomex, feeling the shape of his body beneath. The material is soft, yet firm, clinging to his skin, still damp in places from the race. My fingers press a little harder, exploring, claiming.

A pulse of heat surges through me.

My breathing deepens. My grip tightens.

Lando’s body responds to my touch, to my control. Every nerve, every muscle, mine to command.

I sigh again, low and breathy, Lando’s voice spilling from our lips in a way that sends another deep shiver down my spine.

I smirk, my fingers tightening around the shoe as I press it against my face again.

"Damn, Lando," I murmur, my voice breathy, teasing. "You smell so good."

The words send a fresh shiver through me. Hearing his voice—my voice—say it aloud makes the heat inside me pulse even stronger. I let the moment stretch, reveling in it, before inhaling deeply once more.

The scent rushes in, thick and intoxicating.

It clings to the fabric, lingers in the air, fills my lungs. I groan softly against it, my breath warm against the material.

I roll my hips slightly, shifting, adjusting, feeling the tension coil tighter, spreading through my muscles. My fingers trail lower, pressing lightly, teasing.

I smirk against the shoe, letting out a slow, satisfied sigh.

The warmth is almost too much now, thick and consuming, wrapping around me like a second skin. My breathing is heavier, every inhale pulling in more of that deep, intoxicating scent, fueling the fire burning under my skin.

I press my palm lower, fingers teasing, feeling the heat radiate through the fabric of the racing suit. Even through the layers, I can feel it—thick, sensitive, throbbing with need.

A quiet, satisfied moan escapes my lips, my body sinking deeper into the warmth, into the pleasure.

The pressure builds, a slow, intoxicating burn, tension coiling tight in my muscles.

I groan again, tilting my head back against the sofa, lips parting as I let the sensation crash over me.

I welcome the release with open arms.

The release comes in waves, rolling through me, pulsing, spreading warmth through every limb.

I feel the wet warmth against my skin, covering the insides of the racing suit. It clings uncomfortably, the smell reaching my nostrils.

So good.

My breath stutters, then steadies, a deep, satisfied sigh leaving my lips as the tension finally unravels.

Slowly, I let my fingers dip lower, sliding past the unzipped suit, slipping beneath the waistband.

The warmth engulfs me instantly.

A deep, shuddering breath leaves my lips as my fingers brush against bare skin, heat radiating from every inch. It’s soft and smooth in some places, firm and tense in others. The contrast sends a slow, curling pleasure through me, the sensation heightened by the knowledge that this body—this heat, this warmth—is completely mine now.

"You're a mess, Lando." I tease, fondling our erect cock curiously. "So wet."

A slow, satisfied sigh escapes from my lips—Lando’s lips—as I press in further, savoring the way his body responds.

"So warm…" I murmur, my voice breathy, teasing, reveling in the sound of it. "So good."

I inhale deeply, the scent of sweat and heat still clinging to me, making the pleasure even more intoxicating.

I smirk, letting my fingers explore, relishing every shiver, every subtle twitch of muscle under my touch.

I grip our wet cock, my hand moving along its shaft rhythmically, squeezing out more remnants of earlier.

So much to give.

I bring the shoe back to my face, pressing it firmly against my nose and mouth, letting it completely engulf me. The scent is thick, intoxicating—pure Lando.

I inhale deeply.

A slow, shuddering exhale leaves my lips, my body tingling from the sheer intensity of it.

I feel the tip of ny cock burst, more of his precious cum sipping into his suit. The wet stickyness everywhere.

I smirk against the shoe, letting my breath warm the fabric before inhaling again, deeper this time, savoring everything about it.

"God, Lando…" I murmur into it, my voice thick, breathy, dripping with satisfaction. "I can’t get enough of this."

I exhale slowly, watching our reflection in the mirror across the room.

Lando stares back.

Flushed cheeks. Tousled hair. Lips parted, eyes still slightly unfocused, dazed in the aftermath. His suit clings to us, damp with sweat and something deeper, something richer. A physical reminder of how thoroughly I had overtaken him.

“Still with me?” I whisper, though I already know the answer. He is too far gone now, buried so deep that his presence barely even flickered.

But I could still feel him.

I am inside him. I am him.

[psipaka]

Yes. Don’t ask. I’m obsessed with Harry a bit as of late

[formulanni]

Liam Lawson as the Page of Pentacles:

This card indicates that you are on the brink of giving life to a new venture or opportunity that brings you luck in the material world. You are full of enthusiasm and energy to make this new opportunity come to life.

Generally, the Page of pentacles refers to the kind of energy that you need to complete all that is needed for your work. It may point to the determination, focus and the ability to stick with a particular task no matter how boring it may seem.

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls @brawngp2009

[heathcliffgirl1847]

if IM drawing him and YOURE drawing him then whos flying the plane ?!?!

[kalelactually]

okay tf fandom i have a question cuz this has bugged me for YEARS. confused rant incoming.

ratchet’s alt is an ambulance. i mean, obviously. BUT — ambulances are rather large regardless of alt mode origin, like earth or cybertron.

now i know a lot of people like to draw or depict drift (and/or other characters) as being the same height or taller than ratchet. which is fair, and i’ve seen so much absolutely lovely art!

but what do ambulances do? they transport.

now, is ratchet’s alt designed to transport cybertronians? on earth, when they take on an earth vehicle form, presumably not. however, i think i remember an g1 ep where either ratchet (or ironhide??) load and transport one of the minibots in their alt mode.

so is his earth mode still capable of cybertronian transport, even if only one of a minicon / minibot size? and going off of that, was that the same back on cybertron — he could transport, but only those of a particular size? or does he have some kind of mass displacement drive, either one he can utilize on his patients or himself?

am i just overthinking this or missing some obvious fact? (probably.)

conclusion :: if ratchet can transport cybertronians in his alt mode, it stands to reason that he would be of a certain bulk and height. aka, he would be taller than drift — who has a sports car alt (even if drift’s alt is modded and muscled.) anyway, it’s always seemed to me that because of this, their size difference should be reversed.

all this to say — i would love to see drift as a small, slender, will o’ the wisp thing in comparison to ratchet’s bulk.

please share your thoughts!

(also, someone please let me know if this seems inaccurate, or if i’m missing something. thank you <33)

— • edit :: this is purely from my own personal viewpoint !! there is nothing wrong with different depictions of ratchet and/or drift — that’s part of what makes fandom so fun to be in !! keep drawing, writing, etc., all variations of media and your favorite characters are welcome here. <33 • —

[viper-motorsports]

TF Sport tops the final practice session for the 2024 WEC Six Hours of Imola piloting their N°81 Chevrolet Corvette Z06 GT3.R to a top seven finish at this Italian track.

[dailywec]

Seb Baud, Daniel Juncadella, Rui Andrade, Hiroshi Koizumi, Tom van Rompuy and Charlie Eastwood of TF Sport photographed ahead of the 2024 World Endurance Championship Season by Sergey Savrasov

[worldoffetish69]

[the-minesweeper-god]

"I lost the money, lost the keys, but I'm still handcuffed to the briefcase."

American Sports by Arctic Monkeys

[hayaku14]

kaito buying every ticket to every soccer game available just to see that excited look on shinichi's face