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Lando feels himself being forcefully pulled away from his dreams. Refusing to pry open his eyes just yet, though, he lets his limbs roll over groggily to the side. Stretching his arms out a bit, hands patting blindly across the sheets, he frowns and nuzzles his face on his pillowcase.
The mattress is cold and the spot beside him is empty.
Fighting off the sleepy haze from his brain is an arduous task, but he manages it, although begrudgingly so. He is facing the wall when his eyes blink open, and just like he thought, there is not a warm body next to him; instead, there is a worn, too flimsy Oscar-scented pillow.
He can’t help but to grumble discontentedly, inhaling the slightly saccharine cologne as his eyes shut once again. It’s not physically Oscar, but his smell is enough for now. He’s drifting off before he can even think twice about it.
Fuck it. It’s Sunday anyway.
Eventually, the bane of his existence, the bloody alarm in his phone that he always forgets to turn off every weekend, has him getting his ass up.
In the bathroom, he takes a piss and brushes his teeth, takes a brief moment to look in the mirror, rubs a hand across the stubble growing along his jaw and decides that he can deal with that later. Probably get Oscar to shave it off for him again, if he’s in a good mood today, or maybe let it grow into a beard. He’s been thinking about doing it someday.
Shaking his head, he downs his morning meds and checks the watch on his wrist. 8:08 AM, it reads, like it always does ‘cause he fucking nails routine at thirty-six. Take that, therapists.
His mood only seems to only get better. Sure, it would be even better if he had woken up cuddling with his partner; throw in a good morning bj, perhaps. Get nice and handsy while they are still sleepy and stuff. But, somehow, finding him in the kitchen, wearing only a pair of boxers and a shirt and fumbling with their brand new coffee maker has his good mood skyrocket to perfection.
He’s smiling creeping behind him, his hands firm as they slide down to hold Oscar by his hips.
“Why aren’t you in bed, you psycho?” he questions in lieu of a greeting.
The quality of his voice is slightly raspy from sleeping, deeper than it normally is. Oscar likes it, though he merely rolls his eyes. It doesn’t matter, because Lando knows he is smiling too. Feels it as he leans to press a tender kiss to his nape.
“Is it a crime to want to start the day early?”
“It is if it means you leave me sleeping alone,” he argues, looking down over Oscar’s shoulder to watch him pour coffee into their mugs.
Oscar ignores him.
“Hard to do stuff with you hanging onto me, Lando,” he huffs, pretending to be oh-so-bothered by it. He isn’t.
Lando hums in response, fingers digging into skin, pressing his weight into Oscar’s back until he has him trapped against the countertop.
“Stop, you almost made me drop—”
He is cut short when Lando’s lips find his earlobe, body tensing up at the sensation of a warm, wet tongue prodding lightly around the shell of his ear.
“Lando—”
“I know you’re annoyed ‘cos I got home late yesterday,” he declares sincerely, resting his forehead where Oscar’s neck meets his shoulder. “And I wanna make it up to you,” he continues, satisfied as he feels Oscar’s body giving in, opening up to his touches. “Gonna make it up real good to you, I promise.”
Despite what his body is screaming for, Oscar loves to be a little shit.
“Haven’t you been invited to another one of those honorable events today? You should rest and make the party worth it.”
It’s not exactly fair of him to say that, alright? Sure, he’s been attending events more frequently, but it’s because his new brand just got released, and he needs to be out there; he sells by being in the public eye, in people’s tongues. Oscar isn’t like that at all. He doesn’t like to attract attention outside the track. Besides interviews and photoshoots, he’s strict in choosing when or where to appear publicly.
So, yeah. A perfect Saturday meant for fucking like rabbits was postponed again.
And Lando wants to make it up to Oscar, because he truly, truly misses him. A man can’t live off of quickies and rushed handjobs and half-assed head forever. He misses that drawn out intimacy, the foreplay, the sweet reward he gets when he tears Oscar apart just to pull him back together again with the white-hot pleasure he provides him with. Knows Oscar misses it just as much, judging by the way goosebumps rise in his skin when he trails small, indulgent kisses all over his neck, paying a little bit more attention to the small, practically healed hickeys that are normally obscured by the collar of his shirts.
Laying his tongue flat against a faint mark there, the one that is barely noticeable, all tiny and yellowish and forgotten about, Lando sucks at the skin and then sinks his teeth into it just because he can. Just because the sound that makes its way past Oscar’s lips is a low, throaty thing that shows him, proves to him, that he’s right; Oscar can act all high and mighty, so fucking bratty and stubborn, but he can’t deny what his body wants. What his body craves.
When he hears him set the mug on the countertop with a shaky exhale of breath, he knows he’s won.
“Gonna let me make you feel good?”
The answer is yes, yes, yes, because Oscar is now smirking as he pushes himself backwards, effectively creating a sweet type of friction between his ass and the tented front of Lando’s sweats, and it colors his voice as he answers, “Mmm, yeah.”
It’s an easy thing to do, getting him out of his boxers, but Lando feels like taking it slow today. Lets his hands explore a bit more, tracing the expanse of pale skin under the fabric of Oscar’s shirt. He hears a soft sigh when his fingers brush over a small, pink nipple, his touch light as a feather, and a satisfied hum when he takes the nub between his thumb and index finger and pulls.
With a body so pliant like Oscar’s, so giving, he just can’t help but to marvel every single piece of him. Wrestling-as-foreplay is fun and stimulating and so them, but this slower I-wanna-fucking-worship-you intimacy is always going to be on the podium for him. How wouldn’t it, when Oscar groans so beautifully as he slips the boxers down his legs, making it pool at his ankles, and grabs two handfuls of ass in his big hands?
“Come on,” it’s all Lando makes out of Oscar’s words. “Lando,” he continues, urging, impatient.
Lando thinks about shutting him up, but deems it unnecessary; all he needs to do is get on his knees, spread those milky cheeks with purpose, holding him open with both thumbs to get a good look of that tight furl of muscle, and dart out his tongue to lick at him. Oscar’s knee jerks, knocking accidentally on a drawer handle, and a hiss slips past his spit-coated lips.
“Mmm, god, again,” he is already pleading, bent over the countertop, trying to get him to stop with his kitten licks around his hole and actually get on with it.
Just so bloody impatient, always. Lando loves him.
“Open your legs a bit, baby,” he instructs, petting his ass. “Yeah, that’s it, c’mon.”
Just as Oscar obliges, he dives in, lapping sloppily all over him, humming at the taste, clean and shaved and perfect. He unhinges his jaw to prod around his hole with the tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to get Oscar’s legs wobbling and his fingers gripping the edge of the countertop tightly, too immersed in his bliss.
It really is such a shame that Oscar took so long to get used to this. It took him someone to do it right. Someone that eats him out good until he’s panting, desperate at the sensation of a pink, experienced tongue pushing past the tight ring of muscle of his hole, getting him nice and wet and wanting.
“Yeah,” comes a breathy drawl from above just as he begins to circle Oscar’s hole with his thumb.
He finds himself grinning, sinking his finger slowly inside, feeling the body he manipulates so well get accustomed to the intrusion. A thumb is nothing compared to the grand scheme of things, really, but he pushes it dry; spit can only lubricate so much before it dries up.
Oscar practically sings at the sting he feels, “Fuuuck.”
“You love this,” Lando rasps out with certainty.
Not ashamed in the slightest, Oscar nods.
“I do,” he says, looking over his shoulder, down so their eyes could meet, and smiles that nasty, lost-in-pleasure smile.
Fuck indeed.
This time Lando spits directly over his rim, pushing his finger deeper inside. Oscar brings a hand to grab one of his ass cheeks, presenting more of him to his hungry gaze, and gasps as another thumb starts to sink in. It’s a stretch, a more painful one, but spikes of pleasure are running wild in his veins, his sharp eyebrows pinching together, mouth going slack. It’s filthy, licking over both thumbs where they hold that hole open. It’s even filthier because Oscar loves this shit, that fine line between pain and pleasure that leaves him deliciously on edge, heat pooling in his guts, his cock twitching as it stands proudly and untouched.
Lando laps at his rim again and again like he is a starving man, has Oscar trembling and whining because it’s so good, so messy, and his stubble offers a new type of sensation as it scratches the sensitive skin of his perineum when he goes down to suck it too.
“Shit, baby, that’s good,” Oscar whines. His tip is drooling, pre sticking to his fingers when he reaches down to tug at his cock; he doesn’t know if he wants to push his ass back and get that to the deeper in his hole or thrust into his fist. It’s cute. “So good, ‘m getting close.”
Humming, Lando pulls back. A string of crystalline saliva connects his chin to Oscar’s rim.
“Am I gonna make you come on my tongue, baby? You want that?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah? With your sloppy hole stretched on my fingers?” he punctuates his question by pulling both thumbs apart just so, stretching him impossibly open. Knows it stings sweetly because Oscar cried out.
“Yes, fuck, get your mouth back on me ‘n make me come, please.”
Lando doesn’t need to be told twice. He spits in his palm and wraps his hand around Oscar’s aching, weeping cock, gets him shivery and moaning, each noise blending with the slick sound of his hand sliding up and down. He only needs to press the pad of his finger up and grind it against Oscar’s prostate before he hears a long, guttural groan.
“Shiiit.”
Oscar’s body spasms in his hold instantly, muscles flexing and straightening as strings of come spurt between his fingers, down his wrist. Totally spent, he’s leaning on his forearms, breathing in shallow gasps of air.
“Good?”
When Lando pulls back wiping his chin with the back of his hand, his knees and his back hurts, but he can’t find it in himself to complain when Oscar gazes down at him with a lazy smile, not yet fucked out but definitely satisfied.
“Come here.”
He goes, adjusting the front of his sweatpants where his cock is still very much hard. Just as he’s on his feet, Oscar is already on him, bringing him closer with a hand on the back of his head to crash their mouths together in a slow and passionate kiss, only tongues sliding against each other between quiet moans.
Feeling a smile against his lips and small hands trying to tug his seats down, he reaches out to link their fingers.
“I’m good,” he whispers into Oscar’s mouth. “Just want to make you feel good.”
Oscar huffs, clearly not content with that, “Not even a handie?”
With a shake of his head, Lando peppers kisses along his jaw.
“Nah. Down to fuck you good after breakfast, though. I’m starving.”
“Fine,” Oscar resigns, deadpanning, “Get some protein in you before coming in me, then.”
Lando can’t do anything but laugh at that. Such a weirdo.
“Love you,” he says, pecking him on the lips.
“Mmm, love you too.”
Well. That was a good fucking way to start his day.