Do You See The Difference? I Love How Carlos Walks Several Steps Behind Charles While Still Protecting

2023 Japanese GP — Pre-Race + Qualifying + Race

Lando be like i‘m filming my boyfriend and nobody can stop me

@mecachrome posted a thing about fennec fox lando and it gave me the brain wigglies so!!! here we are lmao

There’s some kind of cat in Oscar’s drivers room. It’s small and white, with giant ears and a pointy snout, and curled up in a little ball on top of Oscar’s discarded ‘Good Times’ hoodie. Oscar raises an eyebrow at it, tries to remember if he missed some kind of memo about service pets or something.

He must make some kind of noise, because the cat-something suddenly cracks open an eye and lets out a panicked screech noise when he spots Oscar, jumping up and beelining for the door, knocking over three water bottles and an entire side table in the process before disappearing into Lando’s driver’s room across the hallway, leaving a bewidlred Oscar behind in his own upturned driver's room.

And that, more or less, is how Oscar finds out his new teammate can shapeshift into a fennec fox.

--

Kim’s eyeing Oscar warily when he makes his way into McLaren hospitality that morning. “Uhm,” he says, eyes flicking down to the obvious bulge in Oscar’s hoodie pocket.

“Don’t ask,” Oscar says. “He’s refusing to get out of there.”

Lando chooses that exact moment to poke his pointy little snout out of the pocket, and blearily glares at Kim before tucking himself back in. He’s had this strange obsession with Oscar’s hoodies that Oscar’s long since given up trying to figure out. Nowadays he just accepts all his clothes are perpetually covered in white hair and that he sometimes ends up playing Taxi Piastri all weekend, especially when Lando’s having a bit of a rough one.

Which he’s been having a lot of, with the whole championship thing.

“Do I, uh. Does he want breakfast too?” Kim asks, still eyeing Oscar’s hoodie as Oscar sits down on the chair across from him.

Oscar shrugs. “Lando? Breakfast?”

His hoodie lets out a pitiful squeak. “Just a chicken wrap, if they have it,” Oscar translates.

“Right,” Kim says, and with one last wary look, makes himself scarce. Inside Oscar’s hoodie pocket, Lando lets out a content little noise, and snuggles ever so closer to Oscar’s abdomen.

--

There’s two giant ears poking out of Oscar’s suitcase. He squints at them as he walks into his hotel room. “How did you even get in here?” He asks, as he shucks of his McLaren branded hoodie and throws it in the direction of the suitcase. A singular paw emerges from the mess and drags the hoodie closer, so the ears are now covered.

“Just because I can see you doesn’t mean you’re not there,” Oscar says, shaking his head fondly as he flops down on the bed. “Also don’t think being cute will get you out of explaining how on earth you got into my hotel room.”

His suitcase squeaks. Oscar rolls his eyes and turns on something on the TV, propping the pillows of his bed up and settling in against them.

When he startles awake, roughly two hours later, he has a bundle of happily purring fennec fox curled up in his arms.

--

Lando has the zoomies. Oscar can hear, through the thin wall of his driver’s room, the telltale patter patter patter of Lando’s paws, the occasional crashing sound when he knocks something off something. Oscar sighs, hoists himself off the couch, goes to see what’s going on.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks, leaning against the doorway as fennec fox Lando zooms over the couch and faults over the massage table. “Come on, bud. You can’t go into the car like this.”

That seems to do the trick. Unfortunately fox Lando decides to change back into human Lando halfway his jump towards the closet, and so he ends up flinging himself bodily into it. Oscar rushes forward and only just manages to catch him when he stumbles back. “Careful,” he says, softly, looking down into Lando’s greenbluegrey eyes as Lando smiles a little bashfully at him.

“My hero,” Lando says, bites at his lip.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Oscar asks.

Lando rights himself, steps away from Oscar’s arms. Oscar tries not to be too sad about that. “I, uh. It’s kind of. It’s stupid?”

“Okay?” Oscar asks, trying to sound as non-judging as possible. “You can still share.”

“Right. Uh. Hey, so. Remember how like. I love your hoodies?”

Oscar snorts. “Vaguely,” he says.

“Well, okay, turns out I uh. Also love. You.” Lando stares at him with those big eyes, hopping from foot to foot.

“Me,” Oscar parrots.

“You,” Lando says. “So, uh. That.”

“Ah,” Oscar says. “You know, that does like. Explain a lot.”

“Does it?” Lando asks, chewing on his hoodie string now. Actually, on further inspection, it’s totally Oscar’s hoodie.

“It really does,” Oscar says. And then, because it’s rude to keep someone waiting, kisses Lando square on the mouth.

Lando, clearly surprised by the move, squeaks, and promptly turns back into his fox form.

Right. Okay. That’s going to need some work, probably. But that’s fine. Oscar’s got time. Their whole lives, if Lando lets him. For now, he’s content with kissing the little fox between his giant ears, and trying not to laugh too hard when it turns back into a very disgruntled yet slightly embarrassed looking Lando.

youtube playlist: comfort f1 videos 🏎️💨

featuring: charles leclerc, lando norris, carlos sainz, oscar piastri, alex albon, max verstappen, daniel ricciardo, lance stroll, george russell and many more

disclaimer: these are MY comfort videos, so there will be bias towards some drivers and not others, enjoy :)

Did a 20 minute drabble sprint with my speedy gentlemen buds and came out with this!

Prompt: “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

I chose to do some Landoscar fluff :)

Under the cut!

It starts out quiet.

Like Lando isn’t even sure anything is even different. It’s casual. It’s normal.

But something has shifted in the way Oscar Piastri looks at him. And Lando doesn't know how to deal with it other than internal flailing and alarms screeching in his head.

“Here,” Oscar offers with a small nod, handing Lando his forgotten water bottle he had left abandoned in the hospitality an hour earlier.

Lando takes it from Oscar’s outstretched hand and feels their fingers brush just the tiniest bit from the pass. Lando shivers. He hopes it was internal shivering that is imperceptible to others, imperceptible to Oscar.

“Thanks.” Lando says mutely. And then Oscar does the damndest thing.

He winks at him.

Lando melts into a puddle. What is wrong with him?

—

Lando really should have the couch of his driver’s room facing the door and not facing away from the door. It was a tragic mistake in strategy on his part.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise when he feels warm breath ghost over the back of his neck and a soft thud against the back of the couch.

He drops his phone. The traitorous device snaps into his chest and bounces onto the floor.

“Hey.” Oscar breathes down the back of his neck.

Lando makes a slightly mangled noise in response and scrambles to the floor to look for his phone. Nevermind it being a traitorous device, it’s now his savior to get Oscar’s breath away from his neck before he does something stupid like turn around and pull his face to Lando’s.

Lando finally grabs his phone and looks up at Oscar, who is now leaning over the top of the couch and tilting his head in a way Lando would die before he admits he finds cute. He’s smiling and waiting for Lando to get himself together.

It strikes Lando then. Oscar’s always waiting for him. Never pushy. Never impatient. Just. Waiting. Like he’s got all the time in the world for him.

He clears his throat. “Is it a habit of yours to frighten men in their own driver’s rooms?”

Oscar laughs, quiet and jerky, like he’s trying to bend over the front of the couch. He shakes his head. “Nah, just thought you’d appreciate these.”

At that, Oscar reveals a bag of stroopwafels he had been hiding behind the couch.

Lando gasps and climbs back up the couch to Oscar’s space.

“You dog. You did not get me stroopwafels.” Lando says in disbelief, trying to paw them out of Oscar’s grasp.

He hands them over with no issue, and Lando notices Oscar’s fingers linger just the slightest bit over Lando’s.

“Hopefully they make up for scaring the living daylights out of you?”

Lando nods his head hastily and starts tearing the package open before someone can come take them from him. Before Jon can take them from him.

“How did you get these past security?” Lando says with awe while offering Oscar a warm stroopwafel.

Oscar takes it and pops a corner of it into his mouth.

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And Lando feels like the air has been sucked out of the room at the absolute sincerity in Oscar’s tone.

And then Lando finally looks up at Oscar, really looks at him. And he finds something unwavering in his eyes.

“Oh.” Lando gets out quietly.

“Yeah.” Oscar agrees, nodding his head a bit and then scratching the back of his neck.

“Would you get me chicken nuggets too?”

A laugh punches out of Oscar at that. And Lando appreciates the warmth that spreads through his chest at seeing Oscar like this. There’s something there. Lando just has to figure out what it is.

What Lando would find out later, is that Oscar already knew what it was. He would just wait a while longer for Lando to catch on.

—

Oscar Piastri Tim Tam fanaart

@.McLarenF1_News: 🎬 Lando and Oscar interview in the post-race show 🫂

#genius at its peak if you ask me #carcar #just dying over here

The Adventures of Carcar (part 1???)

I feel like the watermark on the beam from the spaceship and the fact that their expressions never change just really tie this together.

gewis a/b/o verse, set in 2021

1.8k words, some angst and some love confessions

It’s been an exhausting day. Physically, emotionally — you name it. His first points in F1; real points, that is. Points for Williams. But others haven’t had such a great race.

Although he’s not a Mercedes driver, he’s still part of their pack and is still welcome in the packroom from time to time. He can’t overdo it, otherwise some of the other teams might complain, so he really only goes over on special occasions.

Today would be one of them. Not because of his points, but due to Valtteri’s screw-up that led to so many DNFs. He knows the alpha needs his pack now, and he’s been trying to get on his good side again ever since Imola, so it’s a no-brainer that he’s coming over.

He snuggles up beside him as soon as he reaches the packroom, getting comfortable inside the pile of bodies in the shared nest.

He’s about to drift off when a new scent approaches the room. Lewis comes in, stops in the doorway just as he spots George in the middle of everyone, and swiftly turns around to leave again.

Valtteri can smell George's scent turning sour at what just happened and he tries to save the situation, “Don’t take it personally, he’s just—“

“He doesn’t like me, I know.” The and I’m surprised you still do goes unsaid.

“What?” Another voice joins in — Shov. Others are probably listening in as well.

“He doesn’t like me, I already know that. I can tell, I’m not stupid.”

“What makes you think that?” Valtteri prompts him.

“He never spends more than 2 seconds in the same room as me, either he leaves just as I come in or only comes in after I leave. He can’t get away from me soon enough whenever we have a conversation, always replies with curt sentences. I don’t know what I’ve done but— I’m used to it by now.” He tries to hide his sniffle, but the way his usually sweet lavender iced tea scent turns acidic tells everyone how he really feels about it.

When someone else is about to retort, George speaks again, “It’s fine, honestly. You don’t have to try to make me feel better about it, I’m already dealing with it on my own.”

He curls up on himself and buries his head into Valtteri’s neck, completely missing the worried looks and shocked expressions of the rest of the pack.

—

“Lewis!”

He’s on his way back to his motorhome, done with debrief and everything else racing-related for the day, ready to begin his summer break. He turns around and waits for Valtteri to catch up to him.

“What’s up, man?”

“George.”

He tenses a little at the mention of the omega’s name but schools his expression into a neutral one soon after, levelling Valtteri with a What about him? stare.

“You have to do something, either address it or get over it, but you gotta stop avoiding him.”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your—“

“He thinks you dislike him.”

And, oh, he didn’t expect to hear that today. Or, ever. He wordlessly gestures for the other alpha to continue.

“He told us earlier, he thinks you don’t like him. And before you make something up, I know that’s not the case,” Valtteri tells him sternly, giving him no room to use his usual excuses.

He should’ve known the Finn can see right through him.

“So, you better fix this. He’s part of the pack,” he says with a pleading look, displaying how different they are, even though they are both alphas. Lewis cares about the pack, of course he does — but he’s been so used to carrying on as a lone wolf, sometimes he still under-appreciates its importance.

“And he will be your teammate next year. You will have to spend time with him, whether you like it or not, or—“ Valtteri pauses and corrects himself just as he can see Lewis trying to jump in again, “whether you’re ready or not.”

The next few moments are filled with silence, Lewis mulling over the new revelations. He knew he couldn’t avoid the younger omega forever, but he thought he might have more time to figure things out.

“Fuck. I’ve messed up big time, haven’t I?”

“He says he’s been dealing with it. I don’t know what that means but… sounds like he’s been aware of it for quite some time.”

“I will fix this, I promise,” Lewis tries to make his sincerity shine through his eyes.

For everyone’s sake, but mainly George’s, the other alpha hopes that he still can.

—

When George opens the door to his hotel room later that day, there’s a bouquet of flowers waiting for him. And a box of chocolates along with a teddy bear, all nestled in comfortable-looking blankets.

If he didn’t know any better, he would think someone is trying to court him.

I’m sorry. Can we talk tonight? — Lewis xx reads the attached card. Oh, so someone blabbed to him and now he’s trying to play nice. Or has he been forced to, by the team?

George will hear him out but he doesn’t need fake sympathies. He can handle someone disliking him, even if that someone happens to be a person he’s admired since he was a little boy.

He can’t pretend he wouldn’t like to hear Lewis’ reasoning though. Maybe if he gets some constructive feedback he can work on whatever it is that makes him so unlikeable.

He makes his way to the Mercedes floor a little while later, wanting to get this over and done with as quickly as he can. He has a Williams party to go to, later.

When he makes it to Lewis’ room, it takes him a few minutes to respond. George has half the mind to turn around and forget about this when the door finally opens.

“George!”

He's shirtless, dressed only in sweatpants with his hair still dripping on the floor. Clearly, he just hopped out of the shower. George lets himself stare for exactly 3 seconds before averting his gaze.

The lovely smell of rich wood mixed with vanilla soon hits his nostrils and his eyes immediately find Lewis’ neck. He hasn’t reapplied his suppressant patch yet, that would explain it. George just hopes his body’s reaction to it isn’t noticeable.

“Did you get my gift?” he asks while letting him in. There’s a glint of something in his eyes. Probably of surprise, he likely didn’t expect me to turn up so soon, George muses.

He takes his time toeing his shoes off.

“I did, yes,” he says, and then continues when Lewis doesn’t add anything on his own, “What was that for?”

“I, erm, wanted to talk to you.” George just raises his eyebrows at him in a Yes, I got that. “And apologise,” he finishes.

“Listen, if this is about what I said in the packroom earlier—“

“It’s not. Well, it is, kinda. But not only that.”

George sighs and moves to sit on the sofa after Lewis motions for him to do so, disappearing to get a t-shirt for himself before coming back and offering him a drink.

He sips on his water as he waits for him to start talking.

“I’m sorry. For avoiding you. I didn’t— I didn’t think it was so apparent, to be frank. And I realise I acted like a total douchebag, so, really, I am so sorry, George. You didn’t deserve that, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

George sits with these words for a while, he’s wanted answers for so long to only get this — that he didn't do anything wrong. What a load of crap. “Then why did you?”

The pained sound of his voice coupled with the burning taste of tea in the air break Lewis’ heart just that bit more. He never wants to smell this again, especially with the knowledge he’s to blame for it. He wants the happy scent of lavender and citrus and brewing tea to surround him again.

“I just— needed to keep my distance,” he confesses. There is no reason to hide what this is anymore.

“But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Whenever we would see each other, after the race or in the factory after you’ve done laps in the sim, or later in the gym, you were always sweaty and—“ gee thanks, Lewis, good to know, “without patches and you smelled so delicious.” Wait, what? “It’s like your scent was luring me in. I could hardly keep myself in check.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell me if that made you uncomfortable? I could’ve worn—“

“No, George, it didn’t make me uncomfortable. Not like that, at least. A different kind of uncomfortable, maybe.”

George looks up into his eyes to see they’re a few shades darker than the last time he remembers looking.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. I’ve been feeling like this for years and I— I was just trying to keep my distance. I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable and, honestly, I felt repulsed by myself. You are so much younger than me—“

“I’m 23, I’m a grown adult,” George chimes in. He’s so sick of being babied by the people around him.

“But you haven’t always been one. I met you when you were 18, really got to know you as our reserve when you were 20.”

“But back then— wait, back then?” George looks at him disbelievingly.

“Yes, even back then. As I said, I felt terrible about it. I knew what everyone would say, that I’m a cradle snatcher. And I knew what you deserved — a chance to make it in F1 without anyone insinuating I had anything to do with it.”

Lewis’ eyes have turned incredibly soft since they’ve started this talk, unlike any other time George has been witness to. He moves from the other side of the sofa to kneel right by him.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you. Please trust me when I say keeping away from you has been so. freaking. hard. But it was the only way I knew how to deal with the situation.”

George still isn’t entirely sure he believes him, isn’t sure his mind isn’t just playing tricks on him, or that it isn’t just the team forcing Lewis to come up with all this to retain a favourable relationship between the two soon-to-be-teammates.

His doubt must show on his face as Lewis continues his speech, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness. I understand now that the way I’ve gone about things was stupid.”

He shuffles even closer to him, their faces separated only by a few centimetres.

“Will you let me try?”

It will take more than one sweet-talk, but as Lewis’ lips connect with his own, he can feel a weight lifting off his shoulders and a seed of hope begins to grow in his heart.

Gax taking turns with a very needy Lando as a treat for me and @16wheelerhorse

mdni

George has him laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

It starts with a light brush of fingers under Lando’s shirt, a nudge of knuckles along ribs that makes him jolt. But George doesn’t stop there. He’s got Lando straddling his lap, caged in by strong arms and long legs, nowhere to go but closer — and George is relentless. Fingertips teasing every sensitive spot he’s already mapped out, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses wherever Lando squirms to avoid them.

“George—stop,” Lando wheezes, body shivering with overstimulation, but his hands don’t really try to push him away. They’re clinging instead, clawing at George’s shoulders as if it’ll anchor him. His face is flushed, hair a sweaty mess, and there’s this smile — huge, radiant, unguarded — that hasn’t left his lips since the second George pulled him into his lap.

“You’re so cute when you laugh,” George mutters against his throat, nipping at his skin. “I should keep you like this. Every damn day.”

Lando gasps, hips twitching when George’s teeth scrape just beneath his ear. His laughter’s collapsing into soft moans now, quiet and helpless.

He’s falling apart.

And George just holds him closer, one hand flat between his shoulder blades, the other slipping lower—thumb dragging the waistband of Lando’s pants down just enough to feel skin.

He looks across the room, meeting Max’s eyes.

He hasn’t said a word in minutes. Just sat back, legs spread, one hand resting low between his thighs as he drinks in the sight of them. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, and George can feel them on his skin just as much as Lando’s body.

Max doesn’t blink. He doesn’t need to. The way his pupils blow wide, the way his tongue drags slow across his bottom lip — that says enough.

“You are pretty too,” George says. “All wrecked and sweet.”

He’s hungry. Desperate. Turned on beyond reason.

And George knows what he’s doing. He’s smug with it. He rocks up once, slow and mean, dragging a moan from Lando that surprises even him. His smile softens, gaze trailing down Lando’s red cheeks, his spit-slick lips, the way his lashes flutter when George brushes his knuckles over the curve of his waist.

Lando’s breath catches. He turns his head, biting back a grin, but he can’t hide the way his hips roll forward again, desperate and uncoordinated.

George presses another kiss to Lando’s cheek, softer this time, letting his hand settle on Lando’s ass with no subtlety at all. He presses his mouth to the shell of Lando’s ear and murmurs, low and slow, “He’s watching us, you know.”

Lando’s eyes flick open. Dazed. Pupils blown.

“Max,” George continues, loud enough now. “Don’t you love how sweet he gets when he’s all tired out like this?”

Max doesn’t answer with words. He just stands.

His steps are slow like he’s savoring every second. George doesn’t let go of Lando—he just shifts him higher, so Lando’s straddling him properly now, chest to chest, thighs spread open around George’s hips. Lando clings on instinct, forehead falling against George’s collarbone.

Then Max is there, sinking onto the couch beside them, hand curling into Lando’s hair. He pulls gently until Lando’s head tips back, exposing the flushed stretch of his throat.

“He’s fucking gorgeous,” Max mutters, thumbing at Lando’s lower lip.

George grins. “Told you.”

Max leans in and kisses Lando, slow and filthy. Lando makes a sound—too soft to be a protest, too desperate to be anything but surrender. George feels the tremor run through his body, feels the way his hips twitch forward like he’s chasing after Max’s mouth.

When they break apart, Lando’s breathing fast, face tilted up, completely dazed. His shirt is bunched under his arms, exposing his stomach, George traces down from the hollow of his ribcage to his navel gently.

“You gonna let him make you cum from laughing, Lando?” Max asks, tone low, mocking and darkly affectionate.

Lando stammers, mouth opening like he wants to answer, but George hums in amusement and palms him through his pants— and Lando gasps, back arching.

“Answer him,” George says into his ear, voice gone rough. “Tell Max how good I’m making you feel.”

“I—I can’t—” Lando whispers, choking on a moan.

Max smiles, sharp and slow.

“Thought so.”

Then he’s reaching for Lando’s face — not gently. Fingers digging into his jaw, thumb dragging across spit-slick lips like he’s testing how pliant he is.

Lando doesn’t pull away. He leans into it. His lashes flutter, and he moans again, softer this time, more pleading.

“Look how pretty he is like this,” George says, eyes still on Max. “I barely have to try.”

“He’s gorgeous,” Max agrees, eyes never leaving Lando’s. “And you’re smug as fuck.”

George laughs, but it’s breathless. Even he’s a little undone now, grinding Lando slowly against his lap like he’s proving a point.

“He deserves this,” George says. “Fucking spoiled.”

Max’s hand slides down Lando’s chest, fingertips tracing every twitch of muscle beneath the thin fabric.

“You want that, schat?” Max asks, voice quieter now. “You want us both?”

Lando nods so fast it looks like he’s losing balance.

“Please,” he whispers.

Max shifts closer, his other hand brushing George’s. Their fingers tangle briefly, but they focus back on the task at hand. There’s something possessive in the way they both hold him now — not rough, yet. Like Lando belongs between them. Like he’s theirs.

George watches as Max leans in, mouth brushing Lando’s neck, right where George left that bite. He kisses over it, then bites down again, harder. Lando cries out.

“You want us to ruin you?” George asks, voice low and warm. “You want to be good for us?”

George slips a hand between them, cupping Lando through his pants. He’s hard—painfully so—and twitching under George’s palm.

Lando gasps, a bitten-off noise, hips jerking. “Fuck—George—”

Max catches his chin and holds him still. “Look at me when you say it.”

Lando’s eyes flutter open. He does as he’s told.

George moves his hand, slow and firm, and Lando whines. He’s so far gone, trembling in their hands, and the smile that started all of this is still tugging weakly at the corner of his lips.

George cups his jaw, tilts his face back toward him.

“You’re not tired yet, are you?” George asks, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t even made you beg yet.”

“I will,” Lando breathes. “I’ll do anything.”

“Good,” Max says, already undressing Lando from his shirt. “Because I’m not stopping till you forget your own name.”

George chuckles darkly, lips brushing Lando’s again.

“Not a thought in that pretty head, is there?”

Lando shakes his head — no, nothing — and they both groan, nearly in sync.

 “You want both of us?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

Lando’s voice is a whisper. “I want both of you.”

Max kisses him again, deeper now, as George rocks up beneath him. Lando’s moan is swallowed between them, and he goes pliant, caught between their hands, their mouths, their weight.

George breaks the kiss this time. “Let’s take him apart properly.”

Max’s smile is all teeth.

George lifts Lando, and Max catches him—together they move him back onto the couch, where he falls, boneless and flushed and trembling. He reaches for both of them without thinking, like he needs them, like he can’t be whole without their hands on him.

And maybe he can’t.

Lando lies there, legs parted, chest rising fast. His eyes are glassy, lips bruised from too many kisses, his hair a wild halo from where George had teased his fingers through it while making him laugh. He looks ruined already, but he hasn’t even been touched properly.

George kneels on the floor beside him, hands roaming slow over his hips,  unbuttons his trousers with impatient fingers. His cock is leaking, twitching against his stomach, the waistband of his boxers wet from it. He’s desperate—and it shows. There's no hiding now. Not from George, and certainly not from Max, whose hands are now drifting down the front of his chest, thumbs grazing his nipples, rolling them until Lando gasps and arches into the touch.

“God, you’re so good,” Max breathes against his neck. “You were made to be touched like this.”

George nods in agreement, mouthing at the inside of Lando’s thigh. “Every part of you begs for it.”

Lando’s fingers twitch in Max’s hair, pulling lightly, not even knowing what he’s asking for—just wanting. He’s panting now, lips parted, eyes unfocused. There’s a tremor in his stomach that George loves—the way it clenches when he brushes his knuckles just beneath the waistband again.

Then George hooks his fingers and tugs the boxers down.

His cock rests heavy against his stomach, flushed and leaking, and when George wraps a hand around it, Lando arches—helpless.

“Fuck—George—”

Max watches every twitch of Lando’s body, eyes dark. “So sensitive,” he mutters. “We should take turns. Make you come over and over until you cry.”

Lando whines, high in his throat. “Please. Please.”

George squeezes gently, thumbing over the tip, dragging more slick out. “So polite now,” he says, grinning. “Max, you seeing this? He’s finally begging.”

Max leans in and licks into Lando’s mouth, slow and filthy. “Keep begging, schatje. We’re not done.”

George presses a kiss to the base of his cock, right where it meets his pelvis, and watches the way Lando shakes. Then another, and another, until he’s mouthing up the length of him, tongue wet and slow, deliberate. Lando is keening now, pushing his hips up despite himself, held down only by Max’s hand on his ribs and the firm press of George’s grip at his thighs.

When George finally takes him into his mouth—deep, warm, and unrelenting— Lando breaks. His entire body jerks, hands flying to George’s hair, but George catches his wrists and holds them down, hears the way Lando gasps, the sound raw and open, like he’s coming apart at the seams. Max watches it all over his shoulder, watches the way Lando’s body reacts, trembling and pliant, lips bitten red.

“Fuck, Georgie,” Max mutters, voice breaking slightly with heat. “Look at him. Look what you’re doing to him.”

George hums low around Lando’s cock in response, sending vibrations through him, and Lando shatters. His head falls back against Max’s shoulder, mouth slack, eyes shut tight. He’s already close—he’s been close for ages. And Max is whispering, “You gonna be good and come for us?” and George hollowing his cheeks—

“G-George, I’m—” Lando chokes on it, hips twitching, muscles shaking like he’s trying so hard to hold back. “Can’t—oh fuck—”

George lets him go just long enough to say, “Don’t you dare come yet.”

He pulls back, licking his lips, smug and glowing. “You’ll come when we let you.”

Lando groans, eyes squeezed shut. His body is strung tight, like a bow ready to snap.

Max shifts, kisses his chest, biting just enough to leave a mark. “You like this,” he whispers, licking across a nipple. “Like being handled. Like being good for us.”

“I—I love it,” Lando breathes, head tossing side to side. “I want—fuck, I want everything—”

“You’re ready for us.”

Max grins and shifts them, guiding Lando down flat onto the couch and crawling over him like a shadow, caging him in. Lando pulls him down by the neck and kisses him hard, filthy and desperate, tasting himself on Max’s tongue. George moves behind them, watching, hands already undoing his own jeans, his knuckles brushing over the tight line of his arousal as he takes in the view.

Max breaks the kiss, eyes locked with George. “Come here.”

He doesn’t wait—he gets his pants off in seconds, grabbing Lando’s hips and dragging him closer. George helps, lifting Lando’s legs, kissing the backs of his knees, down to the curve of his ass.

“You want him first?” George asks, voice thick.

Max’s hand strokes along Lando’s thigh. “No. You take him. I’ll watch.”

George smirks. “You always love watching.”

“Tell us if you want to stop,” Max says, kissing Lando’s jaw. “You’re ours, but only if you want to be.”

It’s the last thing he gets out before Max kisses him again, Lando’s too far gone to process the words. His fingers are curled tight into the couch cushions, thighs spread, face turned to the side with his lips parted like he’s dreaming it all. And George presses in, slow and patient, working him open with lubed fingers first, then the steady wet slide of his cock, both of them taking their time—watching his face, the way his lips part, the small stuttering moan that escapes him.

“Jesus,” George mutters, hands gripping Lando’s hips. “You feel—fuck, you feel too good.”

Lando’s mouth moves, but no words come out. Just whimpers. Just wrecked, desperate sounds as George begins to move, each thrust slow and deep, designed to make Lando feel it.

“Let him feel everything,” Max murmurs, hand stroking himself slowly as he watches. “Make it last.”

George sets a rhythm, hips grinding down just right, and every time Lando gasps, Max catches his mouth with his own. He tastes like sweat and need, like the kind of pleasure that makes your body go numb.

“You’re taking him so well,” Max whispers between kisses. “So deep. So full.”

Lando nods weakly, tears at the corners of his eyes. “Y-yeah, I—feels good—feels so fucking—”

George leans down and kisses his throat. “Gonna let me fill you up, pretty boy? Gonna take it all?”

Lando moans loud, body arching. “Yes—please—yes—”

Max kisses him, deep and bruising, while George fucks into him harder now, the slap of skin loud in the room. Lando’s body rocks between them, pliant and perfect, and George is close—he knows it, can feel it clawing up his spine.

“Come for us,” Max says, hand wrapped around Lando’s cock again. “Now.”

Lando shatters. His back arches off the couch, body locking up as he spills over Max’s hand, all while George pushes deep one last time and comes with a groan against his neck, clutching him so tight it borders on painful.

For a moment, everything is still.

Then George pulls out, gentle, hands stroking Lando’s thighs like a thank-you. Max leans down and kisses him again, this time soft, reverent.

Lando’s breathing like he ran a marathon. His body is limp, his hair damp, his throat covered in love bites.

George leans against the couch, brushing Lando’s cheek. “Told you I could make him like this.”

Max smiles lazily. “You were right.”

Then he stands, cock still hard, and looks down at Lando with dark eyes.

“Now it’s my turn.”

Lando whimpers, throat wrecked. “Max…”

He’s already spent. There’s come smeared across his stomach, leaking from between his legs, and yet his body thrums under Max’s touch, like it knows what’s coming next and wants it anyway.

Max’s mouth curves into something dark. “Poor thing. You’re hard again.”

And he is. Pathetically so.

George watches from the couch, shirtless, his hair a mess, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “He lives for this. You’ve got no idea how sweet he gets when he’s cockdrunk.”

“I can see it,” Max says, hand wrapping around Lando’s length, already making him shudder. “Look at you. Still greedy.”

Lando gasps, body twitching. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” Max growls, sliding his hand down to tease over Lando’s hole, pushing George’s release back in with a filthy noise. “And you will.”

Lando moans like he’s dying. George chuckles low and leans in to brush hair from his damp forehead. “You’re gonna take Max like a good boy, yeah?”

He nods. Weakly. Brokenly.

But Max waits for more. “Say it.”

Lando’s mouth parts, breath shaky. “I’ll take you. I want it. I want you.”

That’s all Max needs. He strokes himself, slow, letting Lando watch as he lines up and presses in—slow, deep, a stretch that makes Lando’s entire body bow off the bed.

George hisses, watching every inch disappear inside him. “Fuck. Look how full he is.”

Max groans, his hips grinding down once he’s buried to the hilt. “So fucking tight,” he mutters, voice nearly trembling. “Even after George.”

Lando sobs. Not from pain—he loves it. It’s too much and not enough all at once. Max fucks deep, purposeful, dragging pleasure from the very bones of him. He doesn’t move fast—he savors it. Every thrust feels deliberate, dragging against that spot that makes Lando see stars.

“Yes—” Lando cries, fists tightening in the sheets. “Oh god—Max, please—”

“Taking me so good,” Max pants, sweat dripping down his neck. “Made for this. You love being ours.”

George kisses his temple. “So pretty when he cries. Look at you—so desperate, so sweet.”

Lando can’t stop shaking. Max’s hand curls under his knee, pushing it up to go deeper, and Lando screams—a sound pure and wrecked. His cock’s untouched, leaking all over his stomach again, and still Max fucks into him like it’s the first time.

“You feel it?” Max hisses. “My cock. Right here.” He presses a hand to Lando’s belly. “I’m so fucking deep, baby.”

Lando’s nails dig into his arms. “Can’t—can’t think—fuck—”

“You don’t have to think,” George whispers, hand drifting down to stroke him slowly. “Just feel. Just take it.”

It’s too much. And it’s perfect.

Max fucks harder now, hips slamming forward, each movement forcing broken moans from Lando’s throat. The sound of skin on skin is obscene—wet, messy, raw. George strokes Lando in time with Max’s thrusts, and it’s devastating, how close he is again.

“Come,” Max says, voice rough. “Come for us. Show us who you belong to.”

Lando sobs, his body locking up—and then he’s coming, violently, helplessly, coating his stomach again, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn’t even feel the wetness on his face until George kisses it away, licking the tears right off his cheeks.

Max follows seconds later, moaning deep in his chest as he spills inside Lando, hips stuttering before he collapses against him, panting, feral with it.

The room goes quiet.

Only their breathing, the slow beat of aftershocks. Lando’s chest rises and falls, his body trembling with exhaustion. Max doesn’t pull out—he stays buried deep, possessive, one hand stroking up Lando’s side.

“You’re ours,” he murmurs, so soft it’s nearly a prayer.

George lies beside them, brushing sweat-matted hair from Lando’s brow. “Look what we do to you.”

Lando can’t speak. He just nods, wide-eyed and ruined, and George smiles.

“We’ll do it again,” he promises, low and dark. “Again and again until you forget what it felt like to be untouched.”

And the worst part—the best part—is Lando wants it.

Craves it.

Already.