clarenmac - Tumblr blog

clarenmac · 18 days ago

Note

Did you say 👀 👀 landoscar body worship??? Cause if so I am SAT

well! ask and you shall receive...

decided to not keep it locked up in the gdoc.

for context: i took a nap after miami gp, saw these photos of lando, and wrote this. it's not necessarily set around miami, but make of it what you will.

✨find under the cut✨

landoscar body worship

2.1k words

mature(?)

an exercise and exploration into love, devotion, and surrender (whilst in the face of messy, fraught and ambiguous feelings).

(a warning/heads up... brief mentions of touching and (almost) kissing feet. but it's more about the emotional and physical surrender of touching someone—allowing someone to touch—a place of complete vulnerability. as opposed to just like... a foot thing. lmao)

***

It’s the strip of exposed skin between the band of his joggers and his shirt. Right where the fabric has ridden up, soft and slack from the stretch of his arms above his head. It slips across him easily. Leaves him bare, like an invitation.

It’s there, that strip, where Oscar can’t stop looking.

Lando makes a sound. Not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just something small. Hurt.

Something sensitive.

It’s his back, Oscar thinks. Tight and sore. Muscles bunched at the base of his spine, knots braided high across his shoulders.

He watches Lando’s fingers curl into the pillow above his head, white-knuckled. Watches the stretch go deeper, the arch in his back pull sharper, exposing more skin—dark, warm, soft. A line that Oscar could trace with one finger.

Lando’s face is twisted to the side, trying to bury himself in the sheets. Almost mouthing at them. He’s drawn tight there too—his face—pain etched into all his fine lines.

Nothing to do with his back at all.

Oscar stands at the foot of the bed, useless. He listens to Lando’s neck crack, the sharp crunch of it loud in the still of the room, and flinches.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

Lando doesn’t react. Like Oscar’s not there at all. But he is—Lando invited him in. Asked for it, and said nothing. Just reached out in the hallway—closed the gap with a hooked finger in the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt. Just enough to pull. Just enough to close the metre between their rooms, that impossible distance, lined in ugly carpet and harsh fluorescent light.

A distance Oscar couldn’t cross without that tug.

But he followed. Crossed it.

Of course he did.

Oscar’s the one that reaches for him now; reaches for the only part of Lando he can touch without disrupting the fragile shape of him: his ankle. He closes his fingers gently around the bone, his thumb brushing across the skin there.

Lando doesn’t react. Not really. But there’s a flicker—his eyelids twitch, a subtle shift beneath them. Then the faint crease between his brows. Small, but sharp. A line that wasn’t there before—one Oscar wants to touch. To smooth.

Wonders how he can, when he’s the reason for it. For all of them.

Maybe.

He isn’t sure if that’s right. Because he can’t read Lando when he’s like this—withdrawn, wound tight. Like he wants to push Oscar away. Can’t stand him. But—

He reached for him. Pulled him in close.

The way he keeps reaching for him, over and over, like Oscar’s the only thing that’s helping.

Oscar can’t make sense of it. But he wants it. Realises he’s sort of desperate for it—to not be pushed away. To be allowed in.

He puts a knee on the end of the bed, leans forward, but doesn’t climb on. He balances his weight on Lando—on that gentle-gentle hand still resting at his ankle. Squeezes tighter, just for a second, before brushing it up along his calf. He pushes Lando’s joggers with it, inching them higher and exposing more of that skin.

Soft. Hair coarse. Something dangerous.

Lando says nothing.

Says everything, when he parts his legs.

Only slightly—barely—but Oscar feels the space he creates. The space he makes. Just for him.

Only for him.

Oscar breathes. Watches his face. He wants to crawl over him, press him down into the bed—cover him so completely, so tightly, that he can’t drift away inside his own head.

He doesn’t.

He will, but not yet.

Instead, he lifts Lando’s leg to his chest. Pulls gently at his shin until it folds him in, like he’s trying to hug him there.

Lando lets it happen. Eyes closed and loose for it.

When Oscar closes his hand around Lando’s socked foot, Lando twitches. Surprised. Sensitive.

Oscar presses his thumb into the arch—right where he knows Lando will be tight.

He gets the reaction he was hoping for. And shit. He just wanted a reaction—fucking anything—‘cause when Lando grunts, when his eyelids flutter, Oscar feels something start to untangle in the space between his ribs. Something tight finally letting go.

He wants to do the same for Lando.

So he does it again. Pushes. Digs in. Thinks he could stay just like this—get up on the bed and put Lando’s feet in his lap. Just to keep him grunting. Keep him breathing. Keep him here.

He pulls off Lando’s sock, then the other, smiling when he sees the curl of Lando’s toes. Has to shake his head at that—something embarrassing licking hot and high near his neck. Probably something dangerously wrong with him, but maybe there always has been.

And when Lando sighs—when he presses his feet into Oscar’s hands, something loosening in his face—Oscar thinks maybe there’s something dangerously wrong with both of them.

Hopes.

(Knows.)

Oscar closes his eyes, bringing Lando’s leg up near his shoulder, right by his face. He breathes. Tries not to shudder as he presses his nose to Lando’s calf, his ankle. Inhales deep. His mouth grazes over skin—barely, lightly—and he can’t see it, but he hears it: that sound at the back of Lando’s throat.

Oscar holds his leg like it’s delicate. Like if he’s not gentle enough, the moment will crack and disappear.

But Lando’s not delicate. Not gentle. He doesn’t need Oscar to treat him like this. He doesn’t need to be coddled, cradled like glass.

But Oscar wants to.

He wants to take Lando in his hands and shatter him—carefully, deliberately. Just so he can help put him back together.

If that’s what Lando needs.

When Oscar closes his mouth over the side of Lando’s ankle, it’s dangerously close to his heel. Almost at the sole of his foot.

He hears the way Lando breathes for it—feels the tremor that follows.

Oscar knows what it means, touching him here. Like this. Knows it isn’t about the obvious strangeness, isn’t about the easy joke—feet, mate? seriously?—isn’t about being a fucking freak, or whatever the fuck Lando’s going to say later.

It’s about touching him where he’s vulnerable.

It’s about being allowed to.

Oscar lets himself move further up the bed, kneeling now in the space between Lando’s parted thighs. He runs his lips along the skin of his leg—up the shin, the calf—until he meets the bunched material of his joggers near his knee.

He kisses him there. Right in that soft, dangerous spot below the kneecap. And when a hand curls around his wrist, Oscar flinches—so hard that his grip on Lando’s leg turns impossibly tight.

Lando doesn’t flinch in return. Doesn’t even move. Just holds Oscar steady.

Oscar blinks, lands on the shape of Lando’s hand around his wrist, and swallows. It always stills him—how Lando’s fingers overlap when they curl around him like that.

He glances up, still half-hiding in the space behind Lando’s knee, and the breath that leaves him is sharp when he realises—sees—

Lando’s eyes are open. Hazy. Half-lidded.

But open.

And looking directly at him.

Oscar doesn’t say anything. Lando doesn’t either. But Oscar feels the weight of it—what he’s doing—shouting between them, loud and heavy.

Lando’s thumb presses firmly to his pulse, and Oscar wonders if he can feel it. Feel how it’s steady. Calm. Certain.

Hopes he can.

Hopes Lando knows what this means to him—that he’s not afraid to be here. That he wants to be.

Oscar kisses him again, squeezes his calf, and Lando sighs.

“Oscar.”

Oscar blinks. He hadn’t expected to hear his own name. To hear anything at all. Didn’t expect to hear it… like that.

“Yeah?” he says. Asks. He doesn’t know what he’s asking, only that now Lando’s speaking, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Even if all Lando says is his name (over and over and—) that would be enough.

Lando doesn’t respond. Just blinks at him, slow and drowsy, like he’s working something out. He tugs at Oscar’s wrist, the way he tugged at his sleeve in the hallway, and Oscar hears it again for what it is.

An invitation.

He runs a hand down Lando’s thigh, gentle, until he can hold him to his hip. Keeps him close. Doesn’t want to let this part of him go.

He plants his other hand beside Lando’s head, and leans in. Slowly. Finds that holy, granted space between Lando’s legs, and lets himself sink into it.

Like kneeling.

Like absolution.

It’s the way Lando touches his waist. His neck. The way he reaches for him, sighing when Oscar’s weight settles on his chest and pushes him into the bed. The way Oscar can see his lashes, the red-rimmed edges of his eyes—vaguely devastating from this close.

Oscar revels in the heat of him.

He doesn’t react when he feels the heavy, half-hard press of Lando’s cock, almost against his own. He’s hard too, or nearly—just a dull, low thrum. Easy to ignore.

Because this isn’t about sex. Not in the way Oscar’s known it.

It’s something else. Something just as exposing. Maybe more.

Still—

It never won’t get to him. The knowledge—the reality—that Lando wants him too. Keeps wanting him. Despite everything.

Lando’s eyes track across Oscar’s face, that little frown still tucked between his brows. He settles on Oscar’s mouth, where Oscar knows his lips are cracked. Dry. He licks at them—an unconscious habit, usually reserved for Lando.

He can feel Lando’s hand at his throat. Not squeezing—just holding. A thumb brushing the tense line of a tendon too tight.

Lando sighs and Oscar kisses his jaw. Closes his mouth over Lando’s throat, just to feel him swallow—mirroring the way Lando holds him. Like they’re keeping each other there. Anchored. Alive.

I’ve got you.

There’s so much Oscar wants to say. All the fucking time, really. Not just here. But he just—can’t. Can’t because he’s never going to get it right. Never going to look at Lando’s face and find a perfect, tidy way to explain it all. Wouldn’t be enough. And—shit. It’s not even that. Lando doesn’t need a speech, Oscar’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want one, but it doesn’t change the way Oscar feels.

What he wants Lando to understand.

He licks at Lando’s pulse. Bites him there. Hides in that space. Pushes at his shirt, where it’s ridden high up his middle. Keeps pushing until it’s bunched under his arms, tight across his chest.

Oscar drags himself down—graceless, probably. Awkward. But finesse isn’t the point. He just has to touch. To hold. To breathe Lando in, so that maybe Lando will understand.

Lando lets him. Easy. Fingers tangled in Oscar’s hair and pulls.

It’s not sex—but still, Oscar moans. Can’t help it. A thank you.

“Oscar,” Lando says again.

Oscar hears what’s beneath it.

You don’t have to.

“Let me,” Oscar says out loud.

Lando’s grip in his hair tightens.

Oscar settles, lowers himself to Lando’s chest. Doesn’t hesitate, just breathes. Presses his mouth to Lando’s sternum and feels the bone there. Kisses him there—again and again—until salt tastes like spit, until spit tastes like nothing at all. Just Lando.

He feels the rise and fall of Lando’s chest against his face. Breathing deep. Heavy. Letting himself feel it. Take it.

“You’re good,” Oscar hears himself say. Doesn't really know why he says it.

Repeats it. “You’re good.”

Something moves through Lando’s chest—wracks through it—and Oscar feels it.

He doesn’t want to undo Lando. Doesn’t want to hurt him. That’s the whole point.

He doesn’t want this to bruise.

Oscar lifts his head, rests his chin on Lando’s torso. Lando’s head had been thrown back, eyes shut—but he blinks up fast when he feels Oscar pause.

They look at each other. Again. Just like before. And Oscar sees the way Lando’s cracking. Spilling out all over the edges.

“Lando…” he says softly. Tries not to frown. Starts to say more, but—

“Don’t stop,” Lando cuts in. Firm. Clear.

Oscar drops his forehead to Lando’s skin. Wet and hot. Clutches a fistful of his shirt, closes his eyes, and sighs.

And kisses him again.

His collarbone. His shoulder. His chest. His ribs. Almost at his armpit. The shape of him.

He could live here, Oscar realises. Make a home in this space Lando’s offered him. In the space Lando wants—needs—him to be.

A space that feels like surrender.

Like devotion.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it.

Being with Lando Norris—loving him—is devotion. Surrender, in its highest, most brutal form.

And when Lando’s legs part wider, thumbs brushing reverently at Oscar’s temples, Oscar thinks—

Surrender comes in many forms. Starting with a mirror.

#landoscar #landoscar fic #asks #this is messy and self-indulgent #please forgive me #and so much potential to continue ....#enjoy :)

136 notes · View notes