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“We should have a baby.”
Oscar’s just been getting really comfortable in the way you only can on a rainy Sunday in a flat you don’t have to worry about cleaning. The sort of time you don’t get as an F1 driver. Definitely not as two F1 drivers.
He’s got his legs under Lando’s, tilting him back into the couch cushions almost like he’s going to get fucked and it’s been keeping him still and getting Oscar semi-hard for a good 30 minutes of pointlessly scrolling on their phones. Lando’s got the volume up and is watching cooking TikToks for some reason, Oscar’s been reading an annoying article about the new F3 car just so he can notch his irritation up another level with everything they get wrong.
Lando’s been wriggling a bit for a few minutes and Oscar’s focussed ticked-off-ness had possibly not spotted he’d switched to Insta scrolling, no noise of chirpy bakers talking about chia seeds for a while. If he hadn’t been fixated on the fact no one seems to understand what a clutch does, Oscar might have anticipated this better.
“Sorry, I don’t think I heard that right?”
Lando wriggles down more, until Oscar’s calves are on the back of his thighs, folded in half with his hoodie rucked so much it’s obscuring most of his face. “Just said we should have a baby.”
“Right, I thought it was that.” Oscar gives himself a few seconds of pause. This sort of Lando, on the brink of defensive, is dangerous like a trapped cat. He could become lovely, affectionate butter under Oscar’s fingers or get into a huff and disappear into the bathroom for hours, come out after Oscar goes to bed. “Why do you say that?”
“Look-” Lando shoves his phone over. “We look good with a baby.”
It’s them at the family day, one of hundreds of photos with people’s kids. Oscar hadn’t thought much of it at the time, other than that he was dying for a piss for most of the photocall and was grateful every time it wasn’t an older child likely to hug him round the waist. Lando was good with the babies, holding them gently and making them laugh for the photos.
He didn’t really think anything of it at the time, Lando’s kind of good with everyone. Makes Oscar laugh easily enough.
“Which one of us is having this baby, then?”
Lando’s foot is easy to reach, with the way he’s bent up, Oscar rolling his thumb over a bony ankle like he’s gentling a skittish horse or something. It’s a tricky question.
Lando huffs. “I dunno, mate. Whichever. We’ll have to get a girl to actually do it, won’t we?”
Oh. Oscar had assumed this was some sort of kink, not a practical request they start a family.
“Can have a go at putting one in me though, yeah? Can’t hurt.” Lando’s long fingers reach over, running the callused pads over the fabric of Oscar’s shorts where he’s still probably-too-hard for this conversation.
Oscar’s natural pedantry wants to say actually there are all kinds of risks associated with anal penetration and that he could hurt Lando and they’ve only really been getting that far for a little while now. Lando doesn’t offer it up every time, then gets moody if Oscar doesn’t ask. As though he thinks Oscar doesn’t want it basically all the time, the hot clutch of Lando’s body around him the sort of addiction he’d always thought he was too sensible to form.
“Alright.” He’s careful when he moves, gentle with the way he lets Lando un-crunch, lowering his legs with Oscar’s forearm under them. Lando seems vulnerable, eyes small and glittering, body disappeared into his clothes like he’s trying to shrink away from whatever it is he actually wants.
There’s a lurch a little like a near-miss, the same breathless adrenaline spike running through him, that Oscar thinks that might be himself.
Picking Lando up is harder than usual, like he’s embedded himself into the sofa somehow. It takes Oscar coaxing him a bit, kissing at his neck, to make him wrap his arms and legs around him until it’s suddenly slightly like being attacked by a gibbon or something, pinned even though it’s Oscar who’s supporting both of them.
“Do you mind.” He’s not really annoyed, Lando a nice weight to have on him at any time.
“I do, actually.” Lando’s mumbling into his neck, biting at Oscar’s earlobe as though he hasn’t got a care in the world about being dropped. “You’ve got to treat your baby mama right.”
“My what ?” Oscar shouldn’t have let him watch Top Boy.
“Well if you’re going to get me pregnant.” Lando’s grinning, looking up from where Oscar’s laid him down on the bed. He’s propped on his elbows and teasingly pulling up his hoodie to show his midriff now, not hiding anymore.
“Am I?” He does want to, now. Fuck Lando, at least. The possibility of knocking him up isn’t really something Oscar’s got the brain capacity to think near, let alone about.
Kneeling between Lando’s legs lets him consider a game plan. “On your back, then?”
Lando blinks his eyes wide, smiling with an almost alarming number of teeth. “Better for getting me pregnant, innit?”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Ok, yes. Nothing to do with being lazy.”
“Got to rest, haven’t I? For the baby,” Lando bites back, in the same tone as when he’s sniping about Oscar’s FIFA skills. This is going to give him new and nightmarish kinks.
“Of course,” Oscar has to hide his own face in Lando’s hoodie for a minute, mentally steeling himself for whatever this is going to do to his brain. He’s never exactly had a visually active imagination but somehow he's got a very powerful idea of Lando demanding Oscar bring him food or drinks or rub his feet, rounded out beneath a blanket on the couch of this shitty rental McLaren keep for them.
Sometimes when Lando goes on one of his Jon-defying takeaway binges, eating until he feels physically ill, he gets Oscar to spoon him and rub his tummy. He’s studiously directed his own thoughts about it elsewhere, to the annoyance of having someone sticky with hoi sin sauce or smelling of greasy margarita pinning him to the sofa not. Well. Maybe better to keep those thoughts away.
“Are you into this?” Lando sounds curious, less combative than he has for the whole conversation, if you could call it that.
“Uh.” He daren’t actually ask himself that question when his dick’s hard. It’s like being shocked at yourself for whatever you jacked it to in lockdown, there’s no accounting for his own tastes while he’s horny.
“Hmm.” Lando sounds like he does when he’s thinking about Oscar’s sim data. “Well, get on with it then. Knock me up already.”
“Alright, impatient.” Oscar wrestles him out of his sweatpants easily, Lando bending without a fuss. Leaves him in his hoodie, since he’s yanked it far enough up Oscar can flick at an exposed nipple until Lando protests, wriggling away at the same time as his dick’s twitching.
“Oi,” Lando glares at him. “I need those. For the baby.”
“ Christ. ” Oscar has to actually fully step off the bed for a minute, stumbling through shoving his own shorts and t-shirt off. “Fucking hell, Lando.”
“Did you know men can, like, make milk?” No, Oscar did not. And he’s not totally sure that’s true. “Like, just in case.”
His brain unhelpfully supplies the image of coming home to an empty fridge after a triple-header, which probably isn’t the scenario. “You want this, then?”
He’s sort of weakly indicating to his own dick, which feels a bit pathetic but draws Lando’s eyes straight there. Lets Oscar watch him flick his tongue out over his lips, leaving a wet trail in almost the same squiggle he writhes further up the bed in to settle in the pillows.
It’s easy to follow, crawling over the softness of the duvet until he can knee-walk back to between Lando’s legs. The lube’s on the bedside table. Of the one bed in this apartment. That McLaren not only know they both stay in but send cleaners in to deal with after they’re gone, each time. He appreciates all the NDAs that must be being signed, as well as the lack of questions.
Lando’s soft, almost shy, burrowing into his hoodie again while Oscar’s fingering him. There’s a lot of intensity to the way he’s looking up at him, something needy and determined that’s a little bit similar to how he is on race days. Like if Oscar can fuck something impossible into him, he’ll prove someone else wrong.
“You’re so beautiful.” He’s not sure where it comes from, wiping the spare lube off on Lando’s thigh while he’s trying to focus enough to slick his own cock up without coming.
It seems like Lando’s pleased, though. “Yeah? I’ll look even better, pregnant in like… I dunno, a field or whatever.”
“You know I don’t need that.” Oscar’s not sure how much they’re playing, Lando a little pink in the face, the way he gets when he’s emotional. Doesn’t want to do this on the wrong terms, as he’s pushing in.
Lando gasps, shudders, noses at Oscar’s face for kisses while he’s bottoming out. It’s easy to give them to him, Oscar sliding one hand up the back of Lando’s thigh to get himself more space, support him, at the same time as cradling his face with the other. Kim’s a sadist but it does help, for this, to have a rock-hard core.
“Fuck me,” Lando’s mumbling it between their lips, so garbled Oscar could’ve nearly missed the next bit, what with all the tight and hot and wet and sexy going on. If it hadn’t been exactly what Lando said, anyway. “Let me make you a daddy.”
The flex of his hips is hard enough they both make a shocked noise and Oscar has to file away yet another thing for post-nut study. “Fuck.”
“Oooh,” Lando’s teasing, at the same time as writhing and demanding Oscar fucks up against his prostate. “You like that? You want to be my daddy-”
“Shut up, for fuck’s sake.” Oscar thinks he should be in line for some sort of award for the fact he’s got the presence of mind to actually shag Lando through this. “No - not that. Let’s talk about it later.”
“Huh.” Lando goes mercifully quiet, melts a little bit into the mattress, dragging Oscar down with him. “Hey, slow down.”
Oscar stops, scrabbling up from where he was kissing Lando’s neck to check he hasn’t hurt him. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah.” Lando blinks, the weird expression he gets sometimes that makes Oscar think of quantum impossibilities and the many worlds theory. “I love you?”
It’s - Oscar doesn’t exactly come or if he does, it’s dry, balls not ready to respond that fast. But he does have to bury his face in Lando’s hoodie and groan, feeling tears prickle weirdly in his eyes.
Propping himself back up would be impossible. Looking Lando in the face right now, with all that infinity laid out, would take calculations Oscar’s in no fit state to make. Settles for sucking a hickey under his ear and whispering, mouth close enough to lick into the shell of cartilage, “I love you, too.”
Lando shudders and moans, limbs coming up to wrap around Oscar again and just hold them there, mid-fuck, nuzzling at each other.
“You want that baby, then?” Oscar’s not sure now’s the time but it’s becoming increasingly urgent he moves again, needs to turn things back to horny.
It makes Lando laugh, tipping his head back. “Fuck, yeah. Come on, let’s be mummy and daddy.”
Biting him feels like the only option, higher brain functions turned off. Fucking in again makes Lando gasp, anyway, laughing still in the breathless way he does when he’s really enjoying something.
It only takes a hand pressing Lando’s dick up against his own stomach to have him tightening up, whining, arching his back until Oscar has to apply a heroic amount of self-discipline not to come first. It’s a little messy and poorly timed, even so, Oscar slumping down onto Lando’s jizz-streaked stomach while he’s still inside him.
“S’yours.” It’s deeply gross that Lando shoves their hands between them, rubbing even more of the gunk between their abs around. If Oscar laces their fingers together, in the stickiness, then no one else needs to know.
“Yeah.” He sounds tired, almost wobbly, like he’s heard himself after jetlagged insomnia hits too hard. The same lack of certainty about where they are, maybe. “Better look after you, then.”
Lando makes a delighted, horrible, peeling sound that’s probably, technically a human laugh. It’s kind of terrible the way Oscar’s half-soft dick twitches, inside him, with it.
“We’ll do the constructor’s,” Lando decides for them. “Then a baby.”
Rolling them over to their sides, tangled together, is easier than Oscar expects given his ragdoll state. “We’re not calling them trophy.”