oscar piastri propaganda central

Bright shock of ear poking out of his messy hair. Pink handprints on his ass. Pimples across his shoulders. 

Mark lets himself reach out. He doesn't touch the cum smeared across Oscar’s ass, interrupting the bright magenta splotches. They'll fade by tomorrow. Oscar is easy to mark, hard to bruise. 

Instead, he lets his thumb sweep against Oscar's lower back. Oscar stays perfectly still, his breath controlled. He's not asleep yet, no little wheeze every few breaths. Mark presses just a bit harder, to the place he saw Oscar rubbing as they stood in line for beers, where he knows he aches after being folded in half for too long. 

There. A shiver, not caught in time. He digs in just a hair harder and hears the rustle of sheets as Oscar tenses and relaxes. “Yeah?” Mark asks, as he rubs a circle with his thumb. 

Oscar arches his back into Mark’s hand and mumbles something into the pillow. Some awful part of Mark wants to fist his hand in Oscar's hair, pull him off the pillow, make him repeat it so Mark doesn't miss a thing while they share this rented bed. 

Instead, Mark takes his other hand to the other side of Oscar’s bony spine and massages as hard as Oscar needs. The pillow can't cover Oscar’s “Fuck,” this time, his hand tensing in the sheets. It's sick, the adrenaline Mark feels from getting a rise from a 25-year-old, keeping him from the obliteration of sleep just a bit longer. 

Just a massage, Mark tells himself. He lets Oscar stay face down, wet breaths in the pillow. His hands range up to the pimples along his shoulder blade, down his skinny little ass to his hamstrings. Oscar gets looser and louder, his huffs of breath and the way he presses back into Mark’s hand. His hole is pinkest of all, and Mark’s trying so hard to avoid it, to give it a well-deserved rest. His hand is bigger than Oscar’s whole cheek when he touches, thumbs in the dimples on his low back, first finger reaching to the barely-there curve to his soft pale thigh. “Jesus fuck, Mark,” Oscar says, pushing himself up raggedly from the pillow, and all of Mark’s restraint flies out of the window. It’s either hands or mouth, so Mark swallows a few times, spits, and only lets himself luxuriate in Oscar’s shocked little “Oh” for a second before his finger is pressing back inside. 

Oscar writhes on the first finger, always acting like it’s his first time even when the evidence of last time is still sticky on his skin. Mark is endlessly fascinated by his hole: tight but giving, always capable of more than Mark thinks. It’s not long before Mark’s knocked over the lube and possibly squirted it across the lamp in his quest to open it one-handed, unwilling to take the other hand out of Oscar.

With two fingers in, after, Oscar’s usually well on his way to wrung-out. But instead he keeps getting tenser, rocking back and forth on Mark’s hand, pulling one corner of the sheet off entirely. “Fuck, Mark,” he says, his thick neck the only thing holding his face up. “Deeper, come on, more.”

Is that how your girlfriend begs? Mark wonders. Does she even have to ask, or are you so eager that you slide right in, pump a few times and then pass out. Is she satisfied, after? Mark pictures Oscar’s mouth, pink and shiny, between her perfectly hairless thighs, and presses against Oscar’s prostrate meanly. Oscar drops back into the pillow, gasps near hysterically, but it doesn’t stop him from chanting “More, c’mon, more, please.” 

It’s the please that gets Mark. A third finger pushes in like butter, but Oscar’s still tense, his back arched towards Mark, and Mark has a flash of sliding in past his knuckles, impossibly thick in Oscar’s little body. Like a man possessed, Mark realizes that his dick is hard again. Twice in one night – Mark is a fucking medical miracle, or Oscar should be bottled and sold in pill form.

He pulls his hand out to slick his dick up, giving himself a few pumps. Oscar looks over his shoulder in response to the sudden emptiness. The sight of his face, after so long studying his back, is a gut punch. His eyes are shiny, his chapped lips bitten red, tongue visible between his teeth. They’re still looking at each other as Mark pushes in.

There’s a swirl of relief as he bottoms out. Oscar, finally, goes boneless and limp, laying his cheek back down on the pillow, closing his too-bright eyes. Mark's dick is along for the ride, a traitor to Mark’s brain, ready to satiate the insatiable. Oscar’s moans are long and drawn-out, now, not panicky and desperate like before. Mark wants to bite and suck, leave an obvious hickey over the muscle of his neck that will linger for a week. Disgusting, juvenile, pathetic.

He licks behind Oscar’s ear instead, tasting sweat, feeling the bump of a blemish. His knees are aching, sliding against the sheets and Oscar’s sweaty thighs. He slides one thigh back up Oscar’s body, undoing all the work of the massage, but Oscar just sighs in relief, clumsily finding the crook of his knee with his hand, pulling it closer to his chest. With the extra room Mark settles in to rock in and out of Oscar’s body, little circles like the lapping of the waves on a windless day. He could float like this forever.