time in the tangerine

“Osc,” he tries again, whining as hands grip into to his waist, fingerprints aching to leave impressions on each side. He tries in vain to press back again, a frustrated huff of breath leaving him when he can’t; Oscar, an immovable force behind him.

His voice comes again, as low as before. There’s a knife edge to it, something thrilling that sends sparks all along Lando’s spine even as he writhes against the counter top, the cold marble digging painfully into the swell of his hips.

“Did you fuck any of them?”

It takes Lando a moment, the words feeling far away and untouchable despite the breath of air fanning across his ear, maintaining the goosebumps all along his tanned skin. He shivers, tries to focus, wading through the cottony feeling in his head.

Oscar helps him get there. “The girls on the boat. We all saw the photos, Lando. The videos…” he pauses, brushing his fingertips along the back of Lando’s neck, the indentation of a smirk curved across the shell of his ear. “You looked like such a slut. Bet they loved it, didn’t they?”

Dropping his head onto the marble with a thud, Lando barely feels it; gasping as his eyes roll back at the use of such an ugly word out of Oscar’s pretty mouth. He shivers, body betraying how much he likes it.

“Yeah,” he gasps again, high and breathless. “I mean — no, Osc, please,” he tries to reach behind him, tries to get his hand curled around Oscar’s arm, willing him to move again. “I didn’t, you know I didn’t.”

Oscar hums, not responding for a painstaking moment.

“Don’t know,” he says finally. “Looked like you were up for it.”

“I wasn’t,” Lando can’t help the whine, the way it gets higher and longer when he accidentally squeezes down around Oscar and Oscar gives his waist a sharp warning pinch, the sting blooming from the pinprick point of contact. “Promise I wasn’t.”

“Do you think they’d still want a go?” Oscar asks. “If they could see you now.”

It’s rhetorical, and Lando’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Thin-lipped, pink into white with the pressure he exerts to force them together, trying impossibly to hold back the sounds that beg to be wrenched from his chest.

Oscar dips his head again, lips trailing along the length of Lando’s throat. A feather touch, barely there.