sincere nonsense

“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.

An accident, maybe.

Lando knows better, though.

He doesn’t have to see Oscar’s face as he continues on his way to know that that touch, as fleeting as it was, was also entirely deliberate; carried out with intent, a secret passed from Oscar to Lando.

The guy he’s talking to is still speaking, completely unperturbed and unaware as to everything that’s going on inside Lando’s mind and body right now. The swirling thoughts that range from an incessant desire to follow Oscar like a dog with his tail between his legs, to the opposing force that tells him not to give in, to make Oscar wait for it.

A muscle flutters in his neck.

“Sorry, mate,” he grimaces apologetically, tone immediately soothing over the rudeness of his interruption so it barely registers with the guy. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, and he doesn’t feel guilty about leaving him in the lurch like that — the guy’s been hanging onto Lando’s every word, will probably get off to this interaction later anyway, so Lando figures he’s done his service.

It’s this, he realises as he heads down the stairs, eyes immediately on the hunt for Oscar’s capped head, that probably sparked Oscar’s blatant grab for his attention in the first place. Jealousy, not that Oscar would ever admit it. The thought lights a fire in Lando’s gut, a zap of electricity tugging behind his navel that he thinks maybe he should think about; like maybe getting off on the idea of someone being jealous isn’t the healthiest reaction to have.

It isn’t like he can help it. It’s involuntary, a reaction he doesn’t know how to control and can’t really be bothered to try anyway.

In the end, it doesn’t take him long to find Oscar. He hasn’t gone far, leaning against the wall, the image of nonchalance — clearly anticipating that Lando would follow him. For a brief moment, Lando feels irritated at himself for being so fucking easy. But then he catches the way Oscar’s so obviously trying not to look at him and he can’t help but smirk.

He’s not the only one who can’t control himself.

Sliding up against the wall next to Oscar, he reaches his hands into his pockets, surveying the crowd in front of them.

“Nice move,” he says, even as he smiles at a passing woman; tall and tanned and blonde, easily his type and yet completely forgettable tonight. “If you wanted in on the conversation, you only had to ask.”

He feels Oscar bristle next to him at being rumpled and hides his smile behind his hand.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar’s looking out at the crowd too, the same direction as Lando’s gaze but nowhere near as relaxed. It’s fine; nobody will suspect anything, not when that’s his default setting in social situations he doesn’t want to be in.

Lando knocks their elbows together. “I think you do.”

He continues when Oscar stays stubbornly silent.

“In fact,” he drawls, ducking his head down so that Oscar can hear him. “I think this is exactly what you wanted. Me, all to yourself.”

They’ve called Oscar an iceman for so long now that you’d be forgiven for thinking it’s true. But Oscar’s never been expressionless or cold; these days Lando knows what he’s thinking before he says it, most of the time. Right now, he feels more than he sees Oscar shifting next to him, uncomfortable with how close Lando’s words are to the truth, he surmises.

He feels a little bad.

“‘Course,” he says. “I’m not complaining.”

Laying out the bait. Knowing Oscar will take it.

“Yeah?”

Right on cue.

Lando allows himself a smile and a glance in Oscar’s direction. “Yeah.”

The tension is thick, heady. Just the way Lando likes it. A part of him wants to stay here, reveling in the feeling of it, but his trousers are thin and there’s only so much sin they can hide.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he says, keeping his voice level, pointedly not looking at Oscar. “Catch you in a bit.”

It’s an open invitation, as clear as he’s willing to be. He can feel Oscar’s eyes on him the entire time as he walks away, a sway in his hips just for show; just for Oscar. There’s no doubt in his mind that Oscar will accept, because Lando would if it were the other way around.

When it comes to this, they aren’t so different.

He’s barely gotten the door locked before there’s a rap from the other side, knuckles against hard wood. Oscar practically falls through it when it opens again, not uttering a word in greeting. Then he’s spinning them so Lando’s back is pressed against the door, the cold of it bleeding through his linen shirt and drawing a hiss from him.

It’s quickly swallowed down, Oscar’s lips on his, his tongue incessant and demanding, immediately delving i to Lando’s mouth. Lando moans into it, opening up willingly, letting Oscar press closer and closer, not a millimetre between them.

“C’mon,” Oscar says finally, impatient. He’s tugging Lando’s shirt up over his stomach, his free hand going for his flies. “Let me.”

“Not stopping you,” Lando manages, cursing the tightness of his voice.

Outside he’d felt in control. Here, he can feel it slipping away from him. The only saving grace is that Oscar clearly isn’t faring much better, his impatience bordering on desperation. He looks pretty and flushed already, and Lando knocks his cap off with one hand, curling fingers into the hair at the base of Oscar’s neck instantly.

Oscar grabs him through his trousers, eliciting a gasping groan from him.

“Knew you were hard,” Oscar punctuates it with a satisfied squeeze, too smug for someone who sounds so breathless. “Was that all it took? Me pushing past you?”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Pushing past,” he snorts. “Practically impaled yourself on my cock.”

It’s an exaggeration, a joke, but he sees Oscar’s eyes widen at the words, his lips pop open, wet and obscene. Like he’s picturing it now, Lando’s cock slipping inside him just like that, hard and fast and rough.

“Fuck, let me just —,” Oscar’s pulling his shorts down.

He holds his hand out to Lando and Lando takes it, confused until he feels the crisp packet pressed into his palm, raising a brow.

“Shut up,” Oscar says tightly.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You wanted to.”

Lando bites the tip of his tongue, unable to argue with that. He tears open the lube, waggling his brows at Oscar and gesturing for him to turn around.

“Quickly,” Oscar sounds pained, even as he acquiesces to Lando’s demands, folding himself over the small sink, arms pressed into the countertop and arse presented. It’s less than ideal but Lando couldn’t care less, not when Oscar’s offering himself up like this.

He presses a kiss to the first knob of Oscar’s spine as he slides a finger in, an apology for the coldness that has Oscar hissing and fighting not to pull away from. But he does as Oscar asks, making quick work of opening him, efficient and expert with the slide of his fingers until he deems it enough — Oscar will still be tight, will still feel the burn. Lando knows better than to question if he’s ready, not when he’s pressing back and moaning like that.

“Now,” Oscar slurs, like his tongue is thick. “Lando, now.”

“Okay, okay.”

Another kiss to his spine and Lando’s pushing in without argument, dropping his head to Oscar’s back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

Oscar manages to laugh somehow, airy and high. “Cheers.”

“Just the truth,” Lando grunts, getting his hands on Oscar’s hips so he can start fucking him properly.

It’s not long before Oscar’s reduced to nothing more than moans and whimpers and inane babbles that neither of them can understand. Lando loves Oscar like this — when he’s cock drunk and stupid with it, practically boneless. The only thing holding him up is the sink, and Lando’s tight, bruising grip.

Voices move past the door, laughter and the odd word that Lando can catch seeping through. It’s exhilarating, knowing that they’re doing this in public, really — that anyone could hear, especially with the way Oscar’s whining, his own fist in his mouth as he tries to stifle himself by any means necessary.

“Fucking tease,” Lando groans, getting one hand around Oscar’s cock. “Rubbing up against me like that.”

Oscar takes his hand out of his mouth just long enough to say, “not my fault you’re easy,” breaking off into a whimper when Lando squeezes the crown of his dick cruelly.

Lando gets his fingers curled into Oscar’s hair, easing him up until he’s face to face with the mirror above the sink; as much for Lando to be able to see him as for him ti be able to see himself. He’s red-faced and dark-eyed, two front teeth showing where they’re piercing the skin of his knuckles. He looks devastating.

“Look at you,” Lando coos, caressing Oscar’s flaming cheek with one finger. “So pretty.”

Oscar moans, squeezing his eyes shut until Lando grants him mercy; releasing his hair and letting him press his face back into his arms atop the counter, hiding from view again.

Doesn’t matter. Lando has already committed it to memory.

Tensing around him, Oscar murmurs, “do you think that guy would’ve let you fuck him?”

Definitely, Lando thinks. But I wouldn’t want to.

“Quiet,” he says instead, a little mean with it. “There’re people outside.”

He feels Oscar clench around him again at his words, involuntarily this time, feels the hot spurt of his release over his fist and it’s enough to have him following quickly, teeth biting down into the curve of Oscar’s shoulder as he comes.

After, he brushes his hands featherlight over the red marks on Oscar’s hips, licking across the bite mark on his shoulder. It’s not easy, cleaning up in small quarters, but he does it — for himself and Oscar, because it always takes Oscar a few moments to come back to himself, to regain control over his body.

He’s just tugging Oscar’s shorts back up, patting his arse on the way, when Oscar mumbles something.

“What?” Lando frowns, leaning in. “Didn’t catch that, Osc.”