Tag

Oscar chokes as his hand jumps, forcing the straw in his mouth too far down his throat. He rubs at it, coughing roughly. “Uh. No? That’s — I’ve had sex, Lando.”

He wonders whether he should be concerned about Lando’s apparent memory loss — he’s literally spent the last excruciating half hour explaining his lack of virginity in as little detail as possible.

“Yeah, but like…” Lando trails off, lips slightly pursed and brows knitted together.

His thinking face, Oscar’s come to learn.

Oscar doesn’t have the best history with that face.

Lando continues, lip tucked between his teeth now. “You said it was bad.” He shrugs. “Deserve a do-over, I reckon.”

Dubiously, Oscar says, “I’m not really sure that’s how it works, mate.”

“Why not?” Lando shrugs again.

“Because it’s virginity.” Oscar puts his bottle on the table between them. There’s a frustration building in him now, tense and knotted. Can’t tell if Lando’s just trying to take the piss out of him or not, and it’d be — fine, usually. With anything else.

Not with this, though.

He continues, voice quiet. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it. You lose it once and you can’t get it back.”

Before the words are out he’s already cringing at himself outwardly. Sounds like some radical youth church leader, preaching to teens about saving themselves for marriage, not defiling their bodies.

“It’s just a made up concept anyway,” he mumbles, reciting what he’s heard Hattie say a million times before as he sinks lower in his chair. “Doesn’t actually mean anything.”

“Right,” Lando says slowly, still watching Oscar. His eyes are narrowed now, a calculating look in them.

There’s something else there too that Oscar can’t place.

“Look, whatever joke you want to make, just — say it.”

Lando frowns at that, eyes dropping down. Slightly abashed. “I wasn’t going to make a joke.”

Disbelieving, Oscar can’t help but roll his eyes. “Sure.”

“I wasn’t!”

And the thing is — Lando does sound sincere. Looks it, too, got that screwed up expression he wears when he’s feeling put out, when he’s swearing to Jon that he hasn’t cheated on his meal plan and Oscar knows he actually means it.

Huh.

“Okay.” Oscar accepts, taking another sip of water.

“Only —“

Oscar can’t help but groan, irritation bleeding into his voice. “What, Lando? Just spit it out, yeah?”

“Well, if it’s ‘just a made up concept’,” Lando repeats, accompanied by actual air quotations. “Then who’s to say you can’t have a do-over? You can just be a virgin again.”

Unfortunately, he… might be making a valid point? Almost? Still, Oscar frowns, tension building at the base of his skull. He wants this conversation to be over. Like, yesterday preferably. Now, at the latest.

“What the hell, sure.” He sounds tired, even to his own ears, shifting back in mild discomfort. “Whatever, Lando. I’m a virgin. You happy now?”

Makes the mistake of looking up at that moment, locking eyes with Lando, and he looks — weirdly intense. Squirmy, even. If he looks close enough he’s sure he can see red rising to Lando’s cheeks; lip plump and over-chewed. The rise and fall of his chest is shallow, suddenly. He looks —

He leans forward suddenly, palms flat on the table. Shoots a quick glance around the mostly empty room, voice hushed. “You don’t have to be. If you don’t want. We could, like. Do bits or whatever.” Follows it with another shrug, not as loose as the last.

Oscar thinks he must’ve misheard. The sound of his own blood rushes in his ears, drowning everything else out. In his chest his heart stutters, the resounding beat almost painful.

“Um. Did you — what?”

“If you want.” Lando’s gaze is pointedly on the table now, and — yeah, he’s definitely blushing. “I could, y’know... Sort you out or whatever.”

It might be the least romantic proposition Oscar’s ever heard. And yet —

“Is that what you want?” He asks, voice higher than usual. Licks his lip nervously, notices how Lando’s eyes catch the movement when he flicks them up again.

There’s a moment where he thinks Lando might deny it. But whatever he sees on Oscar’s face is apparently enough to calm any nerves he might have, and Christ, Oscar needs to get better at hiding his emotions around Lando.

Lando, who stretches now, arms above his head, t-shirt riding up to show the smallest amount of golden skin across his abdomen. It’s deliberate. It also works.

“Sure. I’ll do a better job than the last guy, trust me.”

——

It’s not until Oscar’s spread out on the bed in Lando’s hotel room, sheets twisted down around his bare legs with three of Lando’s fingers inside him that he realises how true that statement was.

Lando’s been taking his sweet time with the prep, like he really, genuinely does want to make this good for Oscar, and it’s — it’s devastating, actually. Sobering to know that Lando is as good here in the bedroom as he is on the track, determination and precision cutting through, painfully reasonable in the way he’s taking Oscar apart slowly.

It had felt like a good idea, saying yes at the time. Now he feels like he might’ve made a horrible mistake.

“That good?” Lando murmurs above him, pressing his lips open mouthed across the sensitive skin of Oscar’s inner thigh. “Tell me how it feels.”

Like he can’t tell from the way Oscar’s leaking all over his abs, has been for the last ten minutes or so.

Unbearable, Oscar wants to say. Impossible. Unsurvivable.

“Yeah,” he manages to choke out instead. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s on fire, the muscles in his thighs already aching from the stretch of them. “S’good, Lan.”

So much better than he expected. And maybe his first time did warp his view on all of this, with how bad it was. Excruciating in all the converse ways to this. Too rushed, too careless. Too impersonal, in the end, even though he’d thought that was what he wanted.

This isn’t anything like that, a fact Oscar knows he’s going to have to learn to live with somehow.

The things Lando’s saying aren’t helping.

“You’re so tight,” he breathes, and it’s such a cliche that Oscar wants to hate it on principle.

He doesn’t, though — can’t even pretend to, not when his body reacts to it the way it does, clenching down, flushing even deeper along his chest, between the valley of his pecs, the ridges of his taut abdomen.

“Gonna make it so good for you,” Lando promises, nipping at the junction between thigh and groin, earning a high whimper from Oscar. “Your first time, god.”

And yeah — Oscar had figured, earlier, when the whole thing had come up. Something about the way Lando had looked over the table, the change in his voice… it did something for him, the idea of Oscar being a virgin.

He hadn’t realised exactly how much it did for him until now, though.

“Is this a thing for you?”

Regret settles in almost instantly when Lando draws himself up so that he can look Oscar in the face, brow raised. “Fucking you? Like. Yeah, obviously.”

Oscar rolls his eyes even as his face flames. “No, the — the virginity thing.”

It feels absurd. He’s not even a virgin, Jesus, but they’re acting like he is and he’s — it’s not something he’s ever thought about before, but he doesn’t hate it. The way Lando’s tongue flicks out every time he says the word, drawing across his lip. The sharp inhale of breath.

Lando’s shoulders tuck onwards, a look of embarrassment crossing his face. Shame, maybe, too, which — that wasn’t Oscar’s intention. His gut swoops.

“I don’t mind,” he says quickly, cringing inwardly. “I — I like it.”

The relief is palpable. Earns him a smile, real and small, dimple pronounced. Oscar wants to lick it.

“I like it too,” Lando admits. “I like it so much.”

His voice is breathy, the tone of it settling warm in Oscar’s stomach. It’s good, he thinks. That they’re on the same page. Traitorously, his mind thinks about the after too — when Lando won’t want to do this again because Oscar’s not a virgin. Even though technically he isn’t now, either, but —

Jesus, his head is spinning.

Clearing his throat doesn’t dislodge the sudden lump nestled there.

“I’m — you can, uh. Fuck me, I’m ready.” Adds, mouth forming the words before he can think about it too hard: “take it.”

Lando ducks his head and groans, a guttural noise that goes straight to Oscar’s gut, has him twitching.

By the time Lando’s got the condom on and is assuming position, one hand bracing himself above Oscar, Oscar’s wondering if maybe they should be doing this another way. One where he doesn’t have to see Lando’s awed expression as he looks down at him, how heavy it feels.

But it’s too late for that.

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” Lando says, hand brushing along Oscar’s hip and waist before he’s dropping it down to guide himself in.

Stubbornly, Oscar wants to remind him that he has actually done this before, that he doesn’t need to be treated with such care.

Except it’s dizzying, the feeling of him nudging against Oscar’s entrance. It’s almost like it is his first time, the feeling overwhelming already. Dashing any memory of his actual first time, which he’d already managed to mostly forget, so — maybe Lando was onto something, with the whole do-over thing.

The slow drag of Lando filling him up takes his breath away, little, wrecked noises catching in his throat the entire time. He has half a mind to be embarrassed about it, but can’t — not when Lando’s looking at him with deference splashed across his face, an open secret all for Oscar.

“Can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” Lando says, hardly above a whisper. His voice is tight from the effort of holding himself back, the muscles of the arm next to Oscar’s head shaking. “Letting me have this.”

It sends a shiver down Oscar’s spine, the idea of it. Giving himself up to Lando, giving him something nobody else has had. Almost enough for him to believe it, because it’s sort of true. Nobody else has had Oscar like this, out of his mind with his own desire, desperate for more.

“Yeah, Lan,” he chokes as Lando bottoms out, hands creeping across Lando’s chest and over the broad wings of his shoulders. “Just you.”

Lando’s reaction seems involuntary, hips stuttering against Oscar, pleasurable waves crashing over him.

“Fuck, Osc, please,” Lando begs.

It has Oscar’s brain flat lining. Reckons he’d agree to anything Lando wants right now; doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to now but he still does. “Yeah, yeah, Lando, please.”

Giving permission for Lando to move, he realises a second too late. The tug of Lando moving almost all the way back, the feeling unlike any other. Then he’s thrusting back in, setting a pace that allows for greater depth over speed; every press in seems to take more air from Oscar’s lungs until he isn’t sure there’s anything left to expel.

Lando is a talker, which Oscar should’ve guessed, honestly. It’s all-consuming, the constant stream of thought he lets loose.

“So good for me, baby, taking it so well — fuck, you’re so hot like this. Fuck, Osc, look at you. Jesus — fuck, fuck — so good, letting me have this — god.”

Oscar has to turn his head into the pillow, screw his face up like somehow it’ll stop him from hearing those words coming out of Lando’s mouth. It is easier when he doesn’t have to look at him, but it doesn’t last long. Not with Lando trailing a hand across his cheek, gripping his chin in an unyielding hold, forcing his head back round.

It isn’t news to Oscar that Lando is gorgeous. But it’s somehow worse like this — he can see the muscles and tissue of his body working in synchronicity with his movements, undulating beneath Oscar’s hands. The concentration on his face, lips swollen and bitten, red and unbearably kissable. Sweat dripping from his forehead, pooling in the hollow at the base of his throat.

That stupid gold chain, brushing against Oscar’s chest with every thrust, hot enough to brand.

Oscar feels desperate with it, mouth open and drooling by the time Lando gets his huge hand around him where he needs it most. Knows he’s been speaking — mumbling, mostly — but hardly knows what, broken pleas and half thoughts cut off into moans.

At least has the strength of mind to whine, “please, Lan.”

He’s already so wet, leaking so much, so over sensitive — it takes hardly anything at all for him to get there, spilling over Lando’s hand and his own stomach, a hot droplet landing on his chin. Lando fucks him through it, waits for him to stop trembling, hands caressing over his sides. Hips coming to a stop, and it looks — his expression is so conflicted, still trying to ensure it’s good for Oscar, not chasing his own orgasm even though he clearly needs it.

Oscar’s heart tugs.

“You can,” his voice is overused and hoarse. He swallows, fingers curling where Lando’s shoulder meets his neck. “Come on, I want it. Want you to make me yours.”

Jesus.

He’s delirious, must be to say something so awfully trite and wrong for the situation.

But Lando — Lando moans like he’s been hit, the tension leaving his body in one fell swoop. Then he’s shifting them so he’s more upright, hands coming to Oscar’s waist, pulling him down and in. Fucking in hard and fast, a pace that would be torturous if he kept it up for too long, Oscar already boneless, letting himself be puppeteered. Each press of Lando’s hips pushes him into where Oscar’s most sensitive, mouth lax and emitting fucked-out hitches of sound.

Lando comes with a groan of Oscar’s name, which shouldn’t feel as incredible as it does; dazedly, he finds himself wishing he could feel Lando inside of him, without the barrier of the condom. Immediately realises what a crazy thought that is and shoves it down, feeling slightly nauseous.

Winces when Lando pulls out, nothing but the sound of their laboured breaths filling the room until they’re settled into something more comfortable, more familiar.

An itching sensation creeps along Oscar’s back. His mouth is suddenly devoid of all liquid, cracking when he speaks. “Uh. Cheers. For — well. I’ll just — go?”

Doesn’t mean it to sound like a question, like he’s asking Lando if he should. Wants to kick himself, mortified. Wonders if he can get away with hiding his face in the pillow again. Probably not, if Lando’s reaction last time was anything to go by.

“What?” Lando’s frowning at him, sliding up onto his elbow. “Why would you go?”

Oscar shrugs lamely, too embarrassed to say anything.

“Mate,” Lando says, which Oscar doesn’t think is ideal when they’re both still lying with their dicks out. “This is, like — the complete frickin’ experience. We have to cuddle now.”

That sounds — nice and horrible in equal measure.

“Of course. How could I forget.” Oscar says daily, letting Lando tug him in; he winds up with his face on Lando’s chest, the comforting weight of his arm around his back.