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Lando doesn’t think much about the clothes Oscar had left of the bed, some still folded, a few thrown mindlessly on the sheets. He doesn’t think about the images Oscar posted of his new merch, because he’s already scrolling through them like some creep.
Lando doesn’t question why Oscar had not taken any pictures in that crop top, since the reason is more than obvious.
He swallows when he opens the website again, the page opening right where he stopped last time.
The same image of the crop top stares back at Lando, enticing and inviting, slowly making his mind spirral.
Lando abruptly stands. He climbs the few stairs leading to the floor where Oscar’s apartment is, not checking if Oscar is paying attention to him. Lando hopes he’s still sprawled a few steps away, dozing off.
He opens the door to the apartment, rushing inside Oscar’s room the moment he takes off his shoes. He haphazardly searches through the pile of clothes on the bed, messing up some of the folded shirts.
Lando stops when he catches sight of the crop top. His mind slows down to a faint buzzing noise, barely perceptible. It’s quite unfair how much he needs to see himself wearing this crop top.
Lando’s mind is blank when he yanks his shirt off. He throws it somewhere on the floor, replacing it with the crop top. He nearly rips a sleeve in his haste, already taking a few steps back from the bed.
The material is comfortable where it brushes over his skin, hugging his arms and circling his neck. It’s not really form-fitting around the chest, a size larger than he normally wears, meant to fit Oscar. It’s also not intended to be tight on the body, leaving enough space for hands to slither underneath.
Which– yeah. Lando ignores that part for his own sake.
He walks to the mirror placed on the wardrobe’s door, stopping in front of it.
The light color of the top contrasts with his tan, and the blue of the sleeves compliments it. The cherry on top is more like a blaring error in Lando’s mind: Oscar’s name right in the middle, on the front of the crop top.
His eyes keep flitting back to the inscribed letters, his face burning as he mentally keeps repeating Oscar’s name like a mantra.
He taps his finger above a letter, hesitatingly at first, before he starts tracing his fingers along the name.
It’s more possessive, how Lando’s large hand covers the name on his chest rather than the branding meant for the person wearing it.
Lando startles when the door opens. He doesn’t make to move his hand away, keeping it there when he turns around.
Oscar is frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. He’s looking at Lando’s hand, his eyes flitting to Lando’s waist, chest, face, then back to his hand again.
Lando can feel himself flushing the more Oscar stays silent, not doing anything other than staring. He moves his hand away from the crop top, pressing the back of his hand on a cheek. It burns, just like Oscar’s stare is setting his insides alight.
Oscar fully steps into the room, closing the door behind him. He lingers there for a moment before he slowly approaches Lando.
It’s a little unnerving, if you ask Lando. He’s never seen Oscar so out of it and yet so aware of everything, so lucid to the point it makes Lando question if he’s conscious enough for this.
Lando lowers his hand away from his face, mindlessly tugging the hem of the top. He’s twisting the material over his index finger when Oscar hums. He looks away from Oscar’s half-lidded eyes, from the droopiness that’s sometimes present in moments like this.
“Seems like someone is already enjoying the new merch,” Oscar says, drawling the words. Lando ignores the effect Oscar’s voice has on him, how his fingers twitch when he lets his hands hang next to his body.
Lando tilts his head to the side, biting the inside of his cheek. It’s bothersome, looking up at Oscar from up close.
“Wondered why you didn’t pose with it,” Lando trails off a little awkwardly. He bounces on his heels once, glancing away when Oscar raises a brow at him. “Figured you didn’t because it was short. So I wanted to see how short.”
Oscar hums again. “Is that all you wanted to see?”
Oscar’s hands settle on his waist. Lando shifts a little closer, enough that he could kiss him on the lips if he were to stand on his tippy toes.
Oscar’s hands travel upward, tracing the curve of his waist, the arch of his ribs. Oscar stops when the crop top starts bunching up above the back of his hands. He shivers when Oscar digs both thumbs in his skin, not too far away from his nipples.
Lando sighs when lips find his jaw, trailing kisses downward. It tickles when Oscar licks under his ear, blowing some cold air on the stripe.
“You know,” Oscar starts, “you look good with my name on you.” His voice is so close now, that Lando can hear its roughness, the drag of his accent. It sends another tremor through his body.
Lando grabs him by the nape, sliding his fingers through the short hair. He tugs lightly, pulling Oscar’s head away until he can look at him. It’s delighting, watch the slight crease of Oscar’s brow, the lines forming at the corners of his mouth, where he’s pursing his lips.
“Do I now?” Lando asks, pretending to be clueless.
“Lando,” Oscar says. It comes a little breathless, a little needy. He sounds affected already, even if Lando hasn’t done much.
He brings Oscar down, capturing his lips in a slow kiss. He’s thorough when he opens Oscar’s mouth, licking his bunny teeth before curling his tongue inside until Oscar moans.
“You’re easy to crack, for someone acting possessively.” He walks Oscar to the bed, stopping short from pushing him down right in the middle of his merch.
Oscar raises a brow. It’s stupidly arousing. “Am I now,” he mimics Lando’s response, his voice flat.
Lando ignores him, heading for the nightstand. “Move the pile to the chair, or something.” He takes the bottle of lube from the drawer, shutting the door with a finger. He stops with a knee on the bed, glancing at Oscar, who still hasn’t moved. “Unless you don’t want to do anything about it, of course.”
Oscar scrambles for the clothes, practically throwing them on the chair. “Jesus. ‘Course I do. Warn a guy next time, though.”
Lando chuckles, raising his hips enough to push his pants and underwear down. “Where’s the fun in that?” He throws them on the floor, not caring much about where they land. “Should have seen your face.”
Lando looks back at Oscar when the bed dips. He feels all the words dying on his tongue, his mouth dry all of a sudden. Oscar is back to staring, his pupils blown as he takes in his body--the nakedness, the crop top barely covering his hardened nipples.
Lando weakly raises the lube. “Do I–” Oscar snatches it from his hand, already popping the cap open. “Yeah– okay.”
He settles himself more comfortably, spreading his legs further. Oscar takes a pillow with his clean hand, holding for him to take. Lando places it under his hips, his body now angled perfectly for an easier access.
Oscar doesn’t tease. He doesn’t rub his finger over the rim until Lando is beginning in the sheets for more.
Oscar’s middle finger easily slips all the way to the second knuckle, his hole still a little loose from a few hours ago. Lando clenches around the finger when Oscar circles it experimentally before adding another one.
Lando exhales, resting his hands on his midriff. He keeps one where his abs flex on certain thrusts, trailing the other underneath the crop top. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he’s being when Oscar looks from his hole to his hands.
Lando bites his cheek when Oscar tilts his head, his eyes closing when Oscar angles his fingers and pushes.
“What was that for?” Lando asks through gritted teeth, blinking his eyes open.
Oscar hits his prostate again, adding a third finger after. “Just because,” he answers. Lando can spot the ghost of a smile making its way on Oscar’s face.
The stretch starts burning, Oscar spreading his fingers to make sure he’s all loose. He whines when Oscar pulls his fingers out, feeling embarrassingly empty.
Lando doesn’t look away from Oscar’s hands, watching the way he pushes his pants and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free. It’s arousing, how Oscar doesn’t care about the potential mess on his clothes. It’s also quite humiliating, exposing himself to someone that’s nearly fully clothed.
Oscar squirts more lube in his palm, pumping his cock a few times. Lando hears him grunt when he wraps his hand at the base, directing his cock to his hole.
It still manages to punch the air out of him when Oscar slides in. He doesn’t accommodate Lando to the length, doesn’t go back and forth until Lando can relax around his cock.
Lando loves it, the drag inside even after some good stretching, how Oscar doesn’t hesitate before hitting his prostate after the first thrust.
Lando scrambles for Oscar’s shoulders, pulling him closer. He moans when the new angle directs his cock deeper, digging his blunt nails in the material of Oscar’s t-shirt. He debates trailing his fingers over Oscar’s nape, teasing him until his thighs twitch and his composure cracks, a mess of goosebumps under his hands.
“You’re f-fucking me- ah- so good, Osc,” Lando moans, struggling to keep his sentence coherent.
Oscar whimpers in response, his hands settling just under Lando’s ribs. A shiver runs down Lando’s spine when Oscar slides his hands underneath the crop top, splaying them across his chest. There is a faint pressure on his ribs as Oscar pushes down, slowly fucking into him.
Lando fists a hand in Oscar’s hair, tugging until he hears a choked off moan. He searches Oscar’s face, finding him staring intently at the crop top.
He can’t believe how much it’s affecting Oscar, his name on Lando’s body, the little material covering Lando’s chest.
Oscar always goes quiet when it comes to speaking during sex, filling the silence with pretty sounds every time Lando clenches around his cock or trails his hands just right.
“D’you like it?” Lando asks, bringing a hand to his own cock. “Like your n-name on me?” He moans, squeezing the base before stroking upward.
“Fuck.” Oscar’s pace falters for a moment. Lando tugs his hair, spurring him on. “Yes. Yes, I do,” Oscar says, his eyes glazing over as he glances between Lando’s face and the crop top.
Oscar’s words go straight to his cock, precome dribbling down the length. He quickens his pace, bringing Oscar into a kiss. It can barely be considered one, just them breathing into each other’s mouths, every thrust making the curl of their tongues sloppier.
Lando squeezes his eyes shut, his back arching off the bed when heat starts pooling low in his belly. He tightens his hold on Oscar’s hair as a warning, loudly moaning when the orgasm hits.
He should probably worry about the pitch of his voice, be more mindful of Oscar’s neighbors.
All thoughts vanish when Oscar keeps thrusting, each sensation overstimulating beyond what Lando is used to. He clenches down, wrapping his arms around Oscar’s neck.
Oscar’s breath is warm where he’s exhaling on Lando’s chest, his grip rough when he slides his hands lower, to Lando’s hips.
Lando thinks he could come again, exactly like this. With Oscar fucking into him with abandon, whimpering in his ear like everything is too much to bear, his own body twitching from the sensory overload.
Oscar comes with a moan muffled in Lando’s neck, thrusting weakly as the aftershocks wash over him.
Lando loves the feeling of fullness, how Oscar lingers afterward, his touch more insistent than usual.
Oscar flops down on him, not caring that he’s practically squishing him, his cock softening inside. Lando can feel some of the come trickling down, his cheeks starting to burn again.
Oscar is rubbing a finger along the crop top’s hem, where material meets skin, his touch almost ticklish. Lando places his hand above Oscar’s, stilling his movements.
“I didn’t know that crop tops get you like this,” Lando says after Oscar’s breathing has slowed down. “Like. I’m surprised.”
Oscar groans. He hides further in the junction between Lando’s neck and shoulder, his hair tickling Lando’s chin. “You should have seen me when those Vogue photos dropped.” Lando’s heart does a little flip when Oscar giggles, jostling them a little.
Lando doesn’t care about the sweat pooling at his nape, the material that’s unnecessarily warming his body, the pillow still keeping his hips elevated.
He tugs the ends of Oscar’s hair, curling a strand around his finger. It’s exciting, getting a glimpse of Oscar’s mind, of what he likes to the point of desperation.
It sends a shiver down Lando’s spine, imagining himself wearing the crop top more often, just to see what Oscar will do.