Archive of Our Own

Oscar kind of knew what he was signing up for when he decided to go to school in America, but he doesn’t think anything could’ve prepared him for the email that said his roommate’s name was Logan Hunter Sargeant.

That was, like— fake. No one actually had a name that American, right? Someone was pulling Oscar’s leg, or whatever, because he was the kid from Australia who was apparently being banished to live in a tiny, less-than-ideal room with some paragon of patriotism. Maybe it was his fault for leaving the spot open to be taken by anyone rather than just finding a roommate himself—like another international student, or something—but all of that was too little too late. He was already assigned to live in a room with a guy named Logan fucking Sargeant.

The email included Logan’s contact information, but Oscar didn’t use it. He tried to make an excuse for himself about it by saying he was busy, but maybe he’s just in denial. Like not talking to the guy makes him less real, or something. Out of sight, out of mind.

Or something.

It’s not like Logan tried to contact him, either. Oscar’s sure he got a similar email with a similar disclosure of information, and he didn’t get a single text message from the cell number he’d saved to his contacts under Logan Sargeant before he moved in. When his family pestered him about if he’d talked to his roommate or not, Oscar would just shrug it off.

When move-in day finally comes, Oscar finds himself trying not to melt in the oppressive Florida heat. It surrounds him every time he goes outside, the thick, humid August, and every time he gets out of his parents’ car, he wonders if this entire thing was a massive mistake. It’s not like it’s all that cold where he’s from, but this— is Florida. Florida. Why the hell did he choose to go to school in Florida?

Oscar’s parents tell him to go up to his dorm by himself first, so he takes exactly one box with him—the smallest one, at that—and barely fumbles with his keycard at the door, checking placards by dorm room doors until he finds the one he chose. Paper door decorations in the shape of boats are taped to the door, the names Oscar and Logan written on them in teacher-fake-neat handwriting. Oscar reaches for the doorknob without thinking to pull the key out from the envelope he got it in first, and to his surprise, the door just opens in front of him.

The left half of the room is still bare-bones: thin, dark mattress, empty desk, blank walls. The other half of the room is distinctly decorated, with an aggressive amount of color and big, gaudy sports posters up by the half-lofted bed, and there’s someone sitting at the desk who Oscar first just registers as blond, then registers as shirtless.

The topless guy—Logan, presumably, unless Oscar has been knocked out—turns to look over his shoulder, flashing Oscar a stupid, lopsided grin. “Hey, roomie,” he says, because he’s the fucking worst, apparently, accent just as American as his sharp features. There’s a fan on his desk that’s blowing on his face, and it messes with his hair a bit. Oscar feels hotter under his collar now than he did outside.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out with a bit more bite than he intended. He comes in to throw his box on the desk that’s left for him, letting it fall on top of the flyer he doesn’t really want to look at right now; it has the school’s logo all big on it, and he thinks it’s a schedule for some freshman shit he doesn’t want to deal with. He can feel Logan’s eyes on him, and when he turns to meet his gaze, he’s once again startled by the amount of skin he finds on display.

Yes, it’s hot out, but Oscar doesn’t think that warrants— whatever the hell this is. Logan and his stupid shorts—little and fluorescent and riding up on his thighs when he sinks further down in the chair—and his stupid abs and his stupid—

Oscar is staring.

Logan looks really smug about it, too, the fucking prick. He’s doing one of those open-mouthed half-smirks that Oscar decides should be illegal, and he stretches his arms up over his head and leans the chair back until it starts tipping, which should probably also be illegal while they’re at it. Oscar runs a hand over the back of his neck and is frustrated to find it comes back sweaty. He looks at the door—still open—then at Logan’s side of the room, where there’s an actual, honest-to-god, American fucking flag hung up on the wall.

“I didn’t think people actually did that,” Oscar says without thinking, and he’s talking to the flag, stars and stripes and whatever the fuck. Logan makes a noise from his chair. It slams back onto the carpeted floor from where he’d been tipping it, and Oscar tries not to wince.

“Did what?” he asks, and Oscar realizes he doesn’t want to answer that question to this guy. He looks like he might start on a whole thing about national pride, or something humiliating like that. Then Oscar would probably have to punch him. And email their RA begging for a new roommate. Thank god, Oscar never really gets the chance to do anything but squeak in the back of his throat, because Logan swiftly moves on to asking, “And where are you from? You’ve got an accent.”

You don’t say. “Melbourne,” Oscar says quickly. He makes himself look back at Logan, who has decided he needs the space between his knees to be as wide as humanly possible. Not that Oscar is looking, or anything. “And you have an accent.”

Logan laughs, a sharp, genuine thing. “Fair play,” he says. He reaches to fiddle with something on his desk. Nodding towards the box on top of Oscar’s, he asks, “Need help carrying your shit upstairs?”

Oscar looks at Logan, then at the box again, then at the window. He thinks about his parents still waiting in the parking lot, sitting in the air conditioned car. He thinks about Logan’s stupid biceps, and his stupid abs, and his stupid everything else. He feels his face heat up.

“I should be alright,” he says, scrubbing a hand across the back of his neck again. Still sweaty. “I’ve got my parents here to help me. Which—” he grimaces just thinking about saying it, “could you maybe put on a shirt before they come up here?”

Logan laughs again, but he stands up. Whatever he was fiddling with gets thrown into some plastic cup at the corner of his desk. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, teasing, and turns to rifle through his closet. Oscar definitely doesn’t let himself look a little longer before he leaves to go back outside.

That would be weird.

——

“How’s your roommate?” Oscar’s mum asks two days after move-in, when she’s back home, and Oscar is sitting outside on a park bench near his residence hall listening to the Florida night’s loud, loud bugs.

He screws his lips to the side, rucking forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “American,” he answers, a bit deadpan.

His mum laughs. “You are in America, Oscar,” she says, and it’s in that sing-songy, maternal tone, the one that’s mostly amused but also slightly frustrated. Like Oscar is being stupid, or acting mad about something obvious.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. The air is still so oppressively hot so long after the sun sets, and he thinks that’s the actual worst part of this. He’s been sweating through his clothes all day.

“I know that,” he says. “It’s not like I didn’t know he was going to be American. I just didn’t know he was going to be— American.” Oscar makes a broad, sweeping gesture through the air with the hand not holding his phone. He knows his mum can’t see it, but he does it anyway.

She laughs again, but it’s a bit more confused-sounding. “Do you get along at least?”

Oscar thinks about it for a minute. They don’t not get along, that’s for sure. They’ve had a few conversations here and there, but for the most part, they’ve just been going to all their required freshman events and splitting off into their respective major groups. Oscar learned from the obligatory we-just-moved-in conversation after his parents left that Logan is majoring in Business Administration (because of course, he is), and Oscar’s a Mechanical Engineering major, so they don’t really cross paths on that front.

He’s also learned that Logan apparently hates wearing shirts.

While he did at least have the decency to put one on when Oscar asked him to, he took it back off the moment Oscar’s parents left for good. Then he sat there in his stupid tiny shorts and fucked around on his phone while Oscar set up his side of the room, only opening his mouth to make judgment calls about Oscar’s posters.

“You didn’t bring the Australian flag?” he had asked, and he was half-joking, half-serious, but his eyes were glinting with entirely too much mirth for Oscar’s taste, who scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“At least it would make sense if I had my flag up,” he’d answered—again, without thinking—jamming his knuckles into the corner of one of his posters to make it stick. He couldn’t see Logan’s face anymore, but based on the silence, he assumed it was a bit off-kilter. “Like, what, are you going to sing the National Anthem to that thing right when you wake up?”

Logan had laughed at that, but Oscar still didn’t turn to look at him. He sucked his lips between his teeth and wondered if that was too far for someone he had barely met.

On the bench, Oscar realizes he’s been quiet for a bit too long. “He’s alright,” is what he says, because he’s not sure what he really thinks yet.

——

On the first day of classes, Logan gets up for his 8 am and wakes Oscar in the process. He doesn’t really blame him—it’s hard to be quiet when the beds squeak the way they do, and also, proximity—but it also means that when Oscar cracks his eyes open, he sees Logan standing in the space between their beds wearing nothing but his boxers, and suddenly, their dorm is really, really hot. The fan on the windowsill behind Oscar’s bed might as well be blowing air from the center-point of a volcano.

It’s not really anything he hasn’t seen before, but something about the situation makes it feel— intimate. Logan doesn’t know Oscar can see him. He’s just standing there, checking something on his phone, the bright white light of it piercing through the dark morning to illuminate his face. Oscar shuts his eyes quickly, and pretends he’s still asleep.

Later, when Oscar is sitting in his first class of the day—a 9:30, to which Logan had called him a lucky bastard—he realizes he’s still thinking about it. Twirling a pencil around the edges of his knuckles, syllabus unread but in front of him, he’s thinking about the silhouette of Logan’s body in the early morning sunlight, and he thinks he wants to touch him, and he thinks that’s the worst thought he’s ever had. There’s definitely more than one reason why he shouldn’t be thinking about Logan that way. Maybe he should make a list.

One: Logan is Oscar’s roommate.
Two: Logan is— well, Logan.
Three: Logan is Oscar’s roommate.

Oscar grimaces. He draws a big X on the top right corner of his syllabus, like that actually means something.

——

“Mate, have you seen my phone?” Oscar asks, voice a bit weird, because he’s starting to reach that point of losing something where it feels like he’s never going to find it. He’s kneeling on his bed with the sheets all bunched down at the foot, but there’s nothing. He knows it must be in the room somewhere.

From where Logan is lounging in his own bed—wearing entirely not enough clothes, of course, which Oscar is inclined to blame for even losing anything in the first place—he just laughs. “Mate,” he mimics, putting on a horrific faux-Australian accent. He doesn’t even look up from his phone.

Oscar huffs. “I sound nothing like that.”

In his periphery, he sees Logan shrug. “Do you want me to call it?”

As he checks underneath his pillow for the nineteenth time, Oscar mutters, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

His phone ends up being under his bed. Oscar is standing in the close-middle of the room trying to remember when he might’ve kicked it by accident when Logan appears at his shoulder. “You have me in your contacts under my first and last name?”

Oscar jumps a bit at how close his voice is, muttering a “Jesus” under his breath without much thought. Logan doesn’t acknowledge it, still looking at Oscar’s phone, where it does, in fact, say he has a missed call from Logan Sargeant.

“That’s how I have everyone in my phone,” Oscar says, admittedly a bit confused. He’s not sure why it matters. “What am I in yours, then?”

Logan’s quiet for a minute, then he shows Oscar his screen, pulled up on his contact. The photo is some stock image of a koala that kind of makes Oscar want to punch him, and his name is oscar pastry, no caps, with the Australian flag emoji next to it. Actually—

“Mate, that’s the flag for New Zealand.”

“Shit.”

Oscar just laughs.

——

Later, when he feels less flustered about the whole thing, Oscar changes Logan’s contact name to logan sarge 🇺🇸

——

Logan comes back into the dorm and dumps his shower caddy on the floor by his desk. The commotion is enough to draw Oscar’s attention immediately, which he also regrets immediately, because apparently, some time between calculus and scrolling Twitter in avoidance Oscar had forgotten who he was roommates with.

Logan is wearing his stupid shorts and nothing else, plain white towel on his shoulders, stray drops of water running down the hard lines of his chest and stomach and from the slick of his hair he pushes off his forehead, squinting at something on his phone.

Oscar’s mouth goes dry. He kind of wants to lick the overspill out from the dips in Logan’s abdomen, and that’s a horrible thought.

He can’t believe Logan just walks down the hall like that.

Actually, maybe he can.

“Yo,” Logan says, all casual-like, just trying to get Oscar’s attention—like he doesn’t already have it.

From his seat, Oscar opens his eyes real big and hums a bit, trying to quiet the frustrating warmth in his cheeks. Maybe he could pretend to be badly sunburned, push his fingertips down into the heat of it and watch the spots come back white.

Logan is looking at Oscar, and his face is so blank that Oscar might think he doesn’t have a clue what he looks like right now. It makes him want to walk across the room and punch his stupid face. All his muscles are tense, rigid. He might as well be nailed to the seat.

“Have you thought about rushing?”

“Rushing?” Oscar sputters, not quite able to keep the biting tone behind him. “Like— a frat?”

Logan’s eyes dart away from Oscar for a moment, then they land back. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Oscar realizes a second too late that he hasn’t been doing a very good job of maintaining eye contact.

“No,” Oscar answers, short. He laughs a bit, all under his breath, head shaking. “It doesn’t really sound like my thing.” Against his better judgment, Oscar crosses his arms, leaning back a bit in his chair. He lets himself scan Logan’s body in a grossly obvious way, and he feels a bit remorseful by the time he gets back up to his throat. “But it definitely looks like your thing.”

Logan frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing bad,” Oscar says quickly. He shrugs his shoulders a bit, trying to parse the lopsided expression on Logan’s face. He gets a bit distracted when a slow drop of water slips down the angle of his nose. “You’re just— a business major,” Oscar settles. He nods towards Logan and his half of the room, like that says something more than non-specific. “And you have the American flag taped to your wall.”

He barely catches Logan’s flush before he turns, but it runs down to the dips of his collar bones. It’s frustrating, is what it is, because now Oscar wants to touch him and tease him, and he wants to see if his heart rate is higher than it was ten seconds ago, if his skin feels warmer, if it’s just because of the steam. He’s crossed his arms over his stupid broad chest, and when his gaze is averted, Oscar lets himself stare.

“Okay, man, shut the hell up,” Logan huffs, a bit belated. He turns back to direct his frown at Oscar, whose eyes snap back up to his face in an instant.

“I’m just saying!” Oscar lifts his hands up in the air, mock-defense. When he gestures at Logan again, he actually looks down at himself, like the answers are on the floor, where he’s dripping water between his feet. “You’re kind of a walking stereotype.”

Logan’s expression is incredulous when he looks back up. “A walking stereotype?”

And it’s— maybe it’s a little harder to explain than Oscar initially thought. For a second, he’s back in move-in day again, kneeling on his bed wondering if he said too much to someone he barely knows. He likes to think that he and Logan are closer, now, that he can get away with a little bit more; Logan doesn’t really seem to care, though. He acts more confused than he does offended.

“Mate,” Oscar deadpans. “Your name is Logan Sargeant. I’m pretty sure you were invented for the specific purpose of torturing international students.”

Logan raises both eyebrows. Smoothing a thumb along the line of his waistband, he asks, “You feel tortured by me?”

It’s more teasing than it is offended. Absently, Oscar wonders if it’s even within Logan’s capacity to have shame, or if it’s always buried behind the front of something else. His expression is bright with mirth, like torturing Oscar is something he’s proud of, something he wants—

And suddenly, Oscar doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction, so he just narrows his eyes and pinches two fingers close to his chest. “Little bit.”

The huff Logan answers with is halfway to laughing, and he shakes his head with it. Setting his phone down on his desk with a clatter, he mutters, “Whatever, man.” When he stretches his arms up over his head, Oscar has to look away. “I still think I’m gonna rush.”

“Hey, I never said you shouldn’t,” Oscar says, hunching back over his desk. He draws a square on the edge of his notebook page and starts coloring it in, pushing the tip of his pencil down so hard it dents the page, shreds of graphite skittering out beneath his fingers. “I’m just saying I want no part in it.”

Logan scoffs. “Come on, man.” He’s jutting his hip into the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his stupid-dewy chest. His face is still doing that thing, half-smirking, and Oscar thinks he has never wanted to die as much as he does in this moment. “What about the American college experience?”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “I think you are enough of an American college experience by yourself, Lo, but thanks for the thought.”

He doesn’t really think about what he said until Logan’s face gets all bright, over-pleased, grin tugging hard on the corner of his parted mouth. Oscar frowns at him for a moment, sinking back in his chair. He tries to remember what exactly he said. He pushes the tip-end of his pencil into the flesh below his bicep when he crosses his arms, wondering if he can make it leave a mark beyond the graphite.

“I’m gonna choose to ignore all of what you just said because you called me Lo,” Logan says, and he sounds— awe-struck, almost, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

Oscar blinks. “Huh?”

“Lo,” Logan repeats, putting on an accent that’s not his, but not quite Oscar’s, either. He shakes his head, grin still larger than life. “You’re so cute, Oscar.”

Never mind. Oscar has never wanted to die as much as he does in this moment.

——

Oscar has made exactly one friend that’s not his roommate: Lando Norris, some British kid in his major who actually lives in the hall with most of the international students, which Oscar only didn’t live in because it’s mostly triples. Lando’s in one—somehow, both of his roommates are also British, and Lando keeps telling Oscar about how he thinks they’re fucking. Oscar is too caught up on the fact that the university has enough British students to fill one entire triple dorm to pay any mind to anything else Lando has to say about either of them.

“You should let me set you up with someone,” Lando says out of nowhere, in the middle of class, of all places, when they’re supposed to be discussing their homework with each other. Definitely not— whatever this is.

Oscar glowers at him. “And why would I let you do that?”

“You seem lonely,” Lando says, shrugging. He keeps pushing his tongue into the inside of his cheek, distending the flesh around his muscle. When Oscar looks at his laptop screen, he realizes he didn’t even do the homework. “There’s a really hot German on my floor.”

Oscar huffs. “Is it, like, written in the by-laws of being an international student that I’m only allowed to fuck other international students?”

Lando coughs. “I didn’t say anything about fucking, you muppet,” he says, a grin breaking out across his face, “but if that’s what you want to do.” He looks smug about it. Oscar wants to hit him, so he knocks Lando’s arm with his elbow.

“You said you wanted to set me up then told me you know a hot guy,” Oscar counters, because really, in his opinion, that only implies one thing. If he was trying to find Oscar a boyfriend, he would’ve said something about, like, his personality. Or maybe Lando is just shallow. He hasn’t known him very long yet. “Also, you didn’t answer my question.”

Lando scoffs, probably because he thinks it was a stupid question. “I don’t think there are by-laws, I just thought Americans weren’t your type.”

Oscar casts him a side-long glance, tapping a finger against his space bar without actually hitting it. “You don’t know that,” he mumbles.

Lando’s expression perks up. “Oh?” Oscar looks back at his laptop like it’ll hide the flush he feels creeping across his cheeks, hot and unnecessary. He rolls his lips between his teeth. “Oh.”

Despite the aforementioned not knowing him for very long, Oscar can see Lando’s expression without actually looking at him. It’s a sudden realization, washing across his soft features with too much confidence, the kind that makes Oscar want to hate him. Maybe he does hate him. Maybe he actually hated him the whole time.

“It’s your roommate, isn’t it?”

Yeah. He definitely hates him.

“What?” It comes out too loud, and Oscar stumbles over it a bit. He sinks down a bit further in his seat, feet scraping against the floor. “No,” he adds, mumbling. It’s entirely unconvincing.

Lando fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Oscar—”

“—shut up—”

“—do you want to fuck your roommate?”

Well that’s— Oscar hasn’t actually thought about it before. But only because he’s been trying not to, so fuck salvaging his dignity, whatever’s left of it. The back of his neck goes hot where Lando’s words sit against it, sticking down into the sweat along his hairline.

“Who said I want to fuck him?” Oscar hisses, quiet like it will make it more of a secret. The second the words have left his mouth, he wishes they hadn’t.

Lando looks smug. Frustratingly, stupidly, smug. He leans in too-close to his ear. “You want him to fuck you?”

And that’s—

It’s—

A lot, for one.

But also, probably true. Definitely more in line with all the stupid thoughts Oscar has been trying to suppress.

Except now he’s thinking about it. About Logan, and being underneath him, and his mouth, and a lot of other unsavory things that have no place being in his head during class. He wants to be mad about it, but he’s too flustered to find any of the anger still intact inside of him. He stares holes into the front of his laptop screen, the document that’s open and not at all being discussed, something like molten lava spreading out in the space beneath his eyes, filling every available corner.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, voice too strained for what it’s worth. “Shut up. We’re in class.”

Lando laughs, leaning back to sit properly in his seat. “And you want to get shagged by a guy called Logan Sargeant.”

Well.

——

After class that day, Oscar comes home to an empty dorm. He locks the door and assumes he has approximately twenty minutes before Logan comes back—an estimate that is built on genuinely nothing, because Logan is usually already there when he gets back—and uses his assumed twenty minute window to shove his face into his pillow and jerk off furiously.

He doesn’t think about Logan. He doesn’t think about Logan. He doesn’t think about Logan.

He thinks about Logan.

It’s kind of an unsatisfying moment, because he still has all of his clothes on in case Logan comes back, listening back for the clicking sound of the door. And he comes to the thought of Logan walking in on him and pinning him to the bed, kissing him everywhere, touching him. Then he sits there with a sticky hand down his pants, neck craned awkwardly to hook his chin over his pillow, stomach to the mattress. The gross-hot feeling of guilt has started to pool in his gut, too little too late.

He’s just thinking he needs to get up and wash his hands when the door opens.

Oscar scrambles into a more acceptable position: sitting up on the bed, back in the corner of the wall, staring at the door with wild eyes. He looks horrifically suspicious. And Logan is doing nothing to help his case, because he comes in the door already topless and sweating, clearly just back from the gym, and he’s raising both his eyebrows when he pulls a headphone out.

“You good?” he asks.

Oscar has to swallow the last of his pride. “Yup.”

Good aside from the sticky sensation of shame still creeping down his neck. Good aside from the come-stained hand he’s frantically hidden behind his back. Good aside from the similarly uncomfortable stain he can feel in his boxers.

Logan looks at him like he doesn’t believe him. “Whatever you say, man,” he says, though he sounds unconvinced. He swings his gym bag into his desk chair, taking out his other headphone. Oscar stares at his chest. And his abs. And his arms. And his—

He gets off the bed quickly, still refusing to let Logan see his hand. Shoving his feet back into his slip-ons is an awkward thing to do standing up and without his hands at all, but he’s not about to touch them, or go to the community bathroom in his socks, so he deals with it. Behind him, he hears Logan fumbling with something.

“Dude, you’re acting so weird,” he says, laughing through it. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were jerking off before I came in.”

Oscar trips over himself. He almost hits his head on the wall.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar closes his eyes tight. His entire body is burning hot, and it’s not just shame anymore, and it’s— he might as well not be breathing. “Logan.”

“You were, weren’t you?”

“No.”

Logan’s quick to the reassurances. “Hey, no judgment, man, we all gotta do it.”

It’s probably more frustrating that he sounds earnest. Oscar wants to die, and it’s only partly because he was thinking about his roommate while he was jerking off, and he wonders what Logan would do if he knew that, and he decides he doesn’t want to know.

“You’re the worst,” he says quickly, face burning. He doesn’t look at Logan. “This never happened. Shut up.”

The whole way down the hall, Oscar hears Logan’s laughter in his ears.

——

Three days later, Lando almost falls over trying to sit down next to Oscar. “Have you seen this?” he says, sounding urgent, shoving his phone in Oscar’s face in such a hurried manner it prevents him from actually seeing the screen.

Oscar grabs at Lando’s wrist. “Calm down,” he mutters, and Lando finally stabilizes. He sets his phone down on the desk and pushes it in Oscar’s direction, where a video is playing off someone’s Snapchat story, clearly taken at a party: bright lights, horribly dark, somehow exactly what Oscar imagined college parties looking like and also nothing at all.

He’s never actually been to one, so it’s all in expectation.

“What am I looking at?” Oscar asks, but the second the question leaves his mouth, he figures out the answer for himself.

It’s Logan. At a party. Making out with a guy.

“Jesus.” He looks at Lando, who’s making a complicated expression. Oscar can’t figure out what he’s feeling, either. He feels a mess of hectic-hot, embarrassed, and almost— guilty? His mouth is dry, and it’s hard to swallow. “Where did you— Who took this?”

Against his better judgment, Oscar picks up Lando’s phone. He looks at the video a bit closer, making out Logan’s shape. He’s wearing a shirt for once, but it’s unbuttoned—the fucking prick—and the guy he’s with is shorter than him, blond-blond, feeling all over Logan’s exposed chest and practically trying to climb him. Oscar thinks he’s feeling jealous, tongue pushing hard up into the roof of his mouth, making it hurt, but he’s flustered on top of it. Guilty. It’s probably the worst combination of reactions he could be having.

Maybe Logan shouldn’t be so hot and half-naked and— Logan. He looks stupid-confident even on video. Oscar realizes he’s imagining it in detail, now, being in the other guy’s place, being that close to Logan. It turns something unsavory over itself inside of him, toiling deep in his gut.

“One of the brothers,” Lando answers. He doesn’t move to take his phone back. In Oscar’s hand, the video replays. “Mate, you look— Are you okay?”

Oscar practically throws Lando’s phone back at him. It clatters against the desk, loud and unapologetic. “Shut up.” He scrubs a hand over his burning-hot face, like pressing down hard enough will make it all bleed out to the floor. “Why did you show me that?” He makes a noise, halfway between a groan and a whimper, burying his face in his palms. His elbows hit the edge of his keyboard, and it feels louder than it is coming back to him.

“Are you jealous?” Lando asks. Oscar makes another noise. “Mad? Upset? Guilty? Horny?”

“I hate you so much,” Oscar complains, muffling it into his hands. “And I hate him. I hate parties. I hate college. I’m moving back to Australia.”

Lando laughs, a loud, squeaky thing that probably draws the attention of half the class. Oscar sinks backwards in his seat, feet sliding across the floor, and wishes the earth would open up underneath him and swallow his body whole.

——

When Oscar comes back to the dorm after class, Logan is already there. He’s sitting topless and unbothered at his desk, seemingly oblivious to Oscar’s still-frazzled state when he comes stumbling in, dropping his bag on the floor with a too-loud sound. Logan perks up a bit at it, but before he can say anything, Oscar spits out: “Lando showed me something.”

He already wishes he hadn't said anything. He didn’t even mean to, because what is he even supposed to say about it to Logan: that it made him jealous? Curious? Desperate? Lando’s voice comes back to him, saying, horny?

Oscar winces at himself. His face screws up into a tight thing, the back of his neck hot and bothered.

Logan frowns. “Lando?” he parrots, setting his phone face-down on the desk. “Isn’t he the British kid?”

“Yeah,” Oscar answers automatically. That’s not important, he doesn’t add. “He had—” And he stops short. He dares to look at Logan, who is watching him intently, interest piqued. Outside of that, his expression is unreadable. “It was this video. Of you. At a party.”

That pulls something across Logan’s face. A slow, open-mouthed smirk, eyebrows lifting carefully. He leans his chair back until it starts tipping, slinging an arm up over the back of it in a way that makes his body into this smooth, tantalizing line, and god, if Oscar wanted him before, it’s surely going to kill him now.

“The one of me and Liam?” Logan says, voice butter-smooth, cocky. He pushes his thumb into the space beneath his bottom lip, and Oscar tracks the movement, the slow cave of his softer flesh.

“Liam?” he repeats, finding his voice a bit too high in his throat.

Logan chuckles. “The pretty blond,” he says, gesturing vaguely with one hand—the way you would to say someone is short. Pretty is what Oscar catches on, though, the way that word fits in Logan’s mouth.

“Sure,” he says, because it doesn’t really matter. “It— You know it’s, like, out there, right?”

Maybe that’s— an excuse, or something, for why he brought it up to begin with. Because Oscar definitely isn’t clinging onto the existence of that video for any reason other than concern, and it’s definitely not stuck on the backside of his eyelids, waiting for him every time he shuts his eyes, and it definitely isn’t making him feel hotter than the Florida summer underneath his clothes, well-embarrassed blush flooding all the way down from his cheeks to the dips of his collarbones.

Logan just laughs again, all arrogant-like. “I mean, yeah, that was the point.”

Oscar can’t help but gawk at him. “It was?”

“Yeah.” Logan shrugs. “Liam’s cute, but we were playing it up for the camera. He’s not really my type.”

Oscar blinks. Logan grabs his phone off the desk to start fiddling with it, not turning it on, just turning it over in his hands in slow, methodical loops. The screen flickers between his palms, lock screen a picture of some beach.

Oscar finds that he wants to ask about a million questions. Namely, why? He half-wonders if it was a dare, or something, or if they were both just really drunk. He thinks of how the other guy—Liam, apparently—was touching Logan then, and how easily their mouths moved against each other, how much Oscar wants that. He can’t tell if he’s feeling more or less ashamed about it than he was before.

In the end, he finds himself asking, “Then what is your type?”

A sick part of Oscar still expects Logan to say girls. What he doesn’t expect is the more-than-intentional look Logan is casting over Oscar’s shoulder, gaze scanning intentionally down the chipped-paint stone of the dorm walls.

“I like guys who…” and he pauses, eyes big and curious, “have Daniel Ricciardo posters on their wall.” He butchers the name: Rick-ee-are-do. It’s on pure instinct that Oscar corrects him:

“Daniel Ricciardo.”

Then he realizes what Logan just did.

“Yeah, whatever,” Logan says, waving a dismissive hand through the air. Oscar can’t seem to shut his mouth. “You know that’s not the point. Who even is that guy, anyway?”

Oscar is too flustered to run on anything but autopilot. His insides are hot, molten, brain full of the same unkempt thoughts rolling over themselves: Logan is saying I’m his type, Logan is saying I’m his type, Logan is—

He kind of wants to scream.

“He’s an F1 driver,” Oscar answers automatically. His voice comes out a bit breathless, half-lost. “From Australia, obviously.”

Logan just narrows his eyes. “F1?”

“Oh my god, you’re an idiot,” Oscar huffs, almost whining, and buries his burning-hot face in his hands. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” he says, only letting himself admit it where it’s muffled.

Logan laughs, loud and unapologetic. “Yeah? You flatter me.”

Oscar parts his fingers just enough to see where Logan is sitting, chair turned to face Oscar properly, knees spread wide and inviting. He’s lolled his head to the side, grinning up at Oscar from across the room. With the twitch of two fingers, he beckons Oscar closer.

“C’mere, pretty.”

And— oh.

Oscar feels his face heat up beneath his hands.

Still, he obliges Logan’s request, closing some of the distance between them. He stops just in front of Logan’s chair, standing between his parted knees, leaving just enough space between them to at least try catching his breath. But it’s only harder to find his footing when he’s not all the way across the room, so close that Logan has to really look up at him, body slouched down in that dorm-issued desk chair he might as well be molded to, smirk half-open.

He sets one hand on Oscar’s waist. “This okay?” he asks.

Oscar swallows. “More than,” he answers, voice thick. “You— I don’t know what to say to you. You’ve been driving me crazy.”

Logan lifts his brows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Come here, then.”

And before Oscar can move an inch, Logan pulls him down into his lap, big hands on his waist, thumbs slipping up under the hem of his t-shirt to smooth down the small of his back. A startled little gasp leaves Oscar’s lungs, arms coming up to circle Logan’s bare shoulders, the heat of his skin so present and alive it almost makes him dizzy. He didn’t think he’d get this close to Logan, close enough to see the blemishes on his skin, the patchy stubble on his chin.

Logan tilts his head to the side, lips parting to ask, “You gonna let me kiss you, pretty thing?”

Oscar huffs, the right kind of frustrated. “Keep calling me that and I’ll die.”

Logan just grins, leaning up to catch Oscar’s mouth with his own.

The kiss is dizzying, all-consuming. Oscar melts into Logan’s front immediately, lips parting to accommodate his advances. He cups a hand around the back of Logan’s neck, pulls him up further, lips mashing into teeth. It’s almost frustrating, how much Oscar wants, how much he needs, how much he knows he would do if it meant staying in this position. Logan smooths his hands across the skin of his back, rucking his shirt up on his thumbs to smooth his palms down the curve of Oscar’s ribs, and he shivers at the contact. He makes a noise into Logan’s mouth, who breaks away, pressing a half-formed kiss to the corner of Oscar’s mouth.

His mouth slips down the side of Oscar’s face, underneath his jaw to his throat, where he scrapes his teeth gently against the untouched skin there. Oscar shudders between his hands again, a breathless noise finding a way into the air. He tips his head back just enough to coax Logan in a bit closer, the tip of his nose nestled firmly near his Adam’s apple.

“Why’d you even kiss that other guy?” Oscar can’t keep himself from asking. There’s an implication, somewhere—when it was me you wanted the whole time—but Oscar can’t bring himself to say it; doesn’t think the cocky-leaning words would fit in his mouth right.

Logan chuckles softly into his skin. “Liam thought it would be funny,” he says, words imbuing themselves into the thick of Oscar’s veins. “And I was hoping you’d see it.”

Oscar makes a strange noise in the back of his throat at that, slipping his fingers into the shorter part of Logan’s hair and pulling. He thinks he means it as a punishment for something, though he’s not sure exactly what. “What, were you trying to make me jealous?” he asks, half-joking, all-trembling.

Logan pulls back to meet his eyes again, his full of mirth, quirked lips slick. “Did it work?”

Oscar huffs. He feels his face flame up under the attention, under the truth of it, that maybe—just maybe—it had worked. He frowns, knowing it’ll look more like a pout given his position, but he still turns his lips down with it. “Maybe a little.”

“Yeah?” Logan says nonsensically. Oscar slides a ginger hand down his front, feeling at his bare chest and stomach. Logan grins a bit, leaning up to feather kisses out along Oscar’s jaw. “What d’you want me to do, then?” He kisses him a bit firmer, with a bit more assurance, hands sinking barely-lower than Oscar’s waist. “Anything you want, pretty, to make up for being such a tease.”

Oscar’s head feels heavy with it, the entire multitude of possibilities, of things he could say, could ask for. He lets his head fall into Logan’s shoulder, burying it into the junction between his neck and collarbone, where he smells like sandalwood and soap. Making a wet patch of Logan’s skin, Oscar confesses, “Want you to fuck me.”

Logan groans, the sound half-gone into the side of Oscar’s neck. “Fuck, baby,” he mutters, almost breathless. He squeezes Oscar’s ass once, firm, touch digging methodically into the sturdy material of Oscar’s shorts. “Your bed or mine?”

Turning his head a bit to survey the room, Oscar considers both options for exactly three seconds before saying, “Yours,” and Logan stands with Oscar still in his arms, carrying him the short distance to the edge of his bed, where he has to lean up a bit to get Oscar on the half-lofted mattress. He doesn’t waste any time climbing onto the bed after Oscar, straddling his hips and grinning down at him with a hectic blush on his face.

Everything surrounding Oscar is Logan, Logan, Logan, and that’s why he wanted to be in Logan’s bed, so he could turn his head to press against the pillow while Logan kisses his neck, finding the deep-imbued scent of his shampoo where it’s worked incessantly into the pillowcase. He only moves when Logan holds his chin to guide their mouths back together, kissing him with the same dizzying urgency as before. It’s only emphasized by their position, with Logan’s body blanketing Oscar’s, pressing him down into the stiff mattress and the foam layer on top of it.

His hands slip up under Oscar’s shirt, creeping up far enough to roll his thumbs over his nipples. Oscar kicks against the bed, a quiet, helpless noise escaping his throat, spilling into Logan’s mouth. He feels Logan smirk against him, teeth coming to nip at his bottom lip, and he touches him again—Oscar makes a similarly embarrassing noise. He feels the cool air of the room against his middle, where his shirt is rucked up to his ribs, muscles contracting with his heaving breath.

“So responsive,” Logan mutters, teething at Oscar’s lower lip again. He pushes at the hem of Oscar’s t-shirt, bunching it up under his armpits. “Can I take this off, pretty thing?”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes, and he sits up to accommodate the motion, shirt crumpling to the floor between their beds while he thinks to himself, I might just do anything you asked me to, if you keep talking to me like that.

He falls back against the bed with a hollow sound, and Logan is kissing down his front: the slope of his throat, the line of his sternum, his stomach where it shivers under the attention. Oscar reaches for one of Logan’s shoulders just for something to grasp onto, uneven fingers digging into the firm muscle there, trying to leave a mark. His nails are untrimmed, cutting into Logan’s body, but he doesn’t shake it off, leaving a wet kiss just at the crux of Oscar’s waistband where it cuts across his navel, looking up at Oscar through his eyelashes with a sharp, almost crucifying stare, fierce with arrogance and everything Oscar doesn’t know what to do with.

Logan bypasses Oscar’s swelling erection entirely, hooking one leg up over his shoulder and kissing the inside of Oscar’s knee, the lower part of his thigh, where his shorts don’t cover. When Logan sits up like this, Oscar can see all of him, from the tense display of his bare chest to the waistband of his boxer-briefs above his gym shorts to the hard, tantalizing outline of his cock, which Oscar is reaching for before he really thinks about it, hooking two fingers into the further elastic and tugging Logan towards him. Logan inches forward a bit, bending Oscar’s leg hooked over his shoulder back a little further, closer to his chest.

Logan grips his knee a little tighter and grins. “Eager, are you, baby?” he teases, and Oscar curls his fingers a little deeper underneath the elastic, knuckles dragging firmly against the warmth of Logan’s skin.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but it’s weak when he sounds so desperate. He wants to touch, be touched, wants a lot— too much, maybe, when he really thinks about it. His head is spinning a bit.

Logan chuckles, cupping Oscar’s dick through his shorts. Oscar doesn’t whimper until he presses down, rubbing his palm in slow, small circles, the tips of his fingers pressing pink into Oscar’s navel.

“Not a bad thing, baby,” he says, slow and dripping, folding over to bump his lips against the lobe of Oscar’s ear. His leg has fallen off Logan’s shoulder, back on the bed, though he’s still spread wide enough for Logan to fit himself in the space there, chests pressing together. “Kinda hot how bad you want me,” he whispers, pushing the heel of his palm down a little harder. Oscar whimpers, bucking up to try meeting Logan’s touch. He feels the smirk Logan responds with. “Oh, you need it real bad, huh, pretty?”

Oscar huffs, but it’s difficult to sound annoyed in his position. “Stop teasing,” he complains, grabbing at one of Logan’s biceps. “All this talk,” he says, looping one of his legs around Logan’s waist, trying to pull him closer, lower, “get your fingers in me, Lo, come on.”

It’s teeth in the spot below his jaw, nestling deep with a groan. “Demanding,” Logan grits, though he’s slipping his fingers into the space between Oscar’s boxers and his skin. “Got a dirty mouth on you,” he continues, sitting up enough to look down at Oscar, his red face, parted, bitten lips. Logan taps him on the cheek with his free hand, pushing his thumb hard enough against his bottom lip to displace it. “Maybe I need to keep it busy,” he murmurs, but when Oscar dips his head to try sucking the finger into his mouth, Logan reels back quickly. “Next time, baby.”

Next time. A shiver wracks up the length of Oscar’s spine, and he moans.

Faintly, he hears Logan laugh under his breath, sounding a bit too pleased with himself. He kisses Oscar’s mouth once, quick and sticky, then says, “Just stay here and look pretty for a sec,” climbing off the bed and retreating back towards his desk.

Oscar feels the loss immediately, body cold without Logan crowding him in, and he’s unsure of what to do with his hands. He puts them on his stomach, then his sternum, then a bit too close to where he’s gotten frustratingly hard in his shorts. He sits up on his elbows before he can let himself think too much, looking down the length of the bed to where Logan is rifling through one of his desk drawers, only looking up when he has what he’s looking for. He throws the lube and condom at Oscar on the bed, who winces, though it lands a safe distance from his face—closer to his hip, bouncing on the mattress.

Oscar looks down at it without masking his scrutiny, waiting until he feels the bed dip back under Logan’s weight before asking, “What do you have lube for, anyway?”

Logan pushes on his chest until Oscar’s laying flat again. “What do you think?” he says lowly, kissing Oscar quiet.

At least, he tries kissing Oscar quiet.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you bring anyone back here since we moved in.”

Logan bites the taut skin along his jaw. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, pretty.” And he says it with enough rough conviction for Oscar to seal his lips tight, feeling where they press in underneath his teeth. He settles for grabbing at Logan’s body again, now that it’s close, smoothing his thumbs down the vee of his hips. “Can I take these off?” Logan asks, tugging at the hem of Oscar’s shorts in emphasis.

Oscar doesn’t open his mouth to speak, just makes an assured little ‘mhm’ sound and lifts his hips up off the bed. Logan makes quick work of getting him undressed, tossing his clothes off the edge of the bed to meet the others on the floor. Instinctually, Oscar shifts to cover himself with one of his hands, having only half the mind to feel embarrassed at how exposed he is. When Logan reaches for his wrist, Oscar almost whimpers.

“You, too,” he mutters, trying his best to sound confident.

Logan just grins, tugging his shorts and underwear off in one swift motion, and contrary to Oscar’s still-cupped hand, makes no moves to cover himself. Oscar looks straight at it, cock hanging heavy between his legs, and his mouth goes dry. Logan grabs himself at the base, strokes once, twice, and Oscar realizes belatedly that his mouth is hanging open and he’s fucking staring. When he looks back up at Logan’s face, he finds a smirk, there, raised eyebrows stupid-confident.

“See something you like?”

Oscar wants to hit him. Or— kiss him. Or a lot of other things. In practice, all he does is let his legs fall open a bit wider, finally shifting his hand to better expose himself—and he tracks Logan’s gaze looking straight at his dick, the hypocrite—but it’s really to press the tip of his middle finger dry against his hole.

He knows Logan catches that, too.

Logan grabs his hand, even, pulls him away from himself. “Easy,” he says when Oscar whines, the sound leaving him before he can think. “Turn over, I’ll get you ready.” Oscar opens his mouth, probably to say something stupid like but I want to see your face, but Logan beats him to the punch. “Then it’s whatever position you want, baby, promise.”

Oscar tightens his lips into a thin line again, turning over onto his stomach. He catches a glimpse of the flag on the wall as he turns, and he mentally curses for letting himself be charmed into the bed of a fucking American, laying stomach-first, eyes closed for the moment. He’s facing away from Logan, anyway, so all the sensations will take him by surprise no matter what; including the two hands that come around his hips, manhandling him into a position of not hands-and-knees, but knees-and-elbows, leaving Oscar to wrap his arms around Logan’s pillow underneath him, pressing his face into it until his scent is everywhere again.

He doesn’t really think about how exposed he is until Logan is thumbing at his rim, and the necessary shudder rolls down his spine with it. He tightens his arms around the pillow instinctually, muffling his whine into the soft front.

“You look so fuckin’ good like this, pretty thing,” Logan murmurs, and he sounds awed, the same way he did when Oscar called him Lo the first time. “I wanna…” And he trails off, but Oscar hears him shift, both hands coming to his thighs, pushing his knees a little wider. He feels breath on his hole, warm and dizzying. “Can I eat you out?”

Oscar tenses. Presses his teeth together, eyes screwed shut. He turns his head carefully to the side, exposing his slick mouth to the cool air, and starts, “I’ve never—”

“Please,” Logan interrupts.

Oscar swallows something thick. There’s a desperate coil of arousal pooling thick in his gut, heart pounding in his ears. Logan’s already— he’s already close to it. He can already see everything. He starts kissing at the backs of Oscar’s thighs, humming into his skin, but he doesn’t say anything else.

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes, trying to extract the tension from his voice. “You can— yeah. If you want to.”

He can’t even fucking say it, it feels so filthy, so— unimaginable. You can eat me out. Logan makes a noise—the most desperate thing Oscar has ever heard from his mouth—and doesn’t waste another second, dragging his tongue flat across Oscar’s hole. It’s a weird feeling, at first, a new one; Oscar has never had anyone ask to do that to him, and he’s never done it to someone, either, but Logan seemed so— like he wanted it. Belatedly, Oscar wishes he could’ve seen Logan’s face, then, imagines it red and desperate, then wonders if his expression looks similar. He tries not to get too wrapped up in it, pressing his face firmly back into the pillow when he whines, high and fruitless, Logan’s tongue finding a way inside of him.

“Oh— fuck,” he gasps, and his leg twitches, hips stuttering between Logan’s hands. He holds onto Oscar a little tighter, makes a noise that’s somewhere between sated and displeased, like he wants Oscar to keep still. It doesn’t feel like a big ask until he starts moving his tongue properly, and Oscar thinks he’s going to die, whimpering into the wet patch of drool that’s started to form under his mouth. “Logan,” he whines, muffled, and he wants to ask, where did you learn how to do that, and he wants to ask, is this as good for you as it is for me, but in practice, he just moans, pushing back against Logan’s mouth where it’s sealed around him.

All of Oscar’s muscles feel tense and useless under his skin, keyed-up and teetering at the near precipice of losing his fucking mind. Logan is stupid-good with his mouth, and Oscar has the wherewithal to think that it’s unfair, but the rest of him is too busy falling apart on Logan’s tongue to really be upset about it. He presses back against Logan’s face without thought, mouth falling open on another despairingly humiliating sound, choked halfway at the center of his throat. Logan groans in response, fingertips digging into the plush of Oscar’s thighs.

Logan pulls away enough to catch his breath, thumb encroaching on Oscar’s now spit-slick rim. “So good for me, baby,” he praises, kissing his hole—yes, kissing him there, Oscar thinks with a shudder—easing the tip of his thumb in beside his tongue. “Need to have you sit on my face sometime.”

“Jesus, Logan,” Oscar hisses, though his cock gives a betraying twitch between his legs.

Logan chuckles, slipping his thumb in a little further. “Not into that?” he asks, and it feels— teasing, like he knows Oscar’s head is spinning at the thought of it. He doesn’t— he’s not even sure how that would work, but he’s thinking about it, now, and his body feels so hot he thinks he’ll start burning through the sheets.

“I’ve just—” he starts, but his breath catches when Logan reels back, thumb catching on his rim. “I didn’t know you would be into that.”

“‘Course I would be,” Logan answers, easy and smooth. He spits right onto Oscar’s hole, and he shudders, biting down around the wet spot he’s made on Logan’s pillow. “You’ve got no idea how bad I want these fuckin’ thighs around my head.” And he squeezes one with his free hand, nips at the soft part, as if in emphasis.

And Oscar wants to say shut up, and he wants to say you can’t just say that, but his voice won’t cooperate and he just whimpers, kicking against the bed, listening in for the click of the lube’s cap as Logan’s spit-covered thumb draws away. The only place they’re touching now is where Logan’s knee is against his calf, but the rest of him is cold, and he wants to touch himself where he’s hard and leaking but he doesn’t want to move, fisting at the top end of the pillow underneath his head.

“Next time, though,” Logan says, again, and Oscar mewls. “You can suck me off, too. Got such a pretty mouth.”

Oscar pulls his mouth off the pillow enough to gasp out a “please,” and he’s immediately embarrassed by it. He feels the distant need to cover himself despite all of the everything, despite the fact that it’s Logan’s spit cooling against his hole, so he puts the pillowcase back between his teeth to shut himself up indefinitely. He can see Logan’s face in his head, too, smug and unrelenting, too attractive for his own good. He waits for Logan to touch him again, the pad of one finger against his hole, and like he never thought anything of himself, Oscar pushes his hips back against the sensation.

“Yeah? You’re ready for it?”

Oscar whines out an “mhm,” rolling his hips back again as if to coax Logan forward, and he finally folds, easing the tip of one finger inside where he’s already loosened, wet and hot and desperate. He makes a sound, twisting his body slightly against the mattress. Logan is slow, methodical, like he wants to draw this out, like he wants to make Oscar even more desperate than he already is, pushing up on his elbows, trying to look over his shoulder to where Logan is kneeling behind him and he’s—

He’s fucking touching himself.

“Logan,” he says, like the word is punched out of him, like a swear. Logan’s gaze flickers into his for a moment, and his hair looks messy like he’s been touching it, chest heaving, the hand he’s not moving inside of Oscar wrapped firmly around his cock. His mouth is hanging open, too, tongue on the inside of his lip.

The fucking prick.

“That’s not—” And Oscar gasps when Logan bends his finger just right, falling back against the pillow. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” Logan retorts, all coy, all smug. He presses a second finger to the edge of his rim, lube-slick, and Oscar whimpers. “I can’t help myself, pretty, you look so—” It tapers off into a groan, and Logan bumps the head of his cock against Oscar’s hole, where he’s pressing his second finger in next to the first. “Wish you could see yourself like this.”

Oscar thinks he would die if he really saw himself right now—he probably looks obscene, and humiliating, and all the rest of what he doesn’t know how to deal with—but when Logan says it to him like that, he feels hot, dizzy. He feels the stretch around his fingers and he’s so hard, and he thinks he would come if Logan touched him there right now, mouth dropped open against the pillowcase.

“Logan,” he says, rushed. “I want your dick. Please.”

“Fuck,” he says, all under his breath, “almost there, baby, yeah?”

Oscar whines. He gets out another please, but he’s not sure what he’s begging for. He hears Logan’s breathing behind him, slow and labored, other hand coming back to Oscar’s thigh. Time almost stretches thin, and Oscar shuts his eyes to hit, losing himself in the sensations, heat dripping thick into his core. Logan is so cautious, the edge of his opposite thumb prodding at his rim again, easing a third finger in alongside the others. He mutters something that sounds like so good, baby but it’s quiet, almost inaudible.

Logan doesn’t pull away without warning, leaning down to kiss the small of Oscar’s back, hot and soothing. He pats the back of Oscar’s thigh gently, humming against his skin. “However you want it,” he says, voice low.

“Wanna see you,” Oscar says automatically, before he has time to think about it. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Logan says nonsensically, and he coaxes Oscar onto his back, the bright light of the room hitting him full-force again. He has to blink once, twice, settling back against the mattress, trying not to feel the wet spot he made on the pillow against his nape and—

He wants to scream, Logan looks so good.

He’s sat up on his knees between Oscar’s spread thighs, one hand back on his dick, gaze crawling over Oscar’s body in the slow, awestruck way that makes him feel vulnerable, more exposed than he already did. It’s enough to send a shiver up his spine, but not enough to make him move, empty fingers twitching against the bunched-up sheets.

“God, look at you,” Logan mutters, and if Oscar were feeling any less boneless, he might quip back, something stupid like I can’t, really. But he feels strung-out on something intangible, body twitching against the mattress, and Logan is reaching for his cock where it’s hard and dripping onto his stomach, dragging a lone finger up the length of it, then back down, when he’s wet with precome. “I should’ve done this forever ago,” he adds, eyes flicking back up to meet Oscar’s gaze. “God knows you fucking need it.”

“Shut up,” Oscar manages, kicking at Logan’s thigh. “You need it, too, so— fuck me, Lo.”

Logan grins through his red cheeks. “Whatever you want, princess.”

Oscar tightens his lips, hoping his reaction to that nickname doesn’t show; god knows Logan doesn’t need any more fuel for whatever fire they’re stoking. Logan is half-distracted, anyway, fumbling with the condom he threw on the bed, slicking his cock up further before he locks into Oscar’s gaze, looking heady and desperate and hot.

“Ready, baby?”

Almost unconsciously, Oscar spreads his legs a little wider. “I’ll seriously die if you don’t get your dick in me right now, Logan.”

It gets a laugh out of him. “Jesus, okay.”

And Logan hitches one of Oscar’s legs up over his shoulder, thigh-to-chest, easing the head of his cock inside with a slow, focused precision, and it’s all it takes for Oscar to tip his head back and shut his eyes again, planting his other foot on the mattress to try grinding down on him. Logan makes a noise above him—half-whine, half-groan—and squeezes his thigh tight enough that Oscar thinks it might bruise, perfect fingerprint-shapes etched into his skin, barely high enough for his shorts to cover.

He wants to be mad that thinking about being marked up by Logan is shiver-inducing, but the shame is lost on him by now.

“All in, Logan,” Oscar says, because he’s— he’s going so slow, so careful, and it’s driving him insane. “‘M not gonna break.”

Logan chuckles again, more arrogant than anything. “I know,” he says, but Oscar doesn’t think he does, and the thought is interrupted when Logan finally does slide into the hilt, a rush of breath leaving his lungs. Oscar moans, almost choking on his tongue, and tries not to do anything too desperate.

He opens his eyes, and the room is even brighter than he remembered it being. He’s fisting the top sheet in both his hands like a lifeline, like he might float away without something to hold onto, and he’s so— full, and Logan is everywhere, so close and so much he almost can’t breathe. He makes a high noise in his throat, trying to use his barely-there leverage to grind down on Logan’s cock, but it doesn’t really do anything.

Logan is looking down at where they’re connected, eyes big and face red, and Oscar faintly feels him press a thumb against his rim, and it punches some kind of whimper free from Oscar’s lips, one hand scrambling to grab Logan’s wrist.

“Sorry,” Logan pants, but he doesn’t really look like it. He’s managed to keep half his grin, all open-mouthed and dizzying. Almost experimentally, he rolls his hips, shifting slightly inside of Oscar; enough to get a whimper out of him, loose and uninhibited.

“More,” Oscar pleads, quiet but sure. “Move. Move, Lo, please.”

And Logan does, but only just, putting his free hand to Oscar’s waist and digging a thumb in beside his hip bone when he thrusts. He fucks Oscar with the same methodical caution he had when he prepped him, slow with it, wanting to watch Oscar fall apart underneath him. It’s just as hot as it is infuriating, and Oscar reaches for Logan’s shoulder, tugging his body down closer until he’s caging him in, almost, bending Oscar’s leg unnaturally, enough that the muscle starts to burn. When Logan’s mouth finds his, though, he stops thinking about it.

“You can go harder,” he says into Logan’s mouth, nails digging into his shoulder. “I want you to.”

Logan grins against him. “That’s a few too many words, pretty thing,” he says, mouthing at the corner of Oscar’s lips. “I’ll do better, baby, sit tight.”

Oscar isn’t entirely sure what that means until Logan starts fucking him properly, and all at once, everything is lost on him. He’s just as intentional with it as he was before, only now it’s harder, deeper, with increased conviction. Oscar can’t seem to close his mouth, jaw slack with it, a litany of embarrassing sounds finding their way into the air between them. Logan leaves a trail of formless kisses down the side of Oscar’s neck, groaning into his skin, using the hand he has on Oscar’s hip to pull him into his body with every thrust, disrupting the stretched-out sheets under his back.

He thinks that some of the sounds in his mouth are in the shape of Logan’s name, but most of them just feel like nonsense, making themselves known in the against-his-will way, where he can’t seem to wrangle a filter over his mouth. Logan is buried into the junction between his neck and shoulder, and Oscar can feel where his mouth is wet, but he’s quiet, like he wants to muffle it all with his teeth. Oscar tips his head back to give him better access to his neck, trying to coax him into leaving marks there without asking for it, like saying I want the shape of your mouth left on my skin is any more embarrassing than everything else that’s already happened.

“Oscar,” Logan grits out, and the word sticks down to his skin, taking Oscar half a moment to process the fact that it’s the first time Logan has said his actual name this whole time. It’s just as heady as everything else he’s called him. “Feel so fuckin’ good around me, pretty, want— could fuck you forever, yeah?” He punctuates it with a particularly harsh thrust, and Oscar hears the bed frame knock into the wall above his head. Jesus. “Every day, baby. Would you like that?”

He doesn’t think their neighbors would.

“Yes,” he admits instead, honest and embarrassing. “All the time. Please.”

“All the time?” Logan echoes, and he never stops moving, despite every breathless and distracting word that leaves his mouth. “You’d let me keep you on my cock for hours, I bet. Just fuckin’ sit on it.”

“Logan.”

It’s— dirty, almost. Dirty and frustratingly hot. Oscar doesn’t want to admit to the way his cock twitches with it, trapped between his and Logan’s bodies, leaking precome onto his stomach. Maybe Logan feels it, or maybe he just knows, because he’s smirking into the curve of Oscar’s neck, tongue laving over the teeth-marks he left there, soothing them back to nothing.

“I’m close,” Oscar says, air knocked clean from his lungs. He hears the bed frame hit the concrete wall again, and he closes his eyes, like that will make it go away. “I’m so close, Lo, touch me— please, I need to come.”

“Fuck, pretty, begging so good without me even having to ask,” Logan says, slipping a hand between them to wrap around Oscar’s dick without another ask. He smears precome down the length of him, slicking him up to jerk him off, an awkward angle, but a welcome touch nonetheless. “Come for me, baby, c’mon. Be good and come on my cock, Oscar.”

And that’s all it takes before Oscar is whining, high and un-mighty, coming between their stomachs and all over Logan’s hand. He fucks him through it, albeit slowing down, hips snapping into Oscar with a desperate type of fervor he’s not sure how to breathe around.

“So good,” he’s muttering, nonsensical. “So good, pretty, I’m so close, fuck—”

He comes with his teeth in Oscar’s neck, muffling a groan there. And then they just lay there for a minute, sticky and spent and silent, the low hum of the fans scattered around the room the only thing between them. Oscar revels in the weight of Logan’s body on top of his, trying not to think about how sticky and gross he is, come and sweat and spit lined all down his body.

The first thing either of them says is Logan’s muffled, “Fuck,” still buried in Oscar’s shoulder.

Oscar laughs. “You could say that.”

Logan laughs too, then, wrapping his arms around Oscar’s middle to snuggle closer to him. “I’ll clean you up in a sec, baby, just— need a minute.”

“Yeah,” Oscar whispers. He strokes a hand through Logan’s mussed-up hair, soft between his fingers. “Me too.”

Eventually, Logan does get up, and tells Oscar to stay there, despite his protests. He throws on a pair of shorts and slips out the door to get his face cloth wet, wiping off Oscar’s stomach as gently as he can manage. The whole time, Oscar watches him, trying not to look too fond or lovesick or anything else equally humiliating, just laying there and letting Logan— take care of him, for lack of a better term. He wants to kiss him again.

When Logan gets up to throw the towel in with his laundry, Oscar blurts out, “I like you.”

Logan turns sharply, looking over his still-bare shoulder, though there’s a hint of arrogance nestled in all his shock. “Well, I would hope so,” he says, and crawls back on top of Oscar. He kisses him: slow, sweet, and intentional.

“I mean—” Oscar stutters against Logan’s mouth, keeping his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see his face. “Like, aside from— sex. I like you.”

He hears Logan laugh above him, but it’s not taunting, or mean. It sounds— amused. Pleased. When he opens his eyes, Logan is smiling, and his cheeks are tinted pink. “Good,” he says, kissing Oscar’s mouth again. “‘Cause I like you, too.”

——

“You seem happy,” Lando says the next day, exactly three seconds after Oscar sat down in class. “And you’re late.”

Oscar checks the time on his phone: it’s 9:28. “I’m not late,” he retorts, setting his backpack on the desk to wrestle his laptop out.

Lando narrows his eyes at him. “I’m never here before you, though. So you’re late.”

And— okay. Maybe Lando has a point. Oscar leaves his dorm so freakishly early he always ends up in class at least five minutes before it starts, and Lando has proven to be a last-minute kind of guy. It’s only vaguely frustrating, but he’s not usually late, just right on time. So maybe, in a strictly relative sense, Oscar is late.

It’s only because he woke up in Logan’s bed, and he didn’t want to leave even after Logan did, then he had to rush to get ready for class or else he really would’ve been late. He’s more than ninety percent sure the underwear he’s wearing is actually Logan’s, and he can’t decide if he’s disgusted by it or not.

Biting the inside of his cheek to pull the grin off his face, Oscar sets his laptop on the desk. “Whatever,” he mutters, trying to sound normal. The fact that he has to try to sound normal means he isn’t being normal. “He always starts a couple minutes late, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not the point,” Lando says quickly. He leans in closer, elbows-to-knees, shooting Oscar the most scrutinizing look he’s ever seen on him. “Something happened.”

Oscar turns to face him a bit better, fronting his most unamused expression. “Nothing happened.”

Lando opens his mouth to speak, but closes it quickly. Oscar can track the movement of his eyes as it falls a bit low, off of his face, and pauses. Lando blinks once, twice. Then he grins.

“You’ve got a hickey,” Lando says. He sounds prouder about it than he should, especially when—

Oscar feels his face heat up. He slaps a hand over where he knows it is, trying to ignore the sound his skin makes against itself, eyes big and flustered. He— god, he hadn’t had time to really look at himself this morning, to see if there really were any marks, but maybe that’s why Logan looked so fucking smug getting out of bed this morning, kissing Oscar in weirdly-specific places before he left, making him promise to get a bit more sleep before his class.

Fuck.

“No I don’t,” Oscar rushes to say, but it’s definitely too late for that. “Shut up. Shut up.”

Lando raises both his hands in mock-defense. “I didn’t say anything, mate.”

Oscar just groans, crossing his arms on top of his laptop and setting his head down in the middle of them. He kind of wants to disappear. Lando is snickering beside him, kicking at Oscar’s ankle under the table.

“So? Was he good?” Lando pries. He kicks Oscar again, because he’s a dick. “You gonna go for a repeat?”

Yes. “Shut up.”

“Was it your roommate?”

“Shut up.”

Lando barks out a laugh, halfway to disbelieving. “Wow, mate,” he says, tone slow and cruel: teasing. “I can’t believe you let a frat boy stick it in you.”

“I will kill you myself, Lando, never say that again,” Oscar huffs. He sits back up straight, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Stick it in,” he parrots, “you’re horrible.”

“Well?” Lando says, dragging out the syllable. He leans in close to Oscar, too close, probably, eyebrows raised high on his face. “Was it good?”

“I’m not entertaining this,” Oscar says, a little short. He slumps back a bit further in his seat. “You don’t get to know anything.”

Lando blinks at him. Once, twice. Their professor is trying to start the lesson, but they sit towards the back, so they can get away with this— whatever this is. All Lando does is drop his voice down to a whisper; which makes it worse, probably.

“You like him.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything. He looks at the wall furthest from them, at the space underneath the analog clock, displaying the wrong time. He twists his lips to the side. He feels his face heat up, sweat gathering on the back of his neck. Lando keeps his eyes on him, Oscar feels them, hears the hitch of his breath in his throat.

“Oh my god, you actually do.”

Oscar still doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to give Lando that satisfaction, though maybe this is worse, letting him parse the expression for himself. Oscar feels his phone buzz in his pocket, so he pulls it out as an excuse to not confront anything. It’s Logan who texted him, which must be the opposite of divine timing, whatever that’s called.

logan sarge 🇺🇸
you busy after class?
we should get coffee or something. like a proper date

Oscar does a big, embarrassing smile at his phone. He feels it stretch across his already warm cheeks, back slipping further down against the back of his chair. He knows Lando is still looking at him, can feel his eyes digging into his soul, but maybe he doesn’t care.

“That’s him, isn’t it,” Lando says; he’s not asking.

“Shut up,” Oscar quips back, but there’s no malice in it. He feels a bit too confident behind his screen, staring at the horrible contact photo Logan had taken of himself this morning, stealing Oscar’s phone from his shorts on the floor when Oscar was too tired to protest. Oscar is so endeared to it it almost makes him sick.

oscar pastry 🇦🇺
coffee and then i can suck your dick

logan sarge 🇺🇸
jesus christ oscar
whatever you want, you know that

Oscar grins to himself. Whatever he wants.