#orange is oscar's color and i'll die on that hill

[grandprix-ao3]

what is the hell on earth one i Must know

i'll give anyone who can guess what ship it's gonna be Literally Nothing.

(it's loscar)

literally just 300 words of vague kissing i wrote a while ago as an excuse to like talk about race suits or something. title is fueled by i felt like i was going too far into the agenda but like now we are here. so i was right, basically. hell is on earth and it is ME. i will put all 306 words from this doc under the break for fun

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“You look good in the new race suit,” Logan says, flicking Oscar’s stiff collar. Oscar gets hot underneath it, rolling his lips between his teeth. “Been seeing all the pictures all winter,” Logan continues, crooking his fingers into it by the zip, “couldn’t stop thinking about how fuckin’ hot you are.”

Oscar pushes at Logan’s hips where they’re pinning him to the door of his driver’s room, making a displeased noise in his throat. He’s never been the best at accepting compliments, but Logan loves giving them to him, always grinning like he knows what it does to Oscar. 

He totally does. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, but Logan’s persistent. He chuckles, leans a bit closer to mouth at Oscar’s neck, the exposed skin right above his collar. “It’s so— orange.”

Logan laughs into him, and Oscar tips his head back against the door. The light on the ceiling is bright, artificial, still an unfamiliar part of this world he’s learning how to stomach. 

“I think orange is your color,” Logan says, teeth grazing damp flesh. He slips his hands around Oscar’s waist, pulling him closer, their bodies flattening against each other.

Oscar huffs, pushing at Logan’s shoulder. His expression is arrogant when he sees it, clearly proud of himself, crooked-mouthed and easy.

“You look good in yours, too,” Oscar tries, but he doesn’t feel as confident with the words as Logan does. They don’t fit in his mouth right, spilling out of his mouth all awkward and half-broken, laughable. He pushes a thumb against the W emblazoned over Logan’s chest, swiping down the straight of it. 

“It’s not the same,” Logan insists, taking Oscar’s mouth in a wet, muted kiss. “It’s almost the same as my F2 kit.”

“Well, you looked hot, then, and you look hot, now.”