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Fernando Alonso is a lot of things. Anti-hero. Villain. Petty. Manipulative to the point of carving cliffs between him and his teammates, toying with their minds playing little games. A nightmare to those daring enough to cross his path.
Yes, Fernando doesn’t lie to himself or anyone about the image he presents to media and the paddock. Purposeful with sly intentions, wolfish grins and nebulous motives. He does, however, like to lie about the jealousy rushing in his system, about the verdant haze clouding his vision at the sight of hands hovering, too close, to Lance. Or the eyelashes fluttering Lance’s way from teenage girls, or Esteban dragging Lance out of his reach—it is a private conversation, excuse us. Or really anything catching the threads of Lance’s attention. He’s not particularly selective at where his irritation decides to rear its head toward.
“My question’s for Lance. Growing up who was your biggest idol?” The kid is young and starstruck, focused on him, then Lance.
“Michael Schumacher.” He’s smiling, a bit smug, eyes glinting like a secret hidden behind hushed lips.
Fernando is a lot of things and jealousy is more often then not one of them. Smoldering low in his gut now, a sticky tar latching onto his bones. He’s waiting for this grandeur to end so he can process exactly why Lance’s answer agitates that slumbering beast inside his chest.
“I watched Fernando race in my young years, growing up.” Brown eyes dart in Fernando’s direction.
“He was the guy winning the races and championships at Renault.” Affection occupies the space between them, secretive. Intimate.
It growls loudly, fiercely, and swiftly the beast’s maw unhinges, threatens to swallow him whole. It wants to envelop Lance, wants to monopolize and isolate him from the outside world. Fernando wants to ruin him down to the marrow of his bones so the taste of him lingers on Lance’s tongue. Stain every dip and groove of his body.
“But my dad and I were definitely Ferrari fans. So I’m not gonna lie, I was cheering for Michael at the time.” There’s a roguish tint to Lance’s voice.
He would scoff if it didn’t seem unprofessional because Lance can claim Schumacher as his idol, yet in the end it will lead back to him. Because Fernando is privy to the way Lance’s back arches when he angles his cock upward, the way Lance pleads to go faster, harder, fuck—please. Fernando is the man that knows him inside and out. All the little cracks in his shell, all the little tremors when he leans down to breathe fondness into Lance’s lungs. He knows how to spark the candles so the flames flickering faintly bursts into a wildfire. To chase away the tides of Lance’s insecurities, to light the way home. No one could adore him as deeply and endlessly as Fernando does. No one can satisfy him as thoroughly as Fernando could.
He needs to remind Lance no one else can touch him. Mine. Its voice is a sickening illusion. A mess of impulse and craving and fixation.
Lance is his, and he has to show him who is holding the leash.
The launch finishes quickly, wrapped up in a bow, and there will be an afterparty. Fernando will be required to attend the event, dressed to the nines and linking chains with millionaires and relearning old faces. He has time, though, to teach him a lesson.
Afterwards, Lawrence informs the team of the successful launch of the new AMR23. Fernando doesn’t listen too closely considering he was there on the stage, in front of cameras and people he deems essential but doesn’t truly give a shit about. He was there watching as the large British flag swept off the AMR23. Watched as the beauty of modern engineering made its appearance and felt a surge of pride and respect. Although what it was is an elaborate showcase for their sponsors and investors. A pomp and circumstance for the world fitted with ostentatious green lights and gaudy music. More importantly, he watched Lance speak and knew immediately he was wishing he were anywhere but here. In the public view with hands on his hips, a stiff smile on his face attempting to seem sociable, comfortable.
He hopes to god this debriefing would end soon.
It lasts approximately thirty-four minutes, ten minutes shorter then usual. When the last of the team leaves—first the administrators, the office workers, the engineers then finally Mike and Lawrence, it’s solely the two of them in the large conference room. Fernando slips a hand to curve around Lance’s nape, just above the jutting vertebra underneath his shirt.
“My room to celebrate?” Fernando asks, throwing a wink and a smirk Lance’s way.
Doe eyes blink at him, smiling in that mischievous manner, playfully sweet that the heat of it slowly fills his cock. Lance knows what he needs. Fernando knows what he wants. They always seem to meet in the middle; the halfway point of a twine string where the ends greet a cup, where whispers zip across to reach one another.
They have time. For sure.
The hallways to his hotel are empty, the beige wallpapers are designed with vineyards and grapevines. Lance doesn’t bother questioning the tension radiating off Fernando’s body. He doesn’t pay it any mind, knowing what’s in store for him the moment he steps foot into the room.
“Lance,” Fernando says nonchalantly. He turns around to face him.
“Seemed like a good launch. Bet the investors are gonna be happy.” He grins wide and free, careless of the thoughts crashing in Fernando’s head.
That’s all Lance manages to comment before Fernando is slamming him against the door, fabric twisted in a fist at the front of Lance’s shirt. Lips are on his and it’s an achingly bruising thing, wrought with a fervor Fernando’s brain registers as an obsession, you are nothing without him, he is nothing without you. The kiss is coarse and unyielding, their tongues sliding and he wants nothing more then to strip Lance bare. Fuck into him until cum is dripping out his twitching hole, covering his walls. Drive his cock in Lance’s warm throat for him to suck until the desperation for breath becomes oppressive. Until Lance gags on his cock, cum painting his dazed face, his dark chestnut hair, his eyelids heavy with hunger. Muddying his cum across redden lips with the tip of his length, reveling in the backwards tilt of Lance’s head, cherry-red tongue flicking out to take another lick—begging for another taste.
Fernando wants to flay him open, smell the salty seawater pooling on Lance’s skin, drift in the rippling waves between trembling thighs. Desire twists in his blood.
He pulls away first.
“What you said about your idol, it’s true?” Fernando asks, careful to not let the extent of his jealousy leak.
“That I was a Schumacher fan? Yeah, what about it?” Lance gazes at him, kind eyes turning suddenly sharp, suddenly knowing.
Lance isn’t stupid, he’s aware of his movements, the way Fernando’s stare bounces from his laughter to the people in their presence. Watching for any wandering hands or gluttonous looks that dare cling to Lance. Hungry for a slab of meat, hungry for something forbidden, something they consider an opportunity. Ridiculous. They’re not deserving of the slender curves on coltish legs, shy lips and pearl teeth, charming scrunch of his straight nose. They don’t deserve him.
“You say that but you are forgetting I was the one beating him.” It’s said casually. Firmly. No room for debate.
“Fernando.” Lance exaggerates the drawl of his accent, eyebrows raised. “Are you jealous?”
He hums lightly, lies through his teeth. “What reason would I have to be jealous?” And why would he be? He has Lance in the palm of his hand, nestled in the shelter of his claws. Yet he is, it’s scalding him in a molten river, devastated by the high temperatures and trying to extinguish the flame is nigh impossible.
“You totally are.” He giggles, indulgently sweet.
“You’re jealous ‘cause you were expecting me to say you were my idol. Instead of picking Michael.” Lance regards him with mirth, searching for a response Fernando doesn’t let loose. He hides it behind a veil, darkening his eyes.
“I mean it’s true though, Michael was amazing. Seven championships, like, how could you not admire him?” Fernando scowls at the compliment directed not at him.
“All I can think about is watching him on the podium. Champagne dripping off his body as it’s spraying everywhere.” Instantly, he shoves a knee between Lance’s legs, ensnares the other man’s throat in his right hand, thumb and forefinger settling on two pulse points. He feels Lance’s heart rabbiting alongside their shallow breathing.
It must be gratifying because Lance smirks, swipes both hands to grapple Fernando’s forearm. A vain attempt to unhook himself.
The tension rises, bubbling just beneath the point of boiling. Neither of them move, frozen in ice.
Lance breaks it easily.
“I could have anyone I’d want. Another championship winner or another driver on the grid. Anyone. So what’re you gonna do about it?” Fernando’s face hardens. Incensed, his hold constricts to where it becomes painful. Lance sucks in sharply through gritted teeth.
It’s a tease, a costume. He’s a spoiled rich kid. An intentional tongue-in-cheek jab like he’s a little sparrow provoking the lion.
Catch me. Own me. Show me you care, show me you want me.
“Shit, you have no idea how hot this is.” Lance rasps out. Except Fernando does have an idea and the idea is Lance slipping into the role of the mouse, spurring Fernando on to stalk, to pounce with large paws and sharpened nails. The art of exerting control is what he would consider hot, and if indulging Lance’s occasional brattiness earns him that control, so be it.
Lance grinds down on his upper thigh, groaning softly at the drag. The urge to fuck him senseless so his name drowns out everything else is aggravating. He’s going to go insane.
It’s a game they’ve perfected over the course of the months they’ve been teammates. This playful chase of cat and mouse that awakens the thrill of capture, the thrill of eluding. In the beginning it was nothing serious, something without consequence, something to pass the time. No feelings attached, and then it wasn’t and Fernando had realized there’s something more. More in the way tenderness saturates their motions, sincerity glimmering in their smiles for each other. But tenderness isn’t what they need. What they crave is raw and simplistic. Animalistic in their endeavor to get each other off.
“You want to play? We can play.” What a dangerous game this will be because the creature is howling now. Reverberating wildly with its insatiable hunger for dominance. To devour with fangs sinking in a velvety neck, to savor the sweetness of adrenaline coursing Lance’s bloodstream. Lap the sweat gleaming across shoulder blades, rip the feathers off skin and sinew. He’s a hunter donning a pelt of grayed fur, canines sharper than an arrow’s point.
And Lance is the prey.
“You gonna punish me then?” Lance goads, cocks his head, exposes a sliver of his jugular. He’s tempting fate.
“I will do more than that.” Fernando promises.
Lance laughs. “Yeah, I’m hoping so.”
They collide together again, a storm thrashing against an inferno. They don’t react slowly, there’s no point for that, not now anyways. Instead, it’s a light-footed dance of Fernando’s hands on Lance’s body, tracing the outlines of familiar curves and angles. The kiss is a weaving of breaths between droplets of rain, embers of wildfire, careless in their pursuit of pleasure. There’s a whine buried behind Lance’s lips and he drinks it in steadily, wholly.
When he’s had enough, Fernando grabs his shoulders, pushes him down to his knees, forces him to pray at his altar. Lance sucks in jaggedly, making it obvious of the pain shooting up his knees and legs, making it more exciting for Fernando. Soft brown hair sticks through the gaps of his fingers and Fernando cards them through the strands. They end at the crown of his skull, forming a halo, and he tugs hard, wrenches his head back only to press him close to his clothed erection. Lance mouths at it, leaving saliva to soak through the denim material.
“You forget who you are dealing with.” Red lights blaring, Fernando warns Lance. Don’t you know? The lion always likes to play with his food.
Fernando jerks him backwards to swiftly unzip the front of his jeans, but that’s the degree of help he’s willing to give. He doesn’t have to do much, though, Lance understands as his hands fumble to draw his cock out of its confines. And Lance is eager as usual, gripping the base of his cock with slim fingers. He engulfs half of it in one go and when he attempts the rest of it, the tip scrapes his uvula and he coughs. He tries again, nearly suffocating on his dick as Lance hollows his cheeks and sucks. Fernando studies him then, he tracks the pouty bow of his upper lip straining to fit it all inside. He tracks the spit dribbling every time he gags on it, the way it bubbles forth as his throat convulses and he surfaces for a breath.
He could demand Lance to stop and still, dictate he remain kneeling as the heavy thickness of his cock rests in his mouth and down, stay, keep it warm for me, good boy. But he won’t, some other day, maybe, and his length slips from Lance’s mouth. He’s panting rapidly, air replacing emptiness in his lungs. Saliva is slathered on the veins, it glistens under his gaze. Lance’s technique is not flawless, it’s still inexperienced, still a little clumsy, still an unripe fruit with its peel a mellow color.
Nevertheless, it’s good. His eagerness is ambrosial, scented with innocence.
Unfortunately, it’s not enough.
So Fernando takes initiative. He tangles his grip in the shorter locks near Lance’s nape and thrusts into that tight heat. He fucks Lance’s throat with a rhythm, a pattern of endless push and pull and it’s beautiful. Obscene. Tears are swelling at the corners of his eyes, droplets of rain streaming from brown lashes. A waterfall, and it incites that creature inside, burns him so fucking hot seeing Lance like this. Knowing he caused this reaction, this response from Lance’s body as if it welcomes him back, remembers the composition of his touch. An instinct down to his bones.
He withdraws and slaps his cock on Lance’s face, at the junction where nose meets cheek. He’s trying desperately to recover his breath, coughing and gulping lungfuls of air, smearing precome on flushed skin. Fernando is admiring the pinkish tongue sneaking out, the puckering of his lips to suck gently on the tip, cleaning the mess they’ve made of one other. Fernando caresses his jawline, swipes a thumb through the collage of spit and precome, swirling it over his lips. Dazed, there’s nothing Lance can do but take it, take anything Fernando gives him. He splits open Lance’s mouth then, puts pressure on his tongue with the pad of his thumb, making room for hints of bitterness to coat Lance’s taste buds, for him to kiss the salt off Fernando. His thumb hooks at the seam and he yanks to the side, crams his cock back in without warning, groaning lowly at the scrape of teeth. Lance scrambles for purchase, his fingernails digging in Fernando’s thighs, bearing the weight of his aggression.
Every few seconds has him heaving around the size of it and it’s sloppy and wet now. More tears well up and slip. Lance chokes as his nose buries in the nest of dark hair, spit pooling under his tongue, gushing down his chin. And Fernando loves this, loves the way Lance smothers himself in his tears, the way it sullies the perfection of his visage. The perfect spoilt brat reduced to a sniveling mess, sucking cock like it’s his only purpose in life. Obeying like a dog at his heel.
He purses his lips, clicks his tongue once, twice, then looks straight at the man on his knees. “What would your hero say if he saw you like this? See you sucking cock so well. Crying for it.”
He continues thrusting into his mouth, oscillating between slow, shallow movements and harsh, violent driving that slams the back of Lance’s throat. He watches as Lance shuts his red-rimmed eyes, attempting to control his breathing through his nose, leaving his mouth slacked to be used like a toy.
“You could have anyone? You would fuck Esteban, then? What would he say to see his friend here. Shameless.” The moan erupts from Lance’s lips, a muffled guttural sound. Rustling, he hears it before he sees it: Lance’s hand cupping the tent in his shorts, rubbing down on the palm slowly, yearning dreadfully for friction on his dick.
When Fernando feels close, that coiling in the pit of his stomach, he hauls Lance to his feet. And clothing are such inconveniences, he thinks, wrestling with too many buttons and zippers. Impatient pawing to get to the center. With the last of their clothes falling off, it’s a sight to behold. The yellowish blotches and jagged scratches left from days ago are fading far too soon, not surprising, a little disappointing. He stares unabashedly, eyes scrutinizing all the marks and bruises and slender muscle of Lance’s body. Muscles cut from the marbled statues of history, built in the limestone halls of Ancient Greece. A thing of beauty and Fernando covets this sculpture from prying eyes, locking him away in a museum for an attendance of one.
Their feet stumble around one another, he throws Lance on the bed, maneuvering him so the flexed strength of his back are bare for him to touch. The plump roundness of his ass enticing him to lick, to nip just a bit. And seeing this now, his mind wanders to the possibility of others that were here before him. He thinks about Esteban joking with eased laughter, Checo patting him on the shoulder, Seb ruffling the head of soft hair. The ones that raced alongside Lance on the asphalt tracks.
Before me.
Floating around his mind, it expands farther and farther out as he pries Lance open with two fingers, slicked up with lube. Little whines and gasps below mingle with the squelching sounds of him working to find that spot inside.
“Strangers from a bar, a fan, your engineer. So long it is a cock, you don’t care.” He whispers with warm breath at the shell of Lance’s ear. He knows which area to handle tenderly, which to handle roughly and with three fingers hooking upward, Fernando finds it easy to choose which.
He doesn’t care to be gentle or polite. He rams in with one long thrust, gripping the meat on Lance’s hips as he pounds and slams and cleaves a shape of himself inside Lance. Fernando thinks other drivers may have been his teammate, but none have been here in this bed, fitted with cotton sheets and deep in the chokehold of a pink hole. His words are undoubtedly rooted in fantasy. The truth is Fernando would do anything to tether him to his side forever, to refuse anyone a glimpse behind the display glass.
“Did Seb touch you, did he fuck you too?” His mouth curled in a sneer.
“He—he’s never fucked me.” Lance admits, finding his voice to answer.
“But you would love it. For Seb to, no? For Esteban. Checo, even. You love being a whore.” At those words he feels Lance clench exquisitely, so tightly it feels divine.
“Does Esteban know you like it big? Does Seb know you love to be on your hands and knees?” Excruciatingly, he digs claws farther in Lance’s skin, leaves streaks of bruises for tomorrow.
Slithering a hand from Lance’s waist to cup the jutting Adam’s apple of his neck, he cranes Lance’s head up. Their eyes connect and Lance is hazy with lust, eyelids striving to stay open. There’s no strength in Fernando’s grip, but the threat hovers closely. One wrong move and he could crush his windpipe effortlessly, finger by finger. He could leave his mark again on smooth skin. A necklace of bruises wrapped around Lance’s pretty little throat.
A collar.
It causes Lance to squirm beautifully. His ams supporting his weight are beginning to tremble, weakening. “It’s you—only you know.”
He huffs out a chuckle. That’s right. I know how to fuck you best, how to ruin you for anyone else.
Fernando punctuates his point with a rough push, his other hand still seized around his narrow waist. Warm lips are damp on lance’s shoulder, teeth grazing on well-defined muscle. Ready to bite, to tear him asunder. Ready to leave another imprint on him so Fernando can never fade from his memory. Lance’s hand trails down to wrap around his leaking cock. He starts to stroke in tune with Fernando’s thrusts.
“I will buy a collar so they can see you are mine.” It would be the highest quality of leather, only the most sophisticated for Lance.
A golden tag with his name engraved on the front elegantly, possessively. Property of Fernando Alonso.
Or should it be Return to Fernando Alonso, instead? He would have to consider it soon because the image of Lance crawling toward him, leather collar attached with the matching leash, causes a twitch in his cock. A provocative spectacle and he ponders if Italian leather would suffice, if the rich tint of mahogany would compliment best, should it be broad in its dimensions or thin enough to not irritate. Lance whines low-pitched, then gasps when Fernando bites down. Shreds a piece of him in the shape of pearly-white fangs, doesn’t stop until blood floods his mouth, satisfies his appetite.
“I will fuck you on our car, in front of everyone so they can hear you scream. Like a bitch in heat.” He licks over the mark, jolting a shiver down Lance’s spine.
“You want to be my bitch? My whore?” Lance moans at the vulgarity, at the luscious honey dripping off Fernando’s tongue. His thoughts melting the more the heat deepens, reaching so far into his guts the swell is unmistakable.
Lance nods his head, the dizzying pleasure becoming too much to speak, but Fernando wants to hear it with his ears. He wants it to be tangible, real.
“Use your words, princesa.” Fernando hauls him up to fall on his chest, his hand returning to its rightful place at the front of Lance’s neck. Dark hair falls on his shoulder as his head rests there. And Lance’s cock jumps, his body bending like a bow. He continues aiming at that spot inside; his walls are a suffocating vise, like liquid gold, coating him in a layer of decadence.
Lance breathes out a whine. “I wanna be your bitch.”
It flares, bright and blistering. Fernando is forcing him down on the bed then, his back arched underneath a palm smoothing down his spine. With legs stretched apart, Lance leaves a hollowness for Fernando to fill, anticipating the man to rut into him again like a rabid animal.
“I wanna be your whore.” His plea is stifled by the pillow, half his face obscured by its softness, a stark contrast to the tears drenching his cheekbones.
The snarl spreading on Fernando’s face is dangerously feral. A bestial viciousness hunting the trail of blood stemming from torn flesh. He sinks back in deliberately controlled, almost apathetic.
“Good dogs say please,” Fernando says lowly. Gesturing his feigned disappointment with furrowed brows. “I know I taught you better.”
Abruptly he strikes with a palm on his right cheek. Lance cries out. A sound where pleasure and pain bleed into one; where the burn is an anchor thrown overboard to ground him in the heady waves splashing up his veins. His arms clutch onto the corners of the pillow, struggling to have something to hold on to. Struggling to keep control of his sanity, to not come undone. Scarlet prints are blossoming on the pale skin of his ass, marked and raw, like dried petals flattened atop blank pages. Pigments of maple leaves dripping on white canvases, creating an artwork suitable to exhibit.
He skims fingertips across the rosy flesh, relishes how Lance shakes at the sensation it sparks. Throbbing and stinging the brighter the redness appears and before Lance can regain his composure, Fernando is groping a fistful of his ass. They move to spread one cheek apart, his thumb tracing around Lance’s hole, stretched out by the girth of his cock. Curiously, he pulls out halfway, leaving only the head inside Lance.
Fernando watches his rim squeeze on the fullness.
Lance whimpers. Fingers scraping the sides of Fernando’s thighs trying to rouse him to move, come on, move already.
He waits. Beg for it.
He has patience, something Lance can’t concentrate on practicing yet.
The spell breaks in under a second.
“I’m sorry. I’ll do anything you want just please fuck me, please, please, please.” He mewls miserably, pathetically.
There it is. That desperation, that calm before the storm.
“Good job. Good boy.” Fernando praises placatingly, as if stroking a paw down the flank of a frightened fawn.
He groans and slams back in quickly, forcefully, and Lance crumbles underneath him. Fragile and loose, lightweight wings whipping in the wind. A vulnerable little thing. It makes his jaw clench, makes his teeth ache, makes his nostrils flare as he breathes in their musky heat.
Fernando wants to preserve this forever. He wants to fossilize all the little noises into his skeleton so when flowers wither, old and faded, when bones splinter, brittle and hollowed, Fernando would have something to remember him by. As he snaps his hips faster and faster with reckless abandon, Lance crumbles farther in the bed, his ribcage surging and collapsing with vigor. Every withdrawal trickles out threads of cream, every plunge is a puncture to his restraint. Fernando marvels at it leaking down Lance’s taint. He’s captivated by the way Lance’s hole gapes, greedy in swallowing his cock to squeeze every drop. Hanging him by the noose of Lance’s fervor to wring him dry, milk him like Fernando is an oasis and Lance is a drought.
“You belong to me.” Another strike rings loud in the room, another ruddy dent in Lance’s resolve. “Understood?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Lance wails. “Oh fuck—want you. Only you.”
Skin slapping on skin, they ebb and flow, striking matches to set alight their bodies so the fever consumes them. His teeth sink Lance comes first, his body running taut, limbs quivering with force, splattering onto the rumpled sheets. And he feels intoxicated, hips rocking fast and erratic, fucking Lance through his orgasm. Chasing more and more of that high, the addictive quality rushing through his system. He comes then with his cock sheathed to the hilt, spilling inside Lance, marking him. Reaching places no one else dares to claim.
They fall together; they lay in the depths on the seabed, drifting afloat in an ocean of hedonism. Bellies and beasts alike satiated until the next time they itch for more. Their breaths, once deep and hurried, gradually even and Lance clings to him. Burying his nose in the crook of Fernando’s neck, nuzzling timidly at his clavicle, saturating his chest in affection as if he were the tourniquet for a wound, stanching the bleeding. He’s not usually one for cuddling after fucking, but the soothing presence of Lance is different. There’s no obligation to comfort, he wants to stay here with him. Settle under the covers with him, bathe in the glow of sunlight with him.
Him, him, him.
Fernando glances at the clock on the bedside table, two hours left before the inevitable afterparty. He thinks he might care enough to stand up to get dressed. He also thinks if he could he would tell the world to go fuck right off. The room is quiet, now. Fernando assumes Lance has fallen asleep, wandering the realm of dreams. Then, a murmur.
Muffled by warm skin, Lance speaks softly, looking at him. “For the record. I didn’t mean the stuff I said earlier. Um, you were my hero when I was a kid.”
His eyes flick to the side and he laughs nervously, a little shyly. “Was even rooting for you years after you left Ferrari.”
“You want me still as your hero?” Fernando smiles, sated and tame.
“I wouldn’t want anyone else.” As my hero, as my teammate, as my lover. Lance doesn’t say it out loud, but Fernando recognizes it all the same.
It’s sincere, rich with nectar.
Lance is never one for dishonesty.
Fernando kisses him languidly, hand splaying down to lace their fingers. “Are you okay? Was it too much?”
“Nah, I’m good. It was fun, actually. I kind of really liked the princess thing.”
“Mi princesa? You like it?” Fernando rises on an elbow then, crowds into his space to mouth along his collarbone.
“I do. Makes me think you’d be my prince then. My knight in shining armor.” Clearly, Lance wasn’t fucked hard enough to dislodge his repertoire of endearingly corny jokes.
“You’re lucky you’re cute. That was very corny.” But he loves it, loves this facet of Lance only he’s permitted access to, something only he can possess.
“Oh, but I’m cute? You think I’m cute?” Lance grins with mischief.
He rolls his eyes, endearing indeed. “You are insufferable.”
“And cute. Don’t forget that.” Lance bats his eyelashes, mouth drawn in a slight frown, bottom lip peaking out. He conjures up the most convincing case of puppy dog eyes Fernando has ever seen.
“Yes, cute. Very adorable.”
They burst into a cackling fit.
He’s content with his jealousy dead out on the road, rotting away into nothing, fizzling out like the sputter of lit fireworks. And later, when guilt pricks at his mind, inflammation rising pass the dermis to ooze pus, he will question whether one day he will truly hurt Lance. But Lance is never one for lying, that’s in his nature. He’s blunt and candid. He would tell Fernando the truth, if it hurt him beyond what he’s capable of handling and Fernando will apologize, will do everything to care for him in the aftermath. And that’s enough, for now, to ease envy’s acrid sting as he listens to the heartbeat of this man under him. Alive and steady.
Soon, they will be compelled to leave through separate rooms, wearing separate genres of fashion. Lance will be expected to mingle in the stream of celebrities, Lawrence’s business parters, future stakeholders, and so on. Soon, Fernando will be expected to slacken the leash, unclasp the snap-hook to let him roam free and wait for Lance to return home to him, to them. For now, amidst the warmth of their clinging bodies, Fernando gets his fill of Lance.