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Summary
“Y’know how it is,” he jerks his head to the side, and Oscar realises that he hasn’t looked him in the eyes once during this entire conversation. Avoiding. “Doesn’t exactly look good for me.”
“What doesn’t?” Oscar’s brows pull together, the back of his neck heating up. Swallowing, he goes to take a small step forward, to bridge the miles of distance between them, but he stops himself at the last second. Instead, runs his thumb nail over the pad of his pointer finger. Lets it carve into the pink skin.
Raising his hand, Lando flings it to the side, as if swatting away a particularly insistent fly.
“That you’re so, like. Beta.”
🏎
Or: The entirely too self-indulgent WAG Omega Osc-fic of my dreams.