lets add that to the words of wisdom:

It’s his drivers room they’ve wordlessly chosen to convene in today. They’re already settled beside one another on the sofa that is really only intended for one, the press of Lando’s thigh against his own, their arms brushing whenever one of them so much as breathes too deeply. Oscar’s come to crave this closeness, drinking in the warmth that emanates from Lando’s body like it might be the elixir of life. He shifts his sneakered foot millimetre by millimetre as the tv screen plays out reruns from a pitiful race, until he can feel it reach the outer edge of Lando’s shoe, another point of connection for him to revel in.

It’s surreptitious, he hopes, something Lando will hardly notice. He’s already mid spiel about the unfairness of a moment replaying on the screen, where he was edged off the track by Lawson, and Oscar’s making the appropriate noises, sympathetic and understanding even as he barely listens; too busy focused on the knock of their elbows, heart reaching a staccato rhythm when Lando brings a hot, large, heavy palm down onto Oscar’s thigh instead of his own.

A moment passed, slow as molasses, like wading through the stuff. The only sound is the low buzzing emitting from the television, a blur of nothing to Oscar. He can’t seem to do anything but stare at Lando’s hand on his thigh, the heat that’s bleeding through his fireproofs and scorching the skin beneath.

“Osc.”

It takes him another moment to drag his gaze back up to Lando’s. There concern in the tightness around his eyes, his tone one that tells Oscar this isn’t the first time he’s said his name; probably not even the second or third.

“Huh?” Oscar replies unintelligibly, brain soupy and still stuck on the feeling of Lando’s hand on his leg. It’s still there, a weight he can’t seem to forget.

Lando looks less concerned now. If Oscar was a betting man, he’d wager that Lando looks smug, almost. An expression he knows well, but it strikes an uncomfortable fear in Oscar’s chest here.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Oscar nods hurriedly, feeling his cheeks flush, undoubtedly a lurid pink already. He hopes he can blame it on the closeness of the air in here, the post-race glow, but he knows without questioning that it’s a lost cause. “Course.”

“Hm,” Lando’s eyes are narrowed as he stretches back against the sofa. He doesn’t move his hand still; if anything, Oscar would swear his fingers clench tighter, the pads digging into his quad.

He wets his dry lips. “What?”

Lando shrugs. “Nothing.”

Dragging his eyes back to the television, as though he’s paying any attention to what’s playing out on the screen, Oscar wills his heart rate to settle; his blush to diminish. There’s a quiet few moments where he thinks maybe he’s gotten away with it — even though he doesn’t know what it is. But then Lando’s speaking again, slow and deliberate.

“I’ve noticed, you know…”

“What?” Oscar asks tiredly. He’s not in the mood for Lando’s games, patience wearing thin already. “Noticed what?”

Lando just stares at him. “You looking.”

Something cold and heavy drops into the pit of Oscar’s stomach, a tonne of ice that leaves him feeling instantly adrift.

Swallowing around the sudden lump lodged in his throat, he tries to keep his voice level. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Lando makes a sound that Oscar can’t parse, before saying, “yeah, you do.”

And Oscar’s tired, suddenly, of all of this. Of the want that burns hotter than a flame inside him, of the desperate needs he feels to be near Lando; of the knowledge that it can’t and won’t ever mean anything.

“Yeah?” He says roughly. “And what about it, then?”

If Lando’s surprised by his reaction, he doesn’t show it. He cocks his head to the side like he’s contemplating something, before shrugging.

“Been waiting,” he chooses each word carefully, the way he does in interviews now, stepping stones across a river with a violent current. “For you to make a move.”

Oscar can’t have heard him right. He can’t have. His head whips up, eyes wide and pinned on Lando in an instant, uncertainty flooding his chest alongside another emotion; something painfully dangerous.

Hope.

“What kind of move?”

“Well,” Lando half smiles at him. “That’d be up to you, wouldn’t it?”

For once, Oscar thinks fuck it. Be it recklessness or weariness with the whole situation, he decides to let his baser instincts kick in; only realises he’s kissing Lando — and Lando’s kissing back, enthusiastically so — when it’s already too late, when they’re already locked at the lips. It’s desperate, like a downpour after a drought, Oscar’s hands reaching for Lando’s waist, pulling him in. There are fingers twisting in his hair, fingers he knows must belong to Lando but it doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel plausible.

They only part when someone raps at the door, a five minute warning before their media duties, the two of them springing apart as much as the cramped sofa will allow.

Eyes catching, they both share a quiet, relieved laugh when the person at the door doesn’t try to come in, footsteps sounding their departure. The laughter slices through any lingering awkwardness, with the knowledge that they don’t have time for the debrief they need right now.

“Later?” Oscar tries not to feel embarrassed at the breathy sound of his own voice.

It’s easier to swallow when Lando nods, cheeks golden rose.

The glare Lando levels him with is positively insulted. “Obviously,” he says snippily. “Do you usually see me doing things I don’t frickin’ want to do?”

“No,” Oscar admits, grimacing a little. “But —,” this is different, he wants to say. This is important. But Lando does have a point, and he’s trying to see it from his eyes — how he would’ve felt if Lando kept asking him over and over if he was sure, back the first time they’d done this. Like he couldn’t be trusted to make the decision himself, or something.

“Besides,” Lando grins, sharp canines glinting predatorily. “You’re the virgin, aren’t you?” His voice has taken on that low, sultry tone that goes straight to Oscar’s groin, white hot and tugging. “I should be asking you, if anything…”

Weakly, Oscar protests, “s’not — I’m not a virgin, Lando.” Not now at least. Not that he was before, but; well. They’d covered that already. Frequently.

It was a relief, afterwards, when Lando’d said he wanted to do it again. Because Oscar hadn’t been sure, had he? A part of him had been certain, in fact, that Lando would see it as a one time thing; meaningless when the matter of Oscar’s pseudo-virginity was all but irrelevant.

They had kept doing it, though. And sometimes Lando still wanted Oscar to pretend he’d never done it before, that it was all new and exciting to him and — honestly, he wasn’t pretending half the time. Lando was new and exciting to him, every time somehow. His cock made Oscar feel remade whenever he got the chance to experience it. And hearing Lando tell Oscar how good he was taking it, how perfect he was, how much he loved being Oscar’s first — he couldn’t deny that it turned him on just as much as it seemed to Lando.

Predictably, Lando just shrugs at him now, grin altogether too self-satisfied. “You’ve been fucked,” he says. “You haven’t fucked a guy before,” stretching languidly against the bed, arms held overhead, he flicks his tongue to the corner of his mouth, eyeing Oscar cockily. “Haven’t fucked me.”

The way he says it, so assured that Oscar’s never going to have experienced anything like it before — Oscar believes him whole-heartedly. Has to, given their track record; nothing could have prepared him for how good it was going to be the first time, and every time since then. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, body wracking with it. He can see the moment it registers with Lando, whose grin only seems to get wider and more wicked.

“You want it, yeah?” He asks, tone innocent and completely at odds with the look on his face. One hand trails slowly down the hard planes of his abdomen, the movement painstakingly deliberate. “Want to fuck me?”

As if Oscar could want anything more.

Dumbly, he nods, the feeling of it exaggerated and overly eager, a flush rushing to his cheeks in an instant. “Yeah,” he tries not to wince at the break in his voice. “God, yeah, Lan — so much.”

And he does — wants to know what it feels like, wants to experience the tight heat of Lando around him. Not that he hasn’t been loving being on the receiving end; he has, undoubtedly so. It consumes half his mind these days, thinking about the next time he’s going to get fucked. The next time Lando’s going to pin him to the bed and take him apart with his hands and mouth and cock. Even now, the memory of the last time — almost a week ago, before the race weekend — flickers across his brain and has it short circuiting, an unbidden moan leaving his chest.

It’s like Lando can tell what he’s thinking, smirking at him even as he rolls those glittering green eyes of his. “Come on. You’ll like this just as much, promise.”

The fact that Lando’s asking Oscar to do this — even if he is half repurposing it as a gift for Oscar, another chance for him to have a first — hits him like a truck, the evidence of Lando’s desire curved up hot and heavy towards his stomach. Even looking at the image of Lando laid out before him as Oscar’s mouth watering, another shiver passing through him as he eagerly drinks it in, eyes catching on the red tip of Lando’s cock; and yeah, god, he loves it. Kind of feels like a slut for it now, honestly, the thought keeping the blood high and hot under his cheeks.

“Can’t do much just looking,” Lando quips, but it comes out tighter than usual, a little strained. It’s a relief whenever Oscar recognises he’s having a similar effect on Lando that Lando has on him. “Here,” he tosses a small tube that hits Oscar in the chest, his reflexes sluggish with lust. “Get your fingers nice and wet for me, babe.”

His hands shake as he unscrews the lid, squeezing a copious amount of lube into his hand and doing exactly as Lando said, slicking up his fingers into its dripping down into his palm. The sight is almost filthy — Lando seems to agree, breath hitching as his eyes zero in on Oscar’s hand, pupils blown.

“Come here,” he repeats, stretching his legs obscenely, far wider than Oscar could ever manage. He looks gorgeous like this, presenting himself for Oscar, whose tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth momentarily. “Go slow,” Lando orders, quads tensed already. “I’ll help you, yeah?”

Wordlessly, Oscar can only nod emphatically, eager to please. He reaches down between Lando’s legs slowly, eyes flickering between there and his face, tentatively touching the tip of one finger against him. Even without applying pressure Lando’s breath hitches, something Oscar can’t discern crossing over his features; but he’s reaching down to smother Oscar’s wrist in his huge hand, guiding him into pushing the first finger inside.

“Like this,” he breathes, letting go once he seems sure Oscar’s not going to immediately withdraw. The skin of his wrist feels cold without Lando’s touch warming it. “God, yeah — just — keep going, Osc.”

Logistically, it’s not so different than fingering himself, in the end — and despite not being experienced in actually having sex before now, he’s done plenty of that at least. Emotionally, though, it’s very different; he can’t stop from marveling at the way Lando’s body accepts the intrusion so willingly, like it’s already asking for more.

Lip tucked up behind his teeth, Lando does exactly that after what feels like too short a time, nodding encouragingly at Oscar. “Two now, it’s fine, go on,” he says. “Doing so well, Osc.”

It’s ridiculous, really — Oscar feels like he should be the one telling Lando that, but he can’t deny that it feels good to hear Lando say it. He ducks his head with embarrassment at the pleased feeling that runs through him, feeling even the tips of his ears burn, focusing on sliding another finger in alongside the first. It’s a tighter squeeze, impossibly. Has him gasping at even the thought of that around his cock, unable to stop looking down between Lando’s legs as he scissors his digits.

At least until Lando says, “good boy,” almost tentatively; something searching in his tone.

It has Oscar jolting, fingers pressing in a smidge too deep but Lando doesn’t complain: when Oscar meets his gaze he’s looking at him with a slightly awed expression that Oscar can’t understand.

“What?” He queries self consciously, movements stilling. “Is — did I do something wrong?”

With a shake of his head, Lando frowns. “What — no, just…” he trails off, a flash of a canine piercing his lower lip. “— did you like that?” He’s still looking at Oscar, intense and heated like he’s waiting to find an answer written across his features.

Oscar doesn’t know what he’s even asking, though, so all he can do is stare back, confusion clear.

“You’re doing so well,” Lando says again, a low, raspy inflection to it. “Being really good to me — for me.”

Oscar can’t hide his reaction, full bodied and inescapable. The words hook underneath his navel, tugging and splitting him open, mouth dropped on a high whine. It’s humiliating, he thinks, but he can’t seem to stop himself — didn’t even know how much he’d like that until now, but — well. There are a lot of things he didn’t know he liked until he met Lando.

“Oh,” Lando says reverently. “You really like that.”

Lowering his gaze, Oscar shakes his head. “Stop it,” it comes out miserable; a little wretched. “Don’t — don’t take the piss —,”

“I’m not,” the response is quick and sharp, Lando reaching forward to physically tug Oscar’s head back up by his chin. “Oscar, look at me. I’m not. It’s fricking sexy, alright? Proper mint.”

It’s so Lando that Oscar can’t help but snort through the nauseating embarrassment, rolling his eyes at the earnest expression Lando wears.

Lando doesn’t let him go that easily, though, grip tightening and gaze impenetrable, not letting go until Oscar nods and mumbles, “Sure, okay”. His skin burns underneath the grasp, smarting still when it’s no longer there. He feels hot and cold all over, fire and ice battling across his body.

Instead of acknowledging it, he gets back to opening Lando up with the sort of precise diligence he’s known for. He’s careful, only sliding a third in when Lando’s writhing against the sheet and pressing his hips back down against Oscar’s fingers, body sub-consciously chasing more. All the while Lando lets out a wave of pleas dashed through with compliments, lathering praise upon Oscar as though he’s doing something incredible and worthy — it almost makes him feel like he is, seeing the way Lando tosses his head back and forth with each punishing massage of his prostate.

“God,” Lando groans from above, reaching down to paw at Oscar’s shoulder. His stomach is sticky with precum, dick leaking steadily along his front. “I’m ready, m’done — get your fricking dick in me, would you?”

It makes sense that even when he’s the one being fucked, he’s unbearably bossy. Oscar finds himself ridiculously charmed by it; wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Right, shit, hang on,” he pulls his fingers out a little too quickly, both of them wincing, but then he’s scrambling to find the discarded lube amongst the twisted sheets; is quick to slicken himself up, hissing at the chill of it.

His clean hand finds Lando’s beside his head on the mattress, fingers tangled together like electric cords when he starts to push in, mouth falling open instantly at the sensation of Lando’s body slowly giving way to him. Despite the time taken, Lando is vice-like around him, the press slow and torturous.

“God,” Lando tosses his head back, baring his neck. With a groan, Oscar buries face into the skin there, inhaling the scent of sweat and expensive shower gel. “Fucking — there you go,” Lando continues, hand coming up to pet through Oscar’s hair. “Feel incredible Osc, so good for me —.”

Oscar can only whimper into the curve of Lando’s throat, lips brushing into the hollow at the base. He feels insane — like he could crawl out of his skin, like he’s being the one split in half; can’t figure how Lando does this every time; if it feels as good for him as this does.

Lando talks him through it sweetly until they’re pressed flush together, Oscar finally sheathed entirely. A kiss is pressed to his temple, tender and earth shattering with the overwhelming everything that he’s feeling.

“Thanks,” he slurs without thinking, half muffled by Lando’s neck but not enough. He feels the hand still in his hair, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Did you just thank me?” Lando sounds bemused, voice high.

Groaning, Oscar prays for the bed to open up and swallow him whole. “No,” he lies obstinately. “You — I didn’t mean —.” It feels pointless. He trails off with a sigh, lifting his head to face the music.

Lando’s lips are pressed together like he’s trying to hold himself back from laughing, eyes dancing.

“Just say it,” Oscar says flatly, face aflame. “Get it over with.”

“No, nothing — wasn’t gonna,” Lando grins. “Just, like. You’re welcome and all that.”

Exhaling deeply through his nose, Oscar squeezes his eyes shut again at the ensuing laughter, before moving his hips tentatively. He’s rewarded with the choked off sound Lando makes, the way his thighs twitch around his hips.

“Not fair,” Lando breathes. In an instant his eyes have turned glassy, staring up at Oscar like he isn’t really seeing him. “Playing dirty.”

Oscar does it again, just to get that noise out from Lando — wants to hear it echoing on his brain on repeat forever, a melody he wants to be the sole listener of. It’s wishful thinking, he knows, his chest tight at the idea of someone else hearing Lando like this.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he hears himself say, voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Can’t believe you want to do this,” with me, he doesn’t say, cutting himself off just in time, swallowing down bitterness. “You feel — perfect,” he gasps, hips starting up a rhythm that’s neither fast nor slow. “Fucking insane, Lando, look at you…”

He’s not the only one who likes to hear it, judging from the pretty rosiness that rises to Lando’s face, the pronounced and sinful curve of his back as he arches into each thrust.

He was right, before, Oscar realises. He’s never experienced anything like this before and he can’t imagine experiencing anything like it again, not with anyone who isn’t Lando. Should’ve known after the first time, when Lando had been so fucking tender and soft and hot with him — should’ve know then that he was never coming away from this unscathed.

This is only cementing that.

Shoving the thought from his mind before it makes him do something stupid and irrational like cry, he disentangles his fingers from Lando’s, moving backwards and altering the angle as he does. On the next push of his hips, Lando’s mouth is opening around a wail, eyes widening and fingers clutching at the meat of his own thighs.

“Osc — oh, fuck, oh —,” he whimpers, shoving his hips back messily, hardly in time with the thrusts at all just still somehow feeling right. “Jesus, don’t stop — fuck, there, there, good boy —.”

The words have Oscar’s hips stuttering in shock, a swooping sensation low in his gut; arousal building too quickly, fizzing at the base of his spine.

Lando notices, locking wicked eyes with Oscar as he clenches down purposely, reaching to tug at his own cock with a rhythm that would be too rough for Oscar, the curl of his thick fingers too tight.

“Fuck, yeah, so good for me, aren’t you?” Lando moans. “Fucking me so well.”

Oscar doesn’t even know if it’s true, is the thing, but the words are working on him — it’s almost embarrassing how quickly he gets there, hands cupping under the backs of Lando’s thighs, nails digging into the flesh, sharp enough to leave marks. And Lando won’t shut up, telling him good he is, how good it feels, how Oscar’s making him feel —

“You’re so hot,” he confesses, half out of his mind and half with intention. “You’re perfect, Lando, all for me, yeah? Want to come on my cock?” It comes from somewhere in the recesses of his mind, brought forward by a desire to make Lando feel good, too, to have Lando as out of his mind as Oscar is.

And Lando is gorgeous, especially when he gasps a breath that sounds like choking, Oscar’s words penetrating his skin. He’s golden and flushed and slick with sweat, spine bowing up off the bed so their chests touch, whining as he tugs himself in time with Oscar’s thrusts.

“Need you to come,” Oscar half begs, knocking Lando’s hand away with his own, replacing it in an instant. His cock looks obscenely huge in his grasp, the sight pornographic, both of them moaning loudly. “Lando, please, come for me, want to see you, want to hear you, so fucking gorgeous —.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the compliments or the fact that it’s finally his hand around Lando that does it; a mix of both maybe, but Lando is spilling quickly and violently over his fingers, the arch of his back almost painful to look at. He’s still coming when Oscar follows suit, pumping deep inside him, mouth slack and eyes glued to where they’re connected; the sight of his own cum leaking out of Lando past his cock enough to have him twitching inside even after he’s done, overstimulating for both of them.

Boneless, he collapses on the mattress next to Lando, both of them with heaving chests and hoarse throats.

Your hair was pulled back with something makeshift…like a pen or a cable tie. Your usual hair tie was forgotten…you aren’t sure where. But if you had to guess, it was probably your bedroom floor. Lost somewhere in the mess after you spent half the morning playing with your roommate’s cat. A little white fluff he dramatically named Mozzarella.

You still had a faint scratch near your wrist from where the thing tried to paw at the hair tie. A fading red mark now, hidden under a rolled up sleeve and a mark of grease that smudged on your forearm from one of the mechanics.

Charles noticed. Caught himself glancing at it earlier. And again, just now.

You weren’t looking at him. Your eyes were fixed on the telemetry. Head slightly tilted in concentration. Your face slightly flushed. And not in the delicate way. More in the way that said you’ve been running around since six this morning and we’re probably dehydrated. Probably hadn’t eaten a proper meal either.

Charles tilts his head a bit, watching the way tap on the screen with the knuckle of your pointer finger. Muttering something in Italian under your breath. Too quiet for him to fully hear. Probably something insulting if he had to guess.

“You’re late on throttle in turn 9,” you said finally. Not looking at him.

“It felt clean,” he shrugged.

You let out a small laugh, “Era pigro.” Lazy.

“It was controlled,” he corrects. Running a hand over his unshaven jaw. “There’s a difference.”

You finally glance up at him. The light of the screen lighting your face up a bit. “No, Charles. There’s a difference when you’re not hemorrhaging time.”

He scoffs. “Hemorrhaging is dramatic.”

You raise your brows. “Okay, perdi mezzo secondo e ne parliamo.” Lose half a second and we’ll talk.

Charles shakes his head with a smirk. “You’re so aggressive today.”

You shrug a shoulder. “Blame the sun…or the fact you keep pretending throttle lag is a choice.”

He leans back onto his elbows. The corners of his lips curled up in amusement at the way your mouth twists when you’re trying to hold back. Trying not to say something too mean. The way you chew the inside of your cheek when the data’s pissing you off.

“Y’know,” he says casually, “you’re way nicer on the radio.”

You snort. “That’s cause I can mute myself when I insult you.”

Charles laughs. “Remind me again why it is that you do this?”

Your eyes are back on the screen. You don’t look up. “Who knows….sadism probably.”

He hums. “So you’re in it for the suffering?”

“No,” you say. “I’m in it for the joy of watching you pretend the car is the whole issue when really it’s just you being shy with your right foot today.”

He groans.

“It’s true,” you shrug.

He eyes you for a moment. Not annoyed. Maybe a little bit, but not at you. You’re one of the few people who he lets speak to him like that. One of the few who can, and it won’t trigger his pride. Because you always know where the line is. And you’ve never once stepped over it.

And when he looks at you for a second longer…something feels…different.

Maybe its the way your voice dipped when you said it. Or the flick of your lashes when you smiled. Maybe its just the heat. Or the fact that two years in, he still doesn’t know what you do after you leave the garage.

He clears his throat. “D’ya keep all your insults in an app or somethin’?”

You flash him a grin. “Nope…make them up on the spot. Just for you.”

And there’s something too easy in that smile. Something he thinks he should’ve noticed earlier. But didn’t. Because until now, you were just you. Someone who always knew when his rear tires were about to go. Someone who never let him get away with his bullshit. Who never once looked at him like…

He stands up a little too quickly. Brushing the palms of his hands on the race suit by his knees. “Alright, m’starving. And apparently…timid-footed.”

You raise a brow. “There’s a protein bar in my purse.” You tilt your head towards it.

“I’d rather chew dirt.”

You roll your eyes. Tossing him a look over your shoulder as you begin to walk toward the back of the garage.

“Che testardo,” you mutter. So stubborn.

-

Charles shoved his gloves onto the plastic folding chair a little harder than necessary. They landed on the plastic with a louder slap than he intended. But he didn’t care. His jaw was locked, hair slightly damp under the headset. Suit clung to his skin.

“You changed the brake migration without telling me,” he snapped. Not bothering to look up. “In the middle of a session.”

Across the table, you didn’t even so much as flinch. Just kept swiping through the telemetry like his irritation was nothing. “Because you kept locking up.”

“I was adapting to the shifts in the balance.”

“You were overdriving in a corner that hasn’t changed.”

Charles huffs. Lets out a laugh that’s more humorless than anything. “Right, of course. Because the issue can’t possibly be somethin’ mechanical, yeah?”

You don’t bother to look up still. “The issue is you not listening. Again.”

His eyes flick toward you now.

You were half-slouched in the chair. A leg hooked over your opposite knee, headset wrapped around your head. Hair pulled back but a few stands had fallen loose.

You looked like the end of a long day.

But somehow, you still looked good. Even with flushed cheeks, sweat slicked skin, and tired eyes. The kind of pretty that crept up without warning. The kind that made you look twice…but get annoyed that you did.

Charles blinked. Looked away.

Dragged the palm of his hand over his face. Dragged it to the back of his neck.

“And you didn’t think to tell me first?” His voice was tight. “You just make changes mid run and what? Expect me to trust you…blindly?”

Now you looked up. Brows slightly lifted. But you looked calm.

“Of course I expect you to trust me,” you say. “because you’ve been driving like an absolute dick all day and someone had to do something about it.”

Charles blinked once.

“You locked up almost three laps in a row,” you continue on. As if you were reading a weather report to him. “You oversteered on the entry for no reason. Ignored my suggestion to lift in turn 7.”

He crossed his arms. “I know the car.”

You lean back into your chair, back straightened. “Clearly not this version.”

There’s a pause that stretches nearly too long.

The kind that presses between your shoulders. Or under your ribs. No one nearby to ease it. No engine in the background. Just you and him.

You were staring at him. And he was staring right back. Arms folded across his chest. A line of sweat barely visible on the column of his throat. Jaw locked tight. And he hated when you stared at him like that. Like you were studying him.

“You’re moody today,” you said finally, voice soft. “Snappy.”

Charles brow furrows. Shoulders slightly tense. “M’not moody.”

You blink once. “Okay.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s not a response.”

You tilt your head, mouth twitching.

“Fine,” you say. Voice dropping a little bit lower. Careful. “Y’want an answer?”

Charles doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head a little more. Something curious gleaming in his eyes.

You lean forward, resting an arm on the table in front of you. Other hand still loosely gripping the tablet.

“Ti serve una scopata.”

It lands like a slap.

Chalres blinks once….twice.

Like he wasn’t sure if he actually heard you right. Or the fact that he did. And that was the problem

“What?” He says. Voice tight.

“I said you need a nap.” You shrug your shoulders. Leaning back in your chair.

Charles jaw twitches. “That is not what you said, capo.”

You hold his stare.

And Charles hates…hates…how warm his skin suddenly felt under the fireproofs. How his hands had gotten warm. How aware he suddenly felt.

His spine straightens.

And you didn’t even care.

Just looked back down at the telemetry. Focusing back on the data.

But Charles couldn’t stop hearing it.

You need to get fucked.

-

Charles paces around his apartment like it might help the frustration simmering in his veins.

He’s barefoot on the cool tile. Wearing nothing but a faded t-shirt and a pair of sweats. Waistband sitting low on his hips. Hair sticking to his forehead and the nape of his neck from a recent shower. A shower that did absolutely fuckin’ nothing to calm him down.

He’s still tense. Wound up. Shoulders slightly aching. And his hands twitch by his sides like they’re waiting to grip something. Like his wheel. Or maybe a throat.

He’s not sure what’s pissing him off more. The shit he got from you today. Or just you.

Or maybe not you, exactly. Just what you said.

The way you said it.

Like you weren’t even trying to get under his skin. Just resting against the table, hair straying around your face, headset on, looking him dead in the eye.

Like some fact.

And the words have been echoing in his head all fucking day.

He swears under his breath as he opens the fridge, staring at the minimal food in it like it might knock him out. But nothing cold enough to ease the burn weaving in his veins.

Eventually, he ends up on the couch. Sprawled out and restless. Reaching for his phone. His thumb swiping mindlessly over it. Messages. Some shitty meme’s from Pierre. Scrolls on Instagram for a few moments.

But nothing seems interesting. Everything in him itches.

And then his finger hovers over a little discreet icon. Hidden in folder on his phone. Almost forgotten.

The cam site.

The only one he bothers to use…which isn’t often. But enough that he has it saved. He likes this one. Clean interface. No random pop-ups. Quiet…easy.

And he opens it without really thinking.

It loads slowly…shitty wi-fi. And scrolls through the grid of thumbnails. Blurred faces. Weird usernames. Too many fake bodies.

And he’s about to close it.

But then one thumbnail catches his eye.

Not cause it’s flashy or anything. In fact, it’s the opposite.

The girl on the screen is sitting casually. More like lounging. A loose sweater falling off one shoulder. Headphones around her neck. Smiling at something offscreen. Only the smile and down seen. But she seems at ease. Relaxed.

And….familiar?

He freezes. Like fully freezes. Phone almost slips out of his hand. His heart kicks against his ribs. Just once.

Because he knows that smile.

And the laugh that was in the beginning of the video. It was yours.

And now that he thinks about it…that’s definitely your sweater. The same one you wore under your team jacket the other week. And the background, it’s not sterile. It’s lived in. A record player on the shelf, a mug (probably that shitty tea you swear by) sits on the windowsill.

The same you at snapped at him all morning for his driving. The same you who took half of his protein bar without an apology.

The same you who told him to go get fucked.

He blinks once. Then again. Seeing if his mind is playing tricks on him.

But, you’re still there.

Still smiling softly at the camera. Still talking, though he can’t process what you’re even saying because his ears are now ringing. And his blood is rushing because what the fuck.

He swipes down instinctively. Scrolls through all the thumbnails like confirmation. And there’s more. So many more.

A clip of you in silk. Legs stretched out. One with you in a lacy bra, fingertips brushing your collarbone.

Another where your eyes are paused on the lens (but blurred), smiling like you’re daring someone to click on it. Faint red marks on your wrist.

The same ones he noticed on your wrist.

He swallows. Hard.

And Charles can’t stop himself.

Just a single tap. Just a few seconds he tells himself.

The video opens. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor now, the sweater barely covering your chest at this point. Radiant.

“Oh, you guys are terrible,” you laugh, scrolling through the chat. “No, m’not gonna do that on thursday. You’ll have to try harder.”

Your voice is exactly the same. But something different about it. Because there’s no pressure. No work headset around your neck. No data. Just you. Comfortable. In control.

He watches as you shift forward. Resting an elbow on your knee. “What’s with all the ‘show us more’ energy today, hm? You guys didn’t behave the other day either…”

There’s a pause as you look toward the chat again. And you laugh. “No. Not taking the sweater off yet.”

Yet.

Yet.

His stomach clenches.

You keep talking. Lazy. Teasing. Fingers trailing over your skin like you don’t even know you’re doing it.

And Charles eyes clock the movement without even meaning to.

He feels it. The way his blood stirs in his gut. The way his palms warm. How tight his chest feels. The ache building between his legs from a voice that he hears every fucking day.

Then it happens.

A user types something in all caps in the chat and Charles can’t look away fast enough.

You read it out loud. Laughing. “He says, bet you won’t sit on your hands. Cheeky, hm?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. Like you’re considering it. And your sweater falls down your shoulder a little more.

“Bet I will.”

Charles jolts.

Nope.

Nope.

No. He can’t do this.

He fumbles for the volume button on his phone, thumb swiping agains the screen too fast. The camera angle shifting just a little bit…and that’s all it takes. A slightly different view. More leg. A flash of black lacy fabric beneath the sweater.

And he exits it like he’s been burned.

Locks his phone. Tosses it to the other end of the couch like he’s been caught red handed.

He rubs both palms down his face.

She’s your race engineer. She’s your race engineer. You fight about tire temperatures for crying’ out loud.

You call him names in Italian and steal his food.

He’s not supposed to feel like this.

It’s just one video. A few seconds.

But it’s too much.

Because now he can’t unsee it.

And even worse…he wants more.

-

You’re standing just a little too close. Not in a weird way. Just in the way you always do. Head tilted, mouth slightly parted, fingers trailing the data on the screen. Explaining something about the data…nothing you haven’t done a thousand times prior.

But Charles can’t hear a fucking word.

Because he’s looking at your mouth. And all he can think about is what it looked like in the thumbnail of one of your videos.

Soft lips wrapped around a lollipop. Wet. Glossy. Shirt falling down your shoulder like it had been tugged that way. Like someone already touched you.

And he only saw a glimpse of it. Just long enough to register your username, the curve of your smile, the tone of your voice. Before he swiped the app closed and tossed his phone as if he’d been caught with his hand in a fucking cookie jar.

He didn’t expect you.

But here you are, leaning over the console in the same fitted polo and jeans. Same headset wrapped around your neck. Same pony tail, strands falling loosely. Like always.

And now his brain won’t shut the fuck up.

Do you know how many people watch you? Do they pay to see more? They’re innocent questions at first. But then they stir a little….filthier.

Do you touch yourself slow or rough? Do you fake the sounds or do they tear out of your throat?

You shift a bit closer, trying to get a better look at the screen. And he swears he can smell your shampoo. Strawberry…or something fruity. Definitely a berry.

And his mind is gone. Nowhere near the room you’re both currently seated in.

Cause all he can think about is what your skin looks like beneath your polo. Whether you sit there with your legs spread.

And he doesn’t know. And it’s driving him crazy.

He doesn’t know if you use your fingers. Or if you sit all pretty with a vibrator against your clit. Doesn’t know if you come quick or hold out.

Doesn’t know if you think about anyone specific when you close your eyes.

Doesn’t know if you’ve ever thought about him.

His jaw clenches.

Your voice cuts in. Patient. “Charles, are you even listening to me?”

He blinks. Clears his throat.

“Uh…yeah. Sorry…long day.”

You raise your brows, glancing at him. “Yeah.”

And then, like a fucking wound, you smile at him.

A little amused. A little like you know something.

And it makes him want to slam his head into the table. Or kiss you.

Maybe both.

-

It’s a slow, humid afternoon in Maranello. Ad Charles has barely touched his food. His iced drink has practically melted, soaking the napkin under it. The lemon slice sliding around the glass with every tap of his finger.

Seated outside one of the nearby cafes, Joris is nursing a coffee. His sunglasses pushed into his hair. Watching Charles like he’s trying to read a book.

“You’re weird today,” Joris says. Blunt.

Charles doesn’t look up. Just stirs his drink like he has some personal vendetta against it.

“M’always weird.”

“No…you’re weird, like, in a different way.” Joris pauses. “Like….twitchy.”

Charles scowls. Looking up. “M’not twitchy.”

“You are twitchy.” Joris grins. “Been fidgeting since we sat down.”

“Je réfléchis, c’est tout,” He sighs. M’just thinking, that’s all

“You’re brooding.”

“Same thing.”

Joris grins.

“No, thinking is when you try to solve a problem.” He snorts. “Brooding is what you do when a girl calls you out in front of a bunch of engineers and you’re too horny to even yell back.”

Charles shifts in his seat, posture stiffer than normal. The table wobbles slightly under his elbow.

“You’re so annoying,” he mutters, eyes not looking at Joris but over his shoulder.

Joris just grins. Stirring his espresso. “But I’m right?”

Charles exhales through his knows. The kind of breath that says yes but fuck you for knowing.

Joris leans forward, elbows on the table. His grin wide. “So…it is about her.”

And Charles doesn’t bother to deny it. But doesn’t confirm it either. Just flips his phone over to glance at the clock.

“What, she yell at you or somethin’?” Joris pushes. “Tell you you’re acting like a toddler who didn’t get what they wanted?”

Charles jaw tightens.

“She said I need to get laid.”

Joris freezes mid-sip. Chokes. Coughs. Then slams the cup down a little harder than intended onto the table. “Quoi?!” He half-shouts.

Charles sits there, unreadable. All while Joris is grabbing napkins to wipe his mouth.

“She said that? Like…actually said that?”

Charles nods once. Slow. “Ti serve una scopata. Right to my face.”

Joris laughs. The kind of laugh that has his shoulders bouncing. “That’s…that’s fuckin’ incredible.”

“It’s not.”

“No, c’mon…it is.” Joris is practically wheezing at this point. “That’s so much worse than English. Italian makes it sound like some curse.”

Charles drags a hand over his face. “Can you just…just be serious?”

Joris narrows his eyes. “There’s more.”

“No,” Charles shoot back. Almost too quick.

“Cha, yes there is. I’ve known you for forever. Your head’’s somewhere else.”

Charles hesitates. Because its not his business to tell. But its also eating at him.

“Y’ever just like…find something you weren’t supposed to?”

Joris raises both brows. “What, like she’s dating someone?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

“She is dating someone?”

“No.” But he answers that quick too. “I don’t…I don’t think so.”

“You’re being cryptic…and I hate it.” Joris leans back in his chair. “Let me guess…it’s one of those things that…once you see it, you can’t unsee?”

Charles tenses.

Joris notices. Grins a little. “Y’know what I do when that happens?”

Charles lifts his head. Wary. “What.”

“Just go back. Look at it again. Stare at it til it’s boring.”

Charles squints. “That doesn’t work.”

“It does,” Joris insists. “Y’only spiral when something’s unknown.”

“M’not spiraling.”

“You’re spiraling.” Joris says flatly. “Bouncing’ your fuckin knee the entire time we’re here like you’re waiting for results from the doctor.”

Charles groans, falling back deeper in to his chair. Dragging his hands down his face. “It’s just….it’s complicated.”

“Is it though?” Joris shrugs. Focusing back on picking up his espresso. “Either you ignore it and let it eat at you. Or you take it head-on and get it out of your system.”

-

Charles has been pacing for twenty-eight minutes.

Back and forth. Kitchen to couch. Couch to kitchen again.

And he’s tried everything to ignore the itch under his skin. He’s washed dishes that were already clean. Opened and closed the fridge four times. Played the piano, closed the piano, then opened it again. Spent five whole minutes trying to watch a re-run of his favorite show, only to groan in agony.

He’s nothing thinking straight. In fact, he’s trying not to think at all.

But that’s the whole problem.

Because not thinking leads to feeling. And all he feels is this…itch. A pressure beneath his skin that refuses to ease.

And it’s you.

His phone lights up on the armrest of the couch. Mocking him. An unread notification on the screen.

Charles exhales. Frustrated.

He hasn’t watched a single video. Not since that glimpse.

And it pisses him the fuck off. How badly he wants it. How your voice keeps looping in his head. And its not even you moaning or saying anything filthy. Just the sound of you laughing.

It’s not fair.

You show up to work in jeans, team polos, and scuffed up sneakers. Grease always somewhere wiped on your skin. And now he’s wondering what you wear under them.

If you prop your phone up on a tripod, or if you hold it. If your fingers are slow or fast.

Do you make them wait? Do you tease them?

Charles drags a palm of his face as he falls to the couch. Head resting on the back of the couch cushion.

He’s hard. Of course he is.

Because his cock doesn’t understand logic.

All it understands is that you wear his (also your) team shirt. That your thighs looked warm and fucking soft.

That all he got was a glimpse, but it was enough to brand him.

Do you arch when you’re close?

Do you whisper things in Italian when you come? Or do you just moan…soft and slow like you do when you’re pissed but trying to hold it together at the track?

He groans.

He’s so fucking gone.

He reaches for his phone. Just a look he swears.

He unlocks the screen. And the app is already there. Because he’s hovered over it too many times to count.

He taps it open.

And he feels his grip tighten on the phone when he see’s it.

LIVE.

Bright red. Unavoidable.

It takes a few seconds to load, but when it does…you’re perched on your bed, thighs tucked beneath you with an oversized Ferrari shirt. And even though the camera never pans above your mouth, it’s without a doubt you. He’d know your voice anywhere.

Twirling the cord of your headphones between two fingers, smiling as you talk to the stream.

milanopapi: back again, tesoro…miss me?

redzone: isn’t that the same shirt from last week?

luckystrike01: nah, she’s teasin’ tonight…slow start.

User44nut: imagine her riding you in that

You laugh. Soft and warm. And Charles feel his fingers curl a bit harder around his phone.

“Y’guys are so impatient,” you drag your thumb across the side of your neck. “Always begging.”

Charles shifts on the couch, hand resting agains this stomach. His cock swelling in his pants.

You lean back, spreading your legs a bit further. Not fully open…but enough to show a glimpse of the black lace.

milanopapi: knew you’d be in the little black ones…bet they’re already soaked

user34six: can we make her edge again tonight?

You glance at the chat. Then shift again. Fingers trailing down your belly, reaching just under the hem of your shirt.

“I don’t know…” you say. Dragging it out. “Should I edge for you tonight?”

That chat explodes.

milanopapi: baby please no

italianstallion112: touch ur clit…slow. pls.

And then a few moments later:

milanopapi tipped $100: be a good girl and show us. do that thing with ur fingers u like so much

You chuckle, breath hitching. “Mmm, you’re so impatient, tesoro.” Your hand slips lower.

And Charles sees red.

His cock twitches, his fist wrapping around it. Stroking himself once. A little rough. Biting back a groan as you slide your fingers over the lace.

He can’t take it. Not the way you tease the camera. Not the way these strangers tip you like you belong to them.

Not when all he can think about is how he knows your voice better than anyone.

And it’s as if he blacks out. Thumb hovering over the keyboard.

bawseven tipped $500: don’t tease. spread those legs and rub that pretty clit just how you like it

You freeze for a second.

Not dramatically. But your breath catches just for a little.

“Big spender,” you mutter. And your smile is breathless. “Bossy too.”

Charles strokes himself harder now. Wrist flicking with each stroke. And the shame only makes it worse. Makes it hotter.

You don’t know the man that you sit beside in race briefings is now panting over you. Desperate for a better look between your thighs.

You obey. Shift back on the bed. Spread your legs just enough for the lace to move over your cunt, glistening. And then you slip your fingers under.

One slow, circle.

Then another.

And another.

And your voice breaks into a soft, needy moan.

“Just like that?” You ask the chat. “Want me to make a mess just for you?”

Charles grunts low in his throat, eyes locked on the screen. Hips bucking into his own fist. The heat curling under his skin.

Your moans are getting louder. Legs trembling slightly.

And all Charles can think…all he can feel…is how badly he wants it to be himmaking you whimper like that.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your hand falters. Not until your panting and drooling.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Almost…M’almost there…”

And Charles comes with a loud groan, spilling hot into his hand. Vision going white.

He doesn’t breathe for a second.

Just listens as your voice trembles. Asking if you should go again.

Charles swallows.

bawseven tipped $900: again…slower.

-

The garage is buzzing with its usual rhythms. Drills, muttered conversations, the low sound of power units warming up.

You barely hear any of it.

Because Charles is pacing again.

You pretend to focus on the numbers scattered around the tablet’s screen in your hand. But your eyes keep flicking up. Watching him.

His helmet tucked into the space beneath an arm. Fireproofs hugging him. Hair messy. Jaw tight….always tight lately.

And he’s circling the car like its personally offended him. He’s restless. Twitchy. And okay, yeah…Charles can be intense sometimes. But this is…different.

You hold back a smile. Adjust the headset around your neck. “You okay?”

He pauses mid-step. Doesn’t bother to look at you.

“M’fine.”

You hum, tapping through the data. “Right…because you look totally relaxed and not at all freaked out.”

His brow twitches, just a bit. “M’not freaked out.”

“No,” you glance at him again. “But you are hovering.”

“M’waiting.”

You tilt your head. And he’s standing close now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin.

“For what?”

“For you to finish whatever it is you’re doin,” he mutters. Voice tight. “And for you to stop eating your pen cap.”

You blink. Caught off guard. And then glance down at the pen resting between your teeth. You didn’t even notice. Call it a…habit.

“Oh. Sorry…” You pull it out of your mouth. “Didn’t realize it was so bothersome.”

“S’not…” He lies through his teeth.

You study him for a moment. Stomach fluttering.

There’s a flush to his neck. And his gaze is flickering everywhere but your mouth.

You’ve worked with Charles for nearly two years now. And you thought you knew every version of him.

But this version? You don’t know this one.

Sharper. Like he’s definitely distracted but trying to pretend he isn’t.

You hold out the tablet. Shaking it off. “here. Look at this.”

He reaches for the tablet without another word. Fingers brushing against yours. And you try not to notice how warm they are. Or how big his hands are. Or how tight his jaw is clenched as he reads the data.

Christ, he’s pretty.

You’re not blind. He’s always been hot. But he’s also always been Charles. The man who makes dumb jokes and calls you capo whenever he wants something from you. Who throws his gloves at your chair whenever he’s annoyed or frustrated. Who then pouts when you ignore him.

So yeah, you knew he was hot. But you never looked.

“Throttle trace looks pretty good,” you glance at your notes. “And I adjusted the diff for turns 6 and 7. Hopefully it feels a lot smoother.”

“Grazie.” He says. Still sounding distracted.

You roll your eyes.

He hands you back the tablet. “You’re good at this, y’know?”

You smile. A small laugh. “I know.”

And Charles just stares at you for a few moments too long before he glances at the car. Long enough that you feel your skin prickle.

You glance around the garage. “They’re probably gonna start wondering why we’re just standing here eye-fucking each other.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes widening. “We’re n…”

You cut him off with a grin. “Relax…It’s called a joke, Leclerc.”

He groans. “You’re impossible.”

“And you…” You start, stepping around him. “Are late on your start lap.”

Charles doesn’t move at first. Just watches you walk away. The tablet tucked beneath your arm, ponytail swaying.

He swallows…hard.

Because he knows the second his gloves are off…the second his front door closes tonight… It’s going to be your voice in his thoughts.

And your hands.

And that fucking pen between your teeth.

-

Charles doesn’t even bother to pretend that he’s not going to watch you tonight. He doesn’t hover over the app. Doesn’t pace his apartment.

He’s sprawled on his bed, shirtless. Chest still slightly flushed red from his recent shower. Hair a bit damp. Didn’t even bother to put on boxers beneath his sweats.

You’re lounging on your bed, a different worn Ferrari shirt slipping off your shoulder. Mouth barely in the frame. Lips shiny…from lip gloss or spit, he can’t tell. But it doesn’t matter cause his cock stirs just at the sight of them.

The chat is already alive.

papazone4: another ferrari shirt?

fredburnz: show us what that mouth can do

And

milanopapi: tesoro, you kill me

milanopapi tipped $100: open wider, bella.

Charles bites his cheek. Milanopapi. The same fucking handle every time. Tipping early.

Charles’s cock stirs beneath his sweats. His hand slips down.

“Hi…” You mutter, half-laughing. “Miss me?”

The chat blows up again.

milanopapi: every fuckin night

user44_jack: don’t play dumb with us

papazone4:  fuck….look at her mouth guys. u just know she sucks dick slow

Charles strokes himself once. Twice… And he’s already leaking

And the worst part about it is that you haven’t even touched yourself yet. You’re just sitting there fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Watches as your hand trails up your belly. High enough that it disappears under the cotton shirt.

And then:

Milanopapi tipped $100: c’mon, tesoro…be a good girl

You smile. Just a bit. The kind of smile that Charles recognizes from meetings. The one when you’re trying not to roll your eyes.

“So impatient…” Your hand still trailing your skin. “Didn’t even say please.”

That earns a flood of begging in the chat. More tipping. More dirty demands.

Charles grits his teeth. Hand tightening around his phone in frustration.

He opens the tipping screen. Types without even thinking.

bawseven tipped $1500: don’t listen to them. take them off slow. show me how wet you are, yeah?….don’t come til i say

You freeze. Not too noticeable. But he sees it. The sharp intake of breath. The shift of your thighs.

“Bossy tonight,” You tease. But your voice has gone softer…almost throatier. “Y’always want so much from me.”

Charles strokes himself faster. His thumb swiping over the tip, collecting precum. Dragging it down the length of his cock.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties. Pull the lace down slow. SO slow that Charles cock twitches in his palm

And when they finally slip down your thighs, you part your legs just a little.

Fuck.

milanopapi: never gets old

milanopapi tipped $150: rub it for me….wanna see that cunt drip

Charles sees red.

Thumb flying.

bawseven tipped $2500: she’s dripping for me. circle ur clit with two fingers. now.

You bite your lip. Obey.

Fingers dragging in small, tight circles. Just enough pressure that your hips twitch against the mattress.

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Like that?”

Charles groans. Loud. Hips bucking into his fist now. Frantic and furious.

It’s honestly pathetic how close he is already.

And you don’t stop.

Your other hand lifts…slipping under your shirt. Cupping your breast as your thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Can’t believe how wet….” You moan out. “Feels…feels so good.”

Your back arches as your cunt begs for a release.

“M’almost….” You whisper, voice cracking. “I…can’t…”

bawseven: no. be good for me…stay right there.

And you try.

You keep your fingers moving just like he asked.

Soft. Controlled. Frustrating.

Your lips are parted, gloss smeared. And you can barely keep your thighs open.

The chat is feral.

user44_jack: fuck…

papazone4: she’s twitching already???

milanopapi tipped $100: c’mon. let go

bawseven tipped $800: don’t you fuckin dare

You cry out.

The pressure is nearly unbearable. Your head tips back, mouth leaving frame to just show the column of your throat.

Voice high and breathless as you rub harder.

bawseven: yes right there….show me how good you are

You groan, grinding harder against your fingers. You’re soaked.

“M’so close….” You choke out.

bawseven: no. u have to beg for it

Your other hand grips the sheets. “Please,” you breathe. “Please…please..I’ll be good, I’ll do…whatever. Just let me…fuck. Please…”

Your voice is cracking.

“Want to be good…”

bawseven tipped $3000: go on…make a mess. let them see who you belong to

And that’s all it takes.

You come with a loud moan. Body arching, thighs trembling that the angle of the camera changed from the movement. But your fingers don’t stop.

user123abc: holy fuck

milanipapi: m’gonna explode

italianstallion112: who the fuck is bawseven

papazone4: that was so fuckin hot

And on the other end…Charles is coming too. Hand pumping hard. Hips bucking. Come spilling all over his fist and stomach as he chokes out as groan.

It’s brutal and filthy.

bawseven: good fuckin girl

-

The team dinner tonight is louder than usual.

Laughter is bouncing and echoing off the restaurant’s walls. Plates being passed around. Silverware clattering. Bottles of wine being poured.

And Charles is glued to your side.

He wasn’t supposed to be beside you. In fact, his name card was across from yours. But he traded with someone. Didn’t explain why.

Just slid in beside you like it was the most natural thing.

And now his thigh is warm against yours.

He hasn’t moved it. And you haven’t either.

“Food’s good, yeah?” He mutters, voice low and near your ear.

“Mmm,” you say. Taking a small sip of your wine.

“You wore your hair down,” he says. Voice casual.

You blink. “Hm?”

He leans in a tad closer. “Y’never wear it down in the garage.”

“Cause it’s hot. And greasy in there.”

“Still….I noticed.”

You pause for a moment. Cheeks reddening a bit. “What else have you noticed, hm?”

He grins. Like a full blown grin. Teeth and all. The kind that makes you feel a little breathless if you look at it for too long.

“That you have two different laughs. One for when you’re makin fun and teasin me…Another for when you aren’t.”

You swirl your wine. “Bold of you to assume there’s a time where m’not teasin…”

Charles laughs. And it sinks beneath your skin like heat. “Yeah, well…you’ve got a nice laugh.”

You glance at him, trying to play it cool. Trying to ignore the way his knee keeps pressing into yours. The way his voice lowers when he’s only talking to you. The way he watches your mouth like he knows its something he shouldn’t be staring at…but does it anyway.

“You’re observant tonight,” you say lightly.

Charles hums. “Always am.”

You narrow your eyes.

“You’re kinda hard to ignore,” he adds on. Says it casually. Like its nothing.

“I am?” You blink once.

“Mhm.” He nods, looking at you. “Even when m’trying to think about other shit…y'just show up in my head.”

And he says it so lightly. So casually.

And you know he’s not kidding. Not when his eyes flick to your mouth and linger a second too long.

“You’re in my head too much lately.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance. He just refills your wine glass, leans back.

“Drink up,” his lips twitch. “Tomorrow’s a long day.”

And then he’s turning towards a mechanic on the other side of him, joining in on the conversation like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just undo you with one line.

Alexandra is lounged across from you, next to where Charles normally sits. Her laugh light as she flicks through photos on her phone to show Lando and Lily.

You laugh softly at something Lando says, music low and warm. Air thick with summer heat and comfort.

Until the sliding glass door opens. Which you don’t even hear opening.

But you feel him.

Before you even look up, you feel the way your chest tightens. The way your spine stiffens just a little bit more.

And then his voice.

“Sorry I’m late.”

It’s low. Collected.

And you don’t look at him right away. Pretend to sip your drink. Pretend to listen as Carlos cracks some jokes. You even smile. Because you’re good at this.

But Charles is better.

You glance up.

Charles walks in like he’s walking into a room that belongs to him. White tee snug around his chest, sleeves short enough to show the sharp slope of his muscle and forearm. His hair is a little messy, pushed back in that lazy but practiced way. Sunglasses hanging from his collar. A bottle in one hand, phone in the other.

And then, as if summoned, his eyes flick to you.

Just a passing glance. Nothing more.

But you feel it.

The weight of it on your throat. The slow drag of his gaze from your mouth down to the way your body is folded against Carlos’s. He doesn’t smile. Just stares at you for a second maybe too long. Like a finger curling beneath your chin.

Like he knows. Like he knows he’s already inside your brain. Inside the thoughts you’re trying not to have.

“Hey baby,” Alex says. Standing up to kiss his cheek. “Thought you weren’t coming.”

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off you for a bit. But then smoothly, turns his head. Smiles against Alex’s mouth. “Told you I’d try.”

Your stomach twists.

Carlos squeezes your thigh softly, leaning into you more. “Y’want another glass, cariño?”

You blink. “What?”

He laughs under his breath. “Your wine.”

You nod too fast. “Oh. Sure. Yes.”

Carlos is then disappearing towards the kitchen.

And then Charles is taking his seat. Right across from you. An arm slung along the back of the couch, his knees spread lazily wide, body leaning slightly toward you. And he’s talking to Pierre now. Laughing at something stupid. Making Alex laugh too.

But his eyes drift. Right on you. 

On your thighs. Past the hem of your skirt. Up your arms. Your throat. Your eyes.

His mouth ticks. Not quite a smile. 

“Y’look bored,” He says quietly.

“M’not.”

He hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You blink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

And he tilts his head, eyes wandering. To where Carlos’s voice is still drifting in the other room.

Then back to you.

“Nothing,” He says. Looks at Alex as she’s deep in conversation with the other’s. Leans closer toward you. “Just…if I had you sitting in my lap like that, I’d at least try to keep you entertained.”

Your breath hitches.

“M’not bored.” You say. More for yourself.

“You keep telling yourself that.”

And he doesn’t wait for a reply. Just leans back. Relaxed. Like he didn’t just crawl beneath your skin in less than a minute.

Pulls Alexandra into him, whispers into her ear. 

And Carlos returns, drops back into the cushion beside you. Kisses your forehead. Hands you your drink. 

And you pretend nothing’s changed.

-

It doesn’t all happen at once.

There was never a single moment where your knees buckle or your heart flips.

And you tell yourself that its nothing. That your brain invented some game. Out of boredom. 

It starts with his voice.

Low. Measured. Always a little too calm. Never rushed. And never raised unless he was beyond pissed. But you start noticing that you remember the way he says your name. Flat. Direct. Like he’s stating a fact.

And then its his eyes.

You’ve seen Charles smile. Laugh. The fondness he directs at his girlfriend that you’ll never question.

But when he looks at you, there’s none of that warmth.

Only a cold, heavy awareness.

Not affection but….possession.

And the fucked up part of it all?

You start craving it.

You wait for the glance. The comment. The silence that feels like a threat. You start letting Carlos touch you in front of him just to see if he reacts.

Sometimes he doesn’t.

And you find yourself hating those days.

But sometimes he does react.

And those are the worst days too.

Because Charles doesn’t do anything obvious. Never snaps or stares at you too long in a way that people would notice. He’s smarter than that. Sicker.

He’ll just glance once. Maybe twice. Slow. And your body will feel like it’s been cracked open.

Like he knows that you’re wet under the table. That you’d open your legs for him in the hallway if he crooked his finger at you the right way. That you’re so wound up from being good, from pretending that you don’t want it. That you’d thank him for the ruin.

And you shouldn’t want it.

But you do.

You want it like an infection. Like a fucking punishment.

And you tell yourself that its just curiosity. But its also a lie you stopped believing a few weeks ago when you made yourself come to the thought of his voice. Not even his hands. Not even his lips.

Just the low, quiet way he says your name. Like he’s laying claim.

You were wearing one of Carlos’s hoodies at the time. That was the worst part.

His scent around you. Name on your lock screen. Toothbrush on the sink.

And all you could think about how Charles would fuck you if he got the chance.

Hard. Silent. Unforgiving.

One hand wound in your hair. Other pressed against your throat. Mouth at your ear telling you you’re so much better like this.

You’d try to hide your face, but he wouldn’t let you. He’d make you show it. Just to see how guilty you’d look with his cock shoved in your throat.

And he’d smile.

Because he’d know. That its not about love or affection. 

It’s about control. Power.

-

It happens in a stairwell.

Dark. Empty. The kind of place people don’t stop in. And you shouldn’t have stopped either. But he was already behind you. And when he said your name. Low and quiet. Commanding. You stopped.

You turn, slowly. Like you’re convinced there’s some line still drawn between you two. Like you’re not already tip-toeing over it.

And he’s looking at you like he knows exactly where this is going.

“You look pretty tonight,” Charles says. Voice low.

You swallow. “We were at dinner.”

“So?” His eyes trail down your body. “You wore that little dress anyway.”

You hesitate. Trying to be good. “Carlos liked it.”

“Of course he did,” he says. “So did I.”

He takes a step forward. You don’t move. Just lean further back against the wall, your breath in your throat.

He looks at you like you’ve already fucked. Like he’s seen every inch of your skin. “Bet you wore it wondering if I’d look.”

You blink.

“And you want me to look, don’t you?”

You stay silent.

He grins. Slow. Smug. Cruel. “Want me to imagine how warm you’d be if I shoved my hand under it. Bet you’re wearing no panties, yeah?”

Your stomach clenches.

“You don’t even like soft.” He goes on. “Bet you lay next to him and think about me. How rough I’d be. How fuckin mean I’d get.”

Your breath shutters. Skin burning.

“I wouldn’t fuck you sweet.” Charles says, hand braced on the wall next to your head. “No…I’d bend you over the nearest surface and fuck your pathetic pussy like its mine.”

Your knees go weak. And he sees it.

“Bet you’d cry.” His voice is low. “Would make you look at me while I fuckin ruin you.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

And he leans in. Just enough for his lips to graze your jaw. “Want that, don’t you?”

And then he steps back. Leaves you there.

Because he’s not in love with you.

He just wants to see how long it’ll take before you finally let him win.

-

The table is alive with conversation. Laughter, flickering candles, all wrapped inside of an expensive restaurant. 

And somehow. Somehow. You’re seated between Carlos and Charles, body angled toward Carlos, but nerves magnetically drawn to Charles.

And Carlos is throwing his arm around as he tells a story, about how he thought his brakes were failing. His other arm rests comfortably on your back of your chair. Thumb brushing small circles against the skin of your shoulder every once in a while. Like always.

His voice is warm in your ear every now and then. A joke. A shared glance. He’s present. He’s good.

And you’re doing your best to be good too.

And then there’s Charles.

Seated beside you. Closer than he needs to be. Closer than anyone else notices.

His thigh hasn’t touched yours….yet.

But he’s angled his chair slightly toward you. Just enough to make sure his voice hits you first when he speaks. Just enough that you feel the heat of him.

Charles hasn’t said much. And he hasn’t touched you. 

Not unless you count the slight brush of his hand when you both reached for the bottle earlier. Or the way his breath hit your neck when he leaned past you to grab some of the bread. 

Or the moment his knee slightly knocked yours under the table and didn’t pull away.

And now his voice hits your ear. Low. Quiet. Only meant for you.

“You’re trying too hard.”

You don’t bother glancing at him. But your fingers tighten around your wine glass.

“Trying what?”

His voice is smooth. “To act like you’re not soaking wet.”

Your chest burns. Flushing red.

And your eyes flash to Carlos, mid conversation with Lando and Pierre, not even noticing the way you’ve gone tense.

Charles just sips his drink. Slow. A slight twitch in his lips.

“Y’think I can’t feel it?” He mutters. “The way your leg jerks every time I lean closer?”

“M’not…”

“Sure.” His tone mocks you now. “That’s why you haven’t moved away.”

You swallow thickly. A slight shift in your seat. Trying to ease the ache burning between your thighs. 

And he hums. Pleased.

“See?”

You grit your teeth. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm…maybe.” He tilts his head a little closer to you. Smiling like nothing’s happening. “But you’re the one clenching your thighs like a whore right now. Not me.”

And your cheeks burn. His smirk deepens.

“Carlos would be so disappointed,” He adds. Eyes wandering to the man seated beside you. “He thinks you’re such a good girl.”

You shoot him a warning look. Narrowing your eyes. Panic clawing at your throat.

And he just smiles.

“Y’dont like when I talk about him, don’t you?” He whispers. “You only want me to talk about you? About how fuckin’ tight you’d be if I just…”

You tip your wine glass back. Draining it. Hands trembling just a bit.

“Relax,” he says. “M’not gonna do anything.”

A pause.

“Not yet.”

And he leans back in his chair, knee still pressed into the side of your leg. Warm. A reminder.

Carlos turns to you, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “All good, mi amor? A bit red, yeah?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just…uh, warm in here.”

And Charles makes a small entertained hum that makes you want to scream, punch him, and fuck yourself on him all at the same time.

-

It starts to consume you.

And there’s nothing gentle about it. He doesn’t coax. He just takes.

And you let him. 

You hate yourself for how badly you want it. You try your best to be good. Sit close to Carlos, smile when he cups your cheek and calls you mi vida. Kiss him with soft lips and soft eyes. Like you don’t spend half the night choking on the weight of Charles in your thoughts.

Because that’s what it’s become.

Need. 

Dark. Invasive.

It got worse when he started texting.

You were in Carlos’s hotel bed, freshly showered. Phone face down on the nightstand. And he’s asleep beside you. Trusting.

And you shouldn’t pick up your phone. You know that. But you do it anyways. Tell yourself it’s just to check the time to ease your thoughts.

But when you flip it over, there’s a message from Charles waiting.

You looked pathetic today. Sitting on his lap like it actually means something.

Your stomach twists. Thighs clench.

He doesn’t follow up. Because you’re already wet. Just from that simple text.

From the idea that he saw you earlier. With Carlos’s hand on your waist, lips brushing against your cheek. And instead of looking away, Charles watched. Gotten off on how desperate you looked pretending to be loved.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard.

You’re a fucking asshole. You erase it. Go fuck yourself. Erase that too.

You send a photo instead.

Just your bare legs pulled toward your chest. Nothing but the hem of Carlos’s t-shirt barely covering anything. Fingers spreading yourself open just enough.

No caption.

And he replies instantly.

That’s better. Dripping and shameful.

Bet you’re already thinking about my cock, yeah?

You don’t respond. You’re too busy grinding against the heel of your palm. Twitching at the thought of him fucking you.

But then the next message comes in.

Touch yourself. Two fingers. Now. 

Want you sloppy by the time I call.

You hesitate. Listen to Carlos’s soft snores. His back to you as he lays on his side.

Your phone buzzes. An incoming call. And you answer it.

He doesn’t even bother with niceties. Doesn’t say hello.

“You better be doing what I fuckin’ said.”

Your voice is shaky. “I….I am.” You whisper.

Charles lets out a low breath. Amused. “Good girl. Keep going. Want to hear how messy you are.”

Your fingers are soaked. And you move faster.

He listens. And you can tell by the slick sounds in your ear, that he’s stroking himself too. Breath sharp and uneven through the phone.

“Y’like this, hm?” He grunts. “Fucking yourself in his bed to my voice?”

You moan softly. Bite your lip hard. Trying your best not to wake Carlos up.

“Such a filthy fuckin’ whore.” He whispers. “Does he fuck you like this? No. You get soft kisses and boring fingers. I’d fuckin’ ruin you.”

You whimper. And then he laughs. Cruel.

“Keep you on your knees for hours.” He grunts. “Slap your fuckin’ face until you’re out of tears. Make you beg.”

And you’re close. Too close. Pressing the pillow over your mouth to drown out the soft moans.

But he knows.

“Come for me,” He mutters. “Make a mess. Pretend its mine.”

And you do. 

Hard. Eyes squeezes shut with guilt and need.

Your thighs shake. Hand is a fucking wreck between your legs.

And then you hear his movements quicken, the groaning, a few fuck fuck fuck’s muttered. 

And then the line goes dead.

No goodbye. No softness.

-

You don’t sleep that night.

You lay there for hours. Half numb. Half aching. Legs sticky. Carlos shifts beside you at one point in the night, blindly reaching for you. Tugging you into him. And you let him.

Let him pull you into his chest. Kiss the top of your head.

And you try. Try to convince yourself that its just a phone call. Just a fantasy. That its out of your system and over.

But it’s not.

Because in the morning, there’s a package waiting at your door for you.

Small. Unmarked. Carlos still in the shower.

And you open it with shaky fingers.

And inside…wrapped in silk. A toy. Long. Thick. Curved in a way that’s too precise to be random.

A note tucked beneath it. No name.

Use this. I want proof you know how to take it.

And your stomach twists. In disgust. In guilt. In heat. In need.

Because he didn’t even ask. 

He just knew you would.

-

You manage to hold out for a few days. 

Carlos is busy with commercials, brand shoots, and some PR dinner that you’re supposed to attend but decline. Tell him you have a headache. Meanwhile its the guilt that’s gnawing at your brain.

He kisses you soft. Tells you to rest and that he’ll be home late.

And you promise yourself to be good.

And you mean it.

At first.

You even clean the apartment. Scrub it until your muscles ache. Light a few candles. Fold his laundry and tuck it away into the drawers.

You try everything to stay distracted. Laundry. Dishes. Put on a movie.

But it doesn’t.

Your phone buzzes once. And your stomach twists.

Bet you’ve been thinking about it.

And it feels like a hand wrapped around your throat. You leave it on read. Go back to the movie. Distract yourself.

But a minute later, another buzz from your phone.

Don’t be shy…Pull it out. Sit on it.

I know your cunt’s been throbbing since you first opened it.

You walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Pace around. Tingling. Aching. 

Think of Carlos. Think of how great he is. How sweet he is.

And you don’t even realize you’re pulling out the box until your fingers are brushing against the silk.

Don’t remember crawling onto the bed. Just know that the guilt didn’t stand a fucking chance.

And you barely remember tapping the FaceTime icon on his contact.

You’re already soaked when he answers. Laying back on the mattress with one leg stretched out, the other bent. The toy still untouched, resting on your stomach. And you feel the lack of restraint you have when trying to convince yourself not to pick it up.

You expect him to take his time. Let it ring for a while. But he answers instantly.

And he’s propped up in bed. Dark. Shirless. Hair messy and eyes hooded.

“About fucking time.”

You swallow. Lips parted.

“I wasn’t going to…”

“Don’t lie.”

Your thighs twitch.

“I hate you,” You whisper softly. Sickened with yourself.

He lets out a small laugh. “No. You hate that I know what you need.”

You flinch. But don’t bother arguing. Because your cunt clenches just from hearing his voice.

“Should make you say it,” His voice is rough. “Make you tell me what you were thinking.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were,” He snaps. Voice sharp. “Bet you couldn’t stop thinking about me spreading you open. Fingers shoved in your mouth. Voice in your ear.”

He shifts the phone slightly. Just enough that you can see his hand moving beneath the thin sheet.

“Put it in,” He demands. “Slow.”

And your fingers tremble as the wrap around the toy. Lifting it. Angling it.

“You’re sick,” You whisper. Frustrated. “Fucking sick.”

“And you’re dripping for me,” He shoots back. “Now be the good girl that you are and fuck yourself like I told you to.”

The stretch makes your head fall back against the pillows instantly. A broken sob.

“Look at me,” Charles grunts. “Eyes not he fucking screen. Want to see your face.”

You do as he says. Shame swirling inside of you. Face flushed.

“That’s it,” He coos. “That’s what I want to see.”

And you thrust the toy deeper, whimpering. Biting your lip to stay quiet. But the sound of the toy covered in your slick betrays you.

“Faster,” He demands. “Wanna hear how desperate you are.”

Your other hand fists the sheets. The tip of the toy brushing that spot deep in you that makes your vision blur a little bit.

“Charles..” You groan out. “I…fuck…I…”

He groans loudly, fisting himself.

“Crying already?” He laughs. “Don’t even need me to fuck you, just need my voice? Is that it?”

You nod.

“Pathetic.”

You moan.

“Fucking disgusting.” He spits. “I should record this. Send it to him and let him fuckin’ hear how you sound while you’re fucking yourself on something I sent you.”

Your back arches off the mattress.

“I hate you.”

He smirks. Fisting himself faster. “Yeah? That why you’re about to come all over the toy with my name? 

You whimper. Shaking. Burning. Aching.

“Then do it.” He hisses.

And you shatter. Your entire body seizing as your mouth falls slack. Toy rocking into you as your walls clench around it again and again. 

And then entire time, Charles is watching. Eyes burning into the screen.

“Don’t stop,” He pants. “Let me see the mess…don’t fucking stop.”

And you don’t. You listen. Riding the dildo until it almost hurts. Until tears are falling out the corners of your eyes. Until you hear him groan. A string of curses slipping from his mouth as he comes with you.

And then silence.

You lay there silently. Shaking.

And Charles doesn’t hang up.

No, he just stares.

Satisfied.

Because he know’s he has you now.

-

You don’t expect him to act different. Like anything happened.

But you don’t expect this.

It’s Saturday. You’re at the track later than usual, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion beneath your eyes. Carlos is done with his media rounds. Pulling you into him when he sees you. Like there’s nothing in the world that could make him happier than seeing you.

Kisses you. Tells you he missed you.

And you smile.

And that’s exactly what makes this so much worse. Because he’s good. So fucking good.

Because just twenty four hours ago, you were on your knees in your bedroom, whispering Charles name as you fucked yourself. Now you’re in the garage pretending like you’re not bathed in shame.

Charles walks in with his head down. Race suit half-zipped, sunglasses hiding his eyes. Headphones around his neck.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even flinch when he walks past. Carlos claps his shoulder when he walks by in passing.

And then he’s gone. Folding into his seat in the corner like you don’t even exist.

And it makes you feel sick. Not because you want affection. That was never the game.

But it still burns.

Carlos is scrolling through the rest of his schedule for the weekend, explaining to you when he’ll be busy. But your brain’s somewhere else.

And Charles is watching. Just for a mere second. A flick of his gaze. Down to where Carlos’s fingers rest on your lower back. Blank. Expressionless.

And then he looks away.

And you hate the way it makes you ache. Hate the way that he has you fidgeting with your rings. Hate that you can still hear his voice in your head, filthily telling you to spread your legs wider for him.

Carlos leans into you, fingers splaying slightly. Eyes lingering on you brightly, thumb tracing circles.

“Was thinking,” He says. Voice low. “After this weekend…maybe we could drive down the coast, yeah? Just us. I found this place with a private beach and no press. You’d love it.”

And you feel your chest crack.

Because he means it. Because he doesn’t deserve any oft his.

“I’d love that,” You say. “Sounds so perfect.”

He grins. Leans in and kisses you. “Good. I’ll make the plans.”

You nod. Bite the inside of your cheek. Try to hold the image of him, the sun, just you two.

But then the meeting breaks up. Chairs scrape. You rise to your feet. Carlos brushes past you to head to the other side of the room.

And that’s when Charles passes behind you.

No pause. No glance.

But his voice brushes against the shell of your ear. Cold. Cruel.

“Next time, don’t come so easy.”

And you don’t turn. Don’t follow his movements with your eyes. But your body is burning. With the shame. Guilt. The thrill.

And by the time you finally look in his direction, he’s already outside. Slipping his arm around Alexandra’s waist like he was never even around you.

-

It begins like most bad habits do.

Small. Sporadic enough that you can pretend that it’s not actually happening. Just mistakes.

The first time you sent him an unwarranted photo you told yourself it was a dare. Just to see what Charles would say. 

You didn’t expect him to respond within seconds.

That’s it. Spread em’ wider.

And you know that you shouldn’t have liked it. Shouldn’t have kept reading it over and over.

And now he never let a single day pass without sending something.

Think of me when you soak your sheets tonight.

Sometimes its a voicemail. Voice low and thick. Commanding.

You know what you are? He’d say into the phone. A fuckin’ liar. Just a pathetic fuckin’ liar smiling like you’re in love with him. Like you’re cunt isn’t aching for me every second.

A FaceTime came late. Your phone buzzing. A text coming through as it rang.

Answer it.

You stare at the screen. Knowing you shouldn’t. Knowing what it would mean. What it would lead to.

But your fingers move before you could stop them.

And the call connects. Charles, lying in bed. Hair messy like his fingers ran through it a dozen times. Phone resting against his chest so you could see his collarbones and the veins in his neck. 

“You’re late,” He said. As if this was planned. Scheduled.

You didn’t speak. Just bent one leg, the other falling open. Toy already waiting beside you.

His voice was hard.

“Pick it up. Sit on it.”

You hesitate. “I…”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He cuts you off.

And you do it. Cheeks burning. Bracing the phone against your pillow. Lowering yourself onto the toy. Slow.

And he watches. Lips parted. “That’s it…” His voice is lazy. “Carlos could never make you this wet.”

You moan. Couldn’t hide how hot he made your body.

“Bet you think about this every night.” His voice is low. “Poor little fuckin’ slut.”

You whimper. Rolling your hips. Grinding down harder. Picturing that it’s Charles your fucking yourself onto. 

And you shift on the bed. Hands trembling. Moaning. Unable to stop. Struggling to breathe properly.

“That’s it, baby.” Charles breathes. “Ruin yourself. Cry if you need to.”

And your eyes go glassy.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” He demands. Not even touching himself. And that somehow makes it worse. Because he’s just watching. Making you do it all.

“I….” You breathe. “I can’t..I..”

“Try.”

You sob out. “I want it to be you.”

He grins. Dark. “Want what to be me?”

“Your cock. I want it to be your cock.”

And he groans. “Yeah? Bet the toy’s not thick enough for you. Not mean enough either.”

You’re shaking. Fingers slipping.

“Charles…” You whimper.

“I should be there.” He grunts. “Have you gagging for it. Slap your fuckin’ face when you even think about denying me.”

And your vision blurs.

“Come for me,” He hisses.

And you do. Like it’s programmed in your body to listen to him.

-

You weren’t planning on actually seeing him.

You’d told Carlos the truth. Partially.

That you’d join him in Spain in a few days. That your work had piled up and you were exhausted. You kissed him softly in the terminal. 

And you’d meant it.

But the silence in your apartment bothered you. Bed was too cold. Guilt gnawed at your bones. And the ache. It never went away.

Not when you showered. Not when you turned your phone off.

You hadn’t spoken to Charles in a few days. Not since the last FaceTime call. You’d blocked his number after that. Told yourself that you were done.

But then you unblocked it this morning. Like the pathetic person Charles told you that you were.

And you’re still in your oversized t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts when the knock comes. Sharp. Twice. 

You freeze in the kitchen. 

You check the peephole.

Charles. With his arms crossed. Jaw tight.

And your fingers tremble on the lock.

You shouldn’t open the door, but you do.

His eyes skim over you immediately. Bare legs. No bra. And he leans against the frame like he’s got all the time in the world.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” His voice low. “Said you weren’t answering.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. 

“You blocked me.” He says it flatly. Not hurt. But…amused. Like he thinks its funny that you think blocking him will stop whatever this is.

“Didn’t ask you to come.” You cross your arms.

“No,” He shrugs. “But he did.”

His gaze drags down again. Shamelessly.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

He pushes off the frame. Lets himself inside the apartment.

Door shutting behind him as he takes in your dim apartment. Noticing the framed photos of you and Carlos.

You hover in the hallway. “I’m fine.” Your voice is stiff. “You can go now.”

But he doesn’t.

No. He steps closer instead.

“You look exhausted,” He mutters.

“Charles…”

“You’re wearing his shirt.” He lifts the hem of it before you can even protest. Fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. Mouth ticking. “Bet you’re cunt’s wet for me though, yeah?”

You flinch.

And he laughs. “You thought blocking me would fix it?”

“I don’t want you here.”

“You called me every night for weeks.”

“I was delusional.”

“Still are.” And then his voice deepens. “Let me fix it.”

You shake your head, step back to put some space between you two. But he follows. 

“I hate you.”

He smirks. “No, you don’t.”

You hit the wall. And his hand plants beside your head. His other hand hovering over your thigh.

“Carlos asked me to check on you,” He says again. Mocking.

And then his mouth finds your jaw. Your throat.

“Y’want me to lie to him? Tell him you’re doing fine?” 

You don’t answer. He dips his fingers into the boxers, grazing your underwear.

“Or should I tell him you’re soaked before I even touched you?”

You don’t even get the words out. Because his fingers are already pressing against you. And you’re not even fighting it.

You’re just breathing louder.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He pulls your panties to the side, slips two fingers in between your folds like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like your body has always belonged to him.

“Still so fuckin’ wet for me,” He mutters into your ear. “Even with his fuckin picture on the wall right there.”

You gasp, head falling back into the wall behind you.

“Pathetic.” He says. Dragging his lips along your jaw. And then he slips his fingers inside. Deep. Curling them.

And your knees almost give.

“Shhh…” He whispers. “Don’t make a sound.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt. Nails biting into his skin beneath it as he pumps his fingers slowly. 

Curling them as he watches your mouth fall slack. 

“Y’know what I think about?” He whispers. “I think about you on your knees. Crying around my cock. Tears spilling down that sweet face while you beg me not to come in your mouth…”

“Charles…” You choke out.

But he cuts you off with spread of his fingers. And it has your body jerking.

“You’d take it though, yeah?” He grunts. “Cause you like being ruined. Love it actually. Like knowing the power I have over you.”

Your thighs are clenching now. Eyes fluttering shut.

“M’gonna fuck you.” He whispers. “And you’re not gonna say a word about it. You’re gonna go right back to being his sweet doting girlfriend.”

And then he’s pulling his fingers out. Bringing them to your lips.

“Open.”

You do.

And he shoves them in. Watching you suck them clean. Eyes dark.

And then he’s taking a step back.

“Y’want this here or the bed?” He asks. “I don’t care where I fuck you. Just pick one before I lose my patience.”

You don’t even answer.

Because your body is already moving. Mechanical like. Like you’re in a dream you can’t wake up from. And you don’t look back at him, but you hear him following. 

Reaching the bedroom. The room is dim and the curtains are still drawn. The bed is unmade, one of Carlos’s hoodies still draped over the chair in the corner. Sheets still warm from when you attempted to nap earlier.

But it doesn’t even matter.

Because as soon as Charles steps behind you, everything disappears. The guilt. The past two years of being good.

And then his hand is snaking around your waist, pulling you back into his chest. While the other tangles into your hair, tilting your head against his shoulder.

And his mouth grazes your throat.

“Y’think you can run from this,” He mutters. “But you can’t.”

Your hands grip his wrists. “I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” He whispers, nipping at your skin. “Didn’t want this?”

His hand slips beneath your boxers. Rougher. Palm pressing against the curve of your cunt, rubbing once.

“Then why are you fucking soaked?”

A small whimper pushes past your lips.

“I hate you,” You repeat. Voice shaking.

And he smiles against your beck. “No. You hate that I get to do this.” His hand pushes deeper, coating his fingers in you. “You hate that I say the things he never would. Hate the way you ache to be used.”

“Stop mention…”

“No.”

He bites your shoulder. Enough to make your body jolt a bit. Enough to make you moan. Loudly.

And he groans, pleased. “There she is,” he whispers. “My dirty fucking girl.”

Your body burns. Everything aching. And pulsing.

Your eyes flutter. From the stretch of his fingers. From the scent of him wrapped around you. 

He pulls his fingers out slow, stepping back just a bit.

And you should run. Should shove him. Slam the door.

But instead you whisper, “Charles.”

And he cocks his head to the side. Like he wants you to beg.

So you do.

“Please,” you breathe.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands are back on you instantly. Turning you, forcing you to fall onto the bed. The room blurs. He strips his clothes off.

And then he’s on top of you. Knees sinking into the bed on either side of your hips, one hand fisting the front of your shirt while the other pushes your thighs apart.

You try to sit up. To reach for him. But he just shoves you back down with a single hand locked on your chest.

“No.” Flat. Unforgiving. Mean.

And then he’s reaching down to grab the waistband of your shorts, yanking them down. Pulling the panties with them.

“Take your shirt off,” He says. Sharp.

You don’t hesitate. Fingers shaking as you pull Carlos’s shirt over your head, leaving you bare.

He just looks.

Groans.

“Fuck…look at you.”

His hand curls around your throat. Lining himself up at your entrance. Kissing the corner of your mouth.

And then he’s pushing inside. 

All of him. Thick. Hard. And you cry out. Nails digging into the sheets.

“Fucking tight.” He hisses. “Knew you’d feel this good.”

And then he starts moving. Brutal. Hips slamming forward, unforgivingly. Fucking into you with punishing thrusts. The kind that make the bed creak and your thighs shake.

You cry out louder when he thrusts deep. The tip of his cock hitting that oh so unbearable spot inside of you that makes your cunt clamp down on him hard. And he hisses at the tightness, but slams in harder. 

“Thought about this every night since,” Charles grunts. “Thought about how sloppy you’d sound once I finally split you open.”

You’re soaking the sheets. Twitching.

“Bet you fuck him soft,” He spits. “Sweet kisses and slow thrusts. Bet he doesn’t even know how fucking filthy you are.”

“Stop…” You pant.

“No,” He grins. “Y’like when I talk like this. You need it.”

And then he’s grabbing your throat, tight enough to make your breath hitch. “Y’need someone to treat you like the whore you are.” He grunts.

And he doesn’t stop. 

“That’s it,” He breathes. Watching your face twist as your orgasm approaches. “Go on. Come for me.”

And you scream. Fisting the sheets, the other dragging down his back.

And he just keeps thrusting. Fucking you through it. Chasing his own release.

“Gonna stretch this cunt til you’re leaking.”

You moan. Eyes glassy.

And with one final, deep thrust, he buries himself deep into you. Grinding into you as he spills in you.

And he stays there. Holding it. Smirking.

“Better than him, isn’t it?”

-

It happens again the next night. And the next. And then again.

You told Carlos you needed a few more days. That work was too much. But you haven’t even opened your laptop once.

Because every time Charles knocks, you answer.

And every time he fucks you…it gets worse.

One night, he didn’t even let you undress. Just flips your sleep shorts to the side, bends you over the arm of the couch.

“Lazy little thing,” He groans. Cock slamming in deep. “Didn’t even bother putting on panties.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” You moan.

“Yeah?” He leans down over you. Nipping your shoulder. Sucking your neck. “Your cunt did.”

Another night, you’re in bed, lights still on. Half-asleep.

And Charles climbs on top of you. No greeting.

Just his hand around your throat, cock pressing against you.

“You know what to do,” He says.

And you spread your legs like its a fucking reflex.

And then the kitchen.

When you’re trying to make coffee. Hair tied up, half-asleep. And he just walks in like he lives there.

Grabs you by the hips, yanking your shorts down.

“Don’t even flinch anymore,” He half-laughs, dragging his cock through your folds.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Yeah, m’sure you do.” He responds. “Now bend.”

And then fucks you over the counter with his hand pressed into your back.

The worst is when Carlos calls you while you’re in the bath tub. Charles cock buried in you. His chest pressed to your back, palm clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans.

Charles forces you to answer it.

And you shake your head. Trembling. Shaking.

“I said answer.”

You fumble for it. Put it on speaker.

“Hey,” you gasp.

“Hola, cariño.” Carlos says. Warm. Happy. “Y’sound tired.”

Charles fucks into you once. Hard.

Fingers circling your clit that has your eyes rolling back. Charles mouth pressed to your neck. The water sloshing in the tub.

-

You told yourself it would stop.

That one day, you’d wake up and feel clean. That if you blocked his number and let Carlos hold your hand, you’d forget.

But you don’t.

No matter how hard you try. Because it wasn’t a one-time mistake. It was months of mistakes. Once, he had you bent over the bathroom counter while Carlos had just texted he was parking the car.

And Charles didn’t care.

He was already fucking you from behind, watching you in the mirror. Gripping you so tight it would leave bruise marks.

Another time it was Carlos’s car. 

You had a fight that night. Not even about Charles. Just stress. And you stormed out of the party, heels in hand.

Charles was already waiting outside like he knew. Opened the back door.

Shoved your dress up and pushed inside you in the same seat Carlos was kissing you in hours earlier.

It was rough. Fast. And you came with your forehead against the window. Fogging it with every gasp.

And afterward, he left without looking at you.

You’ve never hated yourself more than in that moment.

Yet somehow you still want more.

Sometimes, Oscar wishes he could keep him like this: frantic and close to begging for it, tears swirling in those seaglass eyes, lips swollen from the abuse of his own teeth. Lando looks pathetic like this, staring up at Oscar even as saltwater leaks from the corners of his eyes, slicking unruly paths down each cheek.

“Oscar, please —,” Lando gasps, and he sounds wretched with it, voice high and raspy all at once. He’s trying to rock himself down onto Oscar’s hand, the one finger that’s been dipping in and out between his legs for five minutes now, never going further than that first stretch of muscle. “Please, I need it. Need — inside, please —,” he cuts himself off with a desperate moan as Oscar slips the tip of his finger just barely over the edge once again.

Despite the almost nothing pressure of it Lando’s body opens up greedily, trying to take the digit further. Oscar’s already spent the better part of an hour working him open pain-stakingly, four fingers deep before he’d retracted to the one, Lando gaping so ineffectively around it.

Oscar hums contemplatively, eyes almost flat as they look over Lando’s screwed up features. “Hm,” he says, pushing in deeper and then withdrawing completely. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

The sound Lando makes is downright helpless, caught between a sob and a whine. His whole body is held taut with it, muscles straining everywhere Oscar casts his gaze; his hips are still rocking back against nothing, chasing a phantom intrusion that one singular finger isn’t going to satisfy anyway..

“Look at you,” Oscar murmurs. “Fucking gagging for it, aren’t you?” He hooks his thumb over Lando’s rim, tugging him open even further, groaning at the way the muscles try to flutter around nothing.

“Please,” Lando sobs, more wetness sliding over the curve of his cheeks, droplets catching on those impossibly long lashes and all along his waterline. “I can’t, it’s so — empty.” The word tumbles out of him like a slur, mournful and bitter with the way it catches between his teeth.

Oscar makes a pitying sound, reaching a hand between Lando’s legs to curl his fist around his cock. His fingertips don’t even meet, the girth of him a stretch; he’s hot and heavy in Oscar’s hand, the tip angrily purpling. “Maybe you should just come like this,” he says lightly, tone almost conversational. “Not sure you really deserve to be fucked.”

It rips through Lando like a bullet, landing like a threat. He shakes his head violently against the pillow, thrashing like he’s trying to get away, even as his hips buck up into the touch. “No, no, no, Oscar, no, please,” he begs, hitching little breaths punched from his chest, words falling over one another in their haste to be freed. “Osc, you can’t, you can’t, I need it —.”

“I can,” Oscar’s voice is sharp, brow raised as he keeps his grip firm, pace consistent. “Boys like you don’t deserve to be fucked, Lan, do they? Crying shame when you’ve got all this,” he punctuates his words with a particularly rough twist of his palm up the entire, impossible length of Lando. “Should be doing the fucking with a gift like that.”

He sees the blood rush to Lando’s cheeks in real time, the embarrassment that floods him with every word. He’s writhing against the sheets down, desperately trying to hold his orgasm back, arse clenching around nothing. From his lips, a torrent of indecipherable words and noises are let loose.

“Useless, aren’t you?” Oscar pushes, thumbing across the wet tip of Lando’s cock. “All this dick and you don’t even know what to do with it. It’s wasted on you.” Gripping the tip of between his thumb and forefinger, he squeezes sharply. “Say it.”

The sob burst free of Lando’s chest, breaking it like a dam, any barrier to his pleas dashed. “Yeah, fuck, I’m — oh — I’m useless,” he gasps, legs kicking out, spread almost the distance of the width of the bed. “Please, please, I need you — need you to fuck me, please, need to be filled, need you to fill me —.”

Oscar smirks, dropping his hand to the base of Lando’s dick and squeezing as tightly as he can, relishing the sensual arch of Lando’s back. There’s a layer of sweat coating the entirety of Lando’s body now from the exertion of being teased so relentlessly; of holding himself back before he can get what he truly wants and needs.

Leaning down, Oscar sucks an already pebbled nipple in between his lips, tonguing at the flesh before biting down hard, a broken wail emitted from somewhere above him.

Lando’s squirming desperately up against him, thighs shaking and held apart. It’s easy for Oscar to slip his hand back down between them, pressing two fingers in without any warning. Lando gasps, back arching further, but it’s not enough — Oscar knows it isn’t, knows it’s nowhere near enough, from the way he can barely feel the squeeze of Lando’s walls around his fingers.

“God, you’re so loose,” he tuts, moving back so that he can look Lando in the face; shoot him an expression that’s half grimace. “It’s not even going to feel good for me, is it?” Another tut, even as he brushes a sweaty curl away from Lando’s forehead with aching tenderness. “Probably won’t even be able to come inside you, you’re that loose.”

Eyes widening in panic, Lando reaches out, tries to clutch at Oscar’s arms. “No, no, you can, I can make it good, I promise,” he babbles helplessly, a fresh wave of tears rising to his eyes. “Please, please, Osc, c’mon, I can — I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”

“Hm,” Oscar purses his lips like he’s thinking about it, hungry eyes devouring the pathetic image of Lando before him. His cock twitches against his stomach at the sight. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lando,” he says softly, before leaning forward, pressing Lando’s thighs back with a grip under each one. “You’re lucky I’m so nice.”

He presses inside in one slick, brutal motion, all the prep making it an easy slide. The force of it bludgeons an audible breath from Lando, one that seems to reverberate off the walls around them, his eyes rolling back into his head in unison. Gorgeous, Oscar thinks.

Prettiest Lando’s ever looked is when he’s laid out on Oscar’s bed begging to be filled, cock hung and heavy and useless between his legs.

It only takes a few thrusts for Lando’s hand to wriggle down towards his dick; Oscar catches the movement, fingers curling bone crushingly around his wrist in an instant.

When Lando flicks his gaze up to Oscar’s face he feels his heart sink, dread curling under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he closes his eyes and leans into the touch, the arch of his back more pronounced like this, with him kneeling on the floor, Jenson sat over him. It means he has to work a little to really feel the touch of his hand, the press of his palm against his scalp. Stretching his body to its fullest height, knees aching. “Of course.”

“Of course,” Jenson repeats, laughing. He doesn’t do it to mock, tone full of warmth and joy, like he’s basking in the conviction of Lando’s words: the reality of how much Lando means it — for him, only for him. “Waste of time asking, wasn’t it?”

Lando nods his agreement, chest humming with a pleased sound when Jenson finally presses his hand more firmly into his curls, fingers tangling around the roots but not pulling. A gentle tug, no real strain to be felt. He’d never hurt Lando. Not even if Lando asked for it, probably, which Lando wouldn’t: he likes that Jenson is soft with him, gentle in a way so many people forget to be — or just don’t want to be — when it comes to Lando.

“Come up here, baby.” Jenson says, another tug to punctuate his request.

Even that first drop of a pet name has Lando’s stomach twisting, precarious on his legs as he pulls himself to his feet; has to anchor himself with his hands on Jenson’s thighs, the opposing force providing the stability he needs. It makes Jenson laugh again, the sight of Lando, already on the edge and ungainly before him. He raises his arms in invitation, and Lando answers swiftly, sliding onto Jenson’s lap, those corded thighs providing the perfect seat. Both of them already stripped of their clothes, the instant press of skin against skin heating his body up at every point of contact.

“Good day?”

Lando shrugs, a contented breath exiting his lips as he shuffles in closer, the weight of Jenson’s arms folding around him. “Okay. Better now.”

It’s cheesy; knows Jenson will laugh before he does, but Lando can’t resist it, really. Not when he likes making Jenson laugh so much, making Jenson happy. Knowing that he’s the one capable of getting that response from him where so many others might have tried and failed. It fills Lando with a smug sense of satisfaction, comfortable tendrils of warmth that sneak between his ribs without permission.

“Charmer,” Jenson mutters, lips pressed into Lando’s curls. “Bet you say that to all the washed up F1 drivers.”

Lando shakes his head defiantly, hair brushing Jenson’s nose; ticklish. “No,” he frowns. “And don’t call yourself that.”

“Okay,” Jenson gets one hand free, two fingers under Lando’s chin to tip his head up. He always maintains eye contact, blue boring into blue-green until Lando’s shivering with it, anticipation settling deep into his bones. “What does my champion want to do tonight?”

And oh. Lando will never grow tired of that. He closes his eyes, lips parting on an audible exhale, the tremor up his spine even more intense than the last.

“Ah, you like that, don’t you,” Jenson says, sounding satisfied with himself: as if he doesn’t damn well know exactly what Lando likes by now. “Like hearing that you’re a champion. My little winner.

If this was the first time, Lando might have been embarrassed by his very physical reactions to being reminded of just how successful he is. The way he emits a soft moan before he can even realise it; the way his gut clenches with a tumbling wave of arousal; the way his fingers instinctively flex where they’re curled into Jenson’s shirt, wrinkling the material beyond saving.

But it’s not the first time; certainly not the first time with Jenson. And Jenson knows what he’s doing, knows what it’ll do to Lando — wants it as much as he does.

“Jense,” Lando whines, eyes fluttering open, shades darker than they were just a few moments prior. “Stop.”

Jenson just grins, ducking down to mouth along the stretch of skin behind Lando’s ear, following it up to the shell. Taking a moment to breathe against the sensitive area, grin widening at the shudder it earns him. “We both know you don’t really mean that, baby. You deserve it, champ. You were so beautiful last year.”

Lando has to physically restrain his eyes from rolling back into his head, panting out of his open mouth. He moans again when Jenson licks along the curve of his ear before continuing his ministrations down, open mouthed kisses pressed along the expanse of his thick neck. It’s dizzying, the mix of mental and physical stimulation — head still spinning from the compliments and the reminder of his success, even whilst he tries to focus on the way Jenson’s teeth are grazing every so gently across his jugular, the touch on the edge of teasing.

Far too soon, Jenson pulls back, moving Lando’s head to look at him. “So I’ll ask again. What —“ he pauses, punctuating each word with a too fleeting press of their lips together. “Does. My. Champion. Want?”

“Talk to me,” Lando says desperately, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. He has to work his jaw a few times, brain slowing down already. “Tell me I’m good.”

As if he has to ask; Jenson is liberal with his praise for Lando, even more so now that he’s all too aware of exactly how much Lando likes it.

“I heard you,” Lando interrupts before Jenson can answer. “Heard what you said today. About me being a ‘formidable force’.”

And, yeah, it explains a lot — the reason Lando’s so wired already, so needy. The way he came into the room primed for it, buzzing with an energy that was familiar to Jenson, but the root cause unknown. At least until now.

“Did you?” Jenson muses, flat of his palm running along the notches of Lando’s spine. “And you want to hear more, is that it?”

Without shame, Lando nods, so quickly Jenson has to put a hand to his neck, bracing it before he pulls something. “Please.”

Both of them are hard and aching, their desire being largely unattended to; almost fading into the background with the pre-emptier rituals they have. Now, arousal strikes at the forefront, Lando pushing his hips down into Jenson’s, earning a hiss from him; a tightening of the grip around his waist, fingers clenching into the skin of his back.

“Lie back,” Jenson sounds less controlled now, and Lando has to hide a smile against the curve of his chest, only pulling away when he knows it’s died. Jenson pats his waist, lifting him up off his lap and onto the bed, urging him up to the headboard. “Be good for me, sweetheart, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

It’s a promise, one that has Lando eagerly and clumsily shuffling into position, too enthusiastic to give any care to his lack of grace. He gets onto his back, elbows underneath him to give himself some height, tongue flicking out to the corner of his lip as he observes Jenson observing him.

He knows he looks good after years of performance enhancing training, but it never hurts to be told — especially when Jenson’s the one doing the telling.

Of everything Lando’s achieved, getting Jenson Button into his bed is one of his greatest. He imagines travelling back in time, telling teenaged him everything he’s done; the look on his young face, open and exhilarated knowing that one of the drivers he’s looked up to all these years is with him in the future, telling him how good he is, how worthy he is. Even the thought has the here and now Lando leaking against his stomach, Jenson’s eyes catching on the motion, the gaze weighted and dark.

It turns darker still when Lando spreads his legs, arching into it seductively.

“Already prepped earlier,” he purrs, fingers trailing across his own stomach. “I’m all wet and loose for you.”

Jenson makes a sound like he’s been shot, slipping his fingers up between Lando’s thighs like he has to see for himself; be sure of it. When they hit Lando’s damp, slack entrance, he groans again, ducking his head like an act of reverence.

“Fucking hell Lando,” he laughs, a disbelieving sound. “Where did you come from?”

The awe in it is almost as good as a compliment; Lando squirms against the sheets, heart racing and flush steadily creeping down the expanse of his chest, a rosy hue to his golden skin.

“Jense,” he whines. “Need it.”

“I know you do,” Jenson soothes, sliding in between Lando’s thighs easily, dragging his hands roughly up the underside of them. “Going to give it to you, too. You’ve been so good for me, getting yourself ready. You’re perfect, sweetheart.”

It’s unfair, pulling out the big guns when Lando’s already desperate. He whimpers, sucking his lower lip in between his teeth as he tries to bite it back, shifting his hips down to get closer to Jenson. He’s grateful that Jenson isn’t much for teasing, drags him down by the grip on his legs, his hard cock dragging over Lando’s rim with the position.

“God,” Lando gasps, fingers fluttering around Jenson’s chest and shoulders, dipping into the muscles there. “Now, please, I’m ready, I promise.”

Even with the preparation and the oath, he can feel every inch of it as Jenson slides home. Feels it all over his body, like he’s been flayed open, every part of him reacting in kind; a constant stream of pleased moans from his lips, only halted when Jenson kisses him, deliberate and hard.

He pulls away, the smallest distance between their faces. “Taking it so well, sweetheart. Like a champion.”

Lando clenches at the words, head falling backwards, the sharp edge of his jaw on show and an easy target for Jenson’s lips and teeth now, which attach themselves immediately. He knows better than to wait for Lando to tell him to move, hips already pulling back and pushing in, a relentless, deep pace that has Lando writhing beneath him, short nails biting parallel lines into Jenson’s back.

“Tell me, tell me,” Lando chants, voice slurred. It doesn’t take him long to get to this state, not when he’s being plied with compliments, not when Jenson’s being so sweet to him. His cock brushes against Jenson’s stomach with every thrust, leaking a steady stream now, making a mess of both of them. “Tell me it’s good, tell me I’m good.”

“You’re so good, Lando.” It doesn’t even sound like a lie, doesn’t sound like something Jenson’s just saying because Lando wants to hear it. It’s like he means it.

That’s what does it for Lando, really. He’s used to false platitudes and people kissing up to him for what they want to get out of it, and not what it does for him; saying things they don’t mean, willing to tell a thousand lies. It’s never felt like that with Jenson — when Jenson looks at him like he’s some sort of undiscovered wonder of the world, Lando can tell it’s real.

It should be scary, that sort of veneration. It’s not, somehow.

Jenson gets his hand on Lando, too quick, enough to make Lando whine. But then he says, “you’re the best.” and it doesn’t matter whether his hand is on him or not, because Lando knows he could come from that alone.

He’s boneless when it hits, body tensing and then relaxing in an instant. Feels the waves crash, the wetness spilled between them to join the mess of precum and sweat that’s been pooling along his stomach, eyes closed and rolling as he shudders in Jenson’s arms. Barely even feels Jenson coming inside him, hips juddering before reaching a full stop, the soft curse word released from him.

It usually takes Lando a few minutes to come around, but Jenson’s good with this hit; good at brushing through his hair and telling him sweet things, knows the best time for him to pull out, knows when Lando’s ready and okay to be left whilst he gets a towel to clean them off with.

Lando pets at his chest with a heavy hand, eyes lidded. “That was good, Jense.”

Jenson laughs his response, straight into Lando’s temple where his lips are pressed. “Thanks, Lando, but I think the compliments are my job, aren’t they?”