rendeer | pretty boys and their tiny waists

The position is a little different, with Charles sat up against the headboard, his legs straight out in front of him. He gestures for Oscar to turn around, facing the room at large instead of facing Charles, and whilst Oscar would prefer to be able to see Charles’s face, the expressions he makes when he’s fucking Oscar, he does what Charles wants. No argument, no suggestion from him; a shrug of his shoulders like it doesn’t matter either way, and then he’s slowly sinking down onto Charles’s cock, chin to his chest as he breathes through it, mouth opening with an embarrassingly slick sound.

He takes his time and Charles doesn’t rush him, at least. He’s patient even, as he waits for Oscar to fully impale himself, taking Charles in inch by inch, feeling the way he stretches around the intrusion; the way his body transforms itself to take it, to accept everything Charles wants to give him. Charles isn’t small and even with the prep beforehand, Oscar has to steady himself on shaking legs, fingers convulsing against his own thigh when he pauses halfway down. A centering breath. In, out, the sort of meditation his sports therapist has been asking him to do - though he doubts she intended it for this particular application.

His breath feels punched out of him when he finally gets Charles in entirely, the backs of his thighs pressed down onto Charles’s. Where their skin connects, back to chest, Oscar can feel the tackiness of it, both of them slightly sweat-slicked. It’ll only get worse, when Charles starts fucking him, but he won’t care about it by then. He barely cares about it now.

Lolling his head back with great effort, until it rests on one of Charles’s shoulders, Oscar lifts his hips testingly. He only gets so far until Charles’s hands are on his waist, pushing him back down, holding him in place. Oh - maybe Charles doesn’t want Oscar to ride him. Maybe he wants to fuck him; the positioning makes less sense to Oscar when he considers that, but he doesn’t question it for too long. Unfortunately, making Charles happy has become one of Oscar’s only goals as of late.

“You can move,” he murmurs, voice low. He already feels halfway gone, the pulse of Charles’s dick hot and hard inside. 

From behind him, Charles chuckles, blowing hot air against the back of Oscar’s neck and causing a shiver to run down his spine. “Oh, I know,” Charles says, but he doesn’t move.

Oscar’s patience wears thin quickly, like this. He shifts his hips, trying to get some friction from the immovable body beneath him, a frustrated huff of a breath leaving his lips when Charles’s hands tighten their grip, pinning him down. He’s stronger than he looks, especially like this, when his dick is already making Oscar dumb and slow, just from being inside.

“Charles,” he tries not to whine. “What’re you doing?”

That laugh again, more full-bodied this time, the vibrations of it emanating from Charles’s chest through to Oscar’s back. He shudders in Charles’s lap, trying fruitlessly to fight against the restraints of his hands, unable to lift his hips any higher than Charles will allow - which isn’t enough. It isn’t nearly enough.

“I am doing nothing,” Oscar can feel Charles’s grin where it presses into the nape of his neck, lips dragging along the sensitive skin. “That is the whole point, I think.”

“No,” there’s definitely a whine to Oscar’s voice now, his mind going hazy. He tilts his head back further, trying to look Charles in the eye to no avail. “Fucking is the point.”

Charles hums, a low amused thing that shouldn’t hook behind Oscar’s navel and pull, but it does. His toes curl into the sheets beneath them, thighs shaking with the effort of staying still. Of not doing anything at all.

“I think we should just stay,” Charles’s voice is in his ear now, an edge of taunting to it. It’s like he’s carved from marble, his body at peace under Oscar, whilst Oscar trembles and shakes like a dog in his lap. “This is nice, no?”

No, Oscar wants to protest. It’s not. He can feel the head of Charles’s cock against his prostate, pressing there without any actual strength behind it. It’s overwhelming, the lack of movement - the lack of reprieve from the almost unbearable sensitivity. A sob breaks in his chest as his body falls lax, finally giving up the fight, melting back into Charles. Still, it takes a moment for Charles to relax the hold he has on Oscar’s hips, like he’s making sure he’s really done battling it, trying to find some movement between them.

“It’s nice,” Charles murmurs in his ear, catching the soft flesh of the lobe between sharp teeth, one hand smoothing over Oscar’s abdomen as he trembles. “I think you will agree.”

And the worst part is, Oscar knows he’s right. His mind feels – soupy, almost, thoughts leaving him in a way that doesn’t make him panic. With his muscles now entirely relaxed, Charles’s body holding him up, he can feel himself start to drift into a space somewhere between consciousness and rest, sparks of pleasure keeping him on the edge. Particles float through his vision, the edge of everything soft and cast in a warm glow.

“Mm,” he manages to hum around a thick tongue as Charles snakes a hand up to the front of his throat; he doesn’t apply pressure, using it as a tool to hold Oscar up and against him, his head lolling on his neck again like he has no control of it - and he doesn’t. Oscar feels like he’s floating, suddenly, and it’s nice, to let someone else hold the reins for a while. 

Oscar thinks he should probably be angrier about it – annoyed at the very least. Being manipulated like that, and so easily, too. It’s difficult, though, to remember to be upset with Charles when he’s rubbing the entire length of his naked body against Oscar’s like a cat seeking affection.

Affection that Oscar is only too happy to provide.

“Did you do it?” Charles murmurs into his ear.

Oscar knows what he’s asking, what he means, but even if he didn’t, the way Charles smooths the flat palm of his hand along the swell of Oscar’s abdomen would be enough to confirm his assumptions.

He feels himself flush to his roots, squirming when Charles presses down. There’s no real pressure behind it, but Oscar feels the kick in his gut anyway, the way his stomach rolls with fear-pleasure.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, nodding hurriedly. “Yeah, of course. You told me to.”

It’s embarrassing, how he can’t seem to control his tongue around Charles; how his mind seems disconnected, the parts of it that are meant to stop him saying dumb and mortifying things offline the moment Charles gets anywhere near him. 

The sting of it is soothed partially by the look on Charles’s face when Oscar’s words land; the way his mouth drops open slightly, eyes darkening in real time, something delighted flickering behind the cool blue. He curls one hand around Oscar’s bare thigh, pushing, pressing until it won’t go any further, Oscar wincing at the stretch along his quad. He feels too exposed like this, the air hitting his hole as he involuntarily clenches around nothing. Dick twitching where it brushes the lowest ridge of his abs, white heat everywhere when Charles leans back to get a good look between Oscar’s legs, gaze pregnant with desire.

“Good boy,” Charles smirks at the way Oscar jolts, the words hitting the pleasure center of his brain. “How many?”

It takes Oscar a moment to find his voice again, still stuck on the good boy like a record on repeat. “Um,” he swallows. “A litre?”

Charles hums appreciatively. He curls his fingers into the downy hair on Oscar’s thigh, tugging at it roughly. Oscar’s back arches at the keening pain of it, the pulse of his cock giving him away more than anything else.

“That should be fine,” Charles continues calmly, like nothing’s happened. Like he isn’t tormenting Oscar already. “Should be enough… how do you feel?”

His eyes are sharper, laden with intent where they catch Oscar’s. It’s funny – like he’s expecting to catch Oscar out in a lie.

As if Oscar would be stupid enough to lie to Charles.

“Full,” he admits, lips twisting. If he moves too quickly he can feel the water sloshing around inside of him, and it should be gross – it still is, a little. But most it feels like a promise, anticipation tingling every one of his nerve endings, fingers and toes itching with the relief he knows will come eventually.

Charles presses down on his stomach again, tone conversational as he ignores the hissing sound Oscar emits. 

“Want you to come first. Can you do that for me?”

Oscar swallows, the sound of it obvious. It’s hard to think with Charles touching him like this, the hand on his stomach so dangerously close to his weeping cock, pads of his fingers denting the flesh of his thigh. Harder still when he focuses on the feeling of his full bladder, the way it aches, heavy and already desperate for release.

They’ve only done this a couple of times. The first time, he’d been so mortified that he hadn’t been able to recognise the heat in Charles’s eyes for anything other than disgust – had thought he’d blown it, cursing himself for drinking too much at the bar, for being too nervous to ask Charles if he could use his bathroom when they’d gotten back to his hotel room. He’d felt – dirty. Pathetic. Like a child, unable to control himself.

He’d left in a hurry and hadn’t expected to speak to Charles again, in truth.

When Charles had text him, Oscar had been sure it was going to be some variation of a let down, gentler than he would’ve deserved. But Charles had wanted to see him again.

He’d seemed disappointed when Oscar hadn’t wet himself. Asked him to come full and needy next time. And Oscar still doesn’t understand it, not really, but he knows it feels good and that Charles seems to agree.

“Yeah,” he breathes finally. “Whatever you want.”

Charles looks at him for a moment, long and hard. Then he smiles.

“You mean that too, don’t you?”

There isn’t any judgement in it but Oscar still cringes against the sheets, his cheeks hot. Has to avert his gaze, shrugging his shoulders in a way that he hopes seems relaxed but knows doesn’t. He’s too obvious when it comes to Charles – and how could he not be?

He’s wanted him for years. Not – not like this, but… he can’t imagine any other way now.

“Charles,” he whines instead of answering, trying to get Charles’s hand to move lower without actually grabbing it. “C’mon.”

The pressure is already building in his stomach, dense and sending alarm bells ringing. He has to force himself to ignore them, fighting against every instinct his body has to put a stop to this. Even after having done this a few times, his body wants to resist – second nature, the way his muscles tense, aching to keep everything inside.

It feels worse when Charles does get a hand around him, these slow, tight jerks that have heat sinking at the base of Oscar’s spine, his legs straining and taut, toes curling into the sheets already. He’s always been sensitive, but doing it like this, with a full bladder; it’s unlike anything he’s experienced before, this weird push and pull that he doesn’t think should feel as good as it does.

“There you go,” Charles coos above him, grip tightening almost painfully around Oscar’s cock. “You’re always so responsive, aren’t you? Always so easy for me.”

The words send a thrill down Oscar’s spine, even as blood blooms beneath the milky skin of his chest, a sure fire sign of his embarrassment. He wants to hide away from it, bury his face into the pillow; wants to tell Charles to stop and beg him to keep going, all at the same time. 

He’s never really considered himself to be easy, but. This is Charles.

Who wouldn’t be easy for Charles?

Whining high in his throat, his hips buck into Charles’s touch, a sharp stabbing in his stomach as the movement jostles the liquid around inside of him. His stomach is slightly distended, the swell of it softening the muscles of his abdomen, and Charles can’t seem to look away; Oscar’s skin burns where Charles’s eyes land, flickering between Oscar’s face, his cock, his stomach, where the evidence of his desperation is most clear.

He wants to close his legs, press his thighs together. Cross them at the knees to try and keep the mounting pressure at bay. It’s why, he realises, Charles even has that grip on one of his legs, punishing and relentless – keeping Oscar open, refusing to let him give into the instincts his body has, the automatic natural defence against the inevitable.

If he wasn’t so rock hard, Oscar knows he would have let go by now. He can practically feel the wet of it, his mind catching on the memory, eyes rolling back in his head when Charles thumbs across the leaking head of his cock.

“Aw, do you need to go?” Charles coos. He leans down and licks a path up Oscar’s chest, between the dip of his pectorals, lips pressed into a smile when Oscar gasps beneath him. “But you can’t like this, can you? Gotta come first, mon lapin.”

“Fuck,” Oscar feels overwhelmed already, struggling against Charles grip, legs thrashing. “Fuck, Charles –”

Charles takes the opportunity to press down on his stomach again, the meaty part of his palm digging beneath the muscle and Oscar’s back bows. He practically folds in half, one hand flying to try and push Charles’s hand away — ineffective, already too far gone to be able to put any real force behind it.

Charles tuts at him, applying more weight. “None of that, come on. You know what you need to do.”

And Oscar does – he does. He can feel the way his dick is leaking, so wet it feels like he might’ve already pissed himself, the tension in his stomach an awful mix of arousal and desperation, the urge to let loose the only thing he can think about. It’s at odds with his inherent need to listen to Charles, to do as Charles says. Panic enters his mind when he realises he doesn’t know if he can control it; he can feel the relief coming, the way his body tenses, dick pulsing into Charles’s hand, and he can’t do anything but sob.

He doesn’t know if he came or if he – he can’t tell, the pleasure blurring into one, mind blacking out for a moment as something releases in his stomach.

“Good boy,” Charles is saying, hand still jerking Oscar through it, the other petting more gently at his thigh now. “There you go, look at you.”

Oscar could almost sob with relief at the praise, the only sign that he’s done the right thing; done as Charles asked. But the relaxation of his muscles that follows his orgasm has his dick spurting again, this time hot and wet and messy, a pulse of urine landing on his stomach. He gasps, clenching down in his pelvis to try and stop it, eyes locking with Charles’s wide and horrified.

“Not yet,” Charles says and Oscar thinks he could cry, but he’s good. He’s so good. He squeezes down, one hand coming to grip the base of his slowly deflating cock, anything to try and keep the rest of it in.

He feels awful, suddenly, knowing that he couldn’t do it. Wasn’t able to stop completely, already having lessened some of the weight on his bladder. But Charles seems to know instantly, one hand brushing back through Oscar’s sweaty hair, lips pressing against Oscar’s far gentler than anything else they’ve done tonight.

“It’s okay,” Charles promises. “You did so well. Just a little longer, okay?”

Before Oscar can even nod his affirmation, Charles is slinking down the bed, folding himself into the space between Oscar’s legs. He doesn’t even look at Oscar before he ducks his head down, licking up the streaks of come painted across Oscar’s stomach; working his way down lower until he’s suckling at Oscar’s spent and overstimulated dick, ignoring the high, wounded sound Oscar makes above.

He wonders what it tastes like, the bitter mix of it, and feels mildly fucked up at the heat that thought sends licking down his spine.

“Charles,” he moans, legs twitching with the overstimulation, the pressure in his bladder back and impossible to ignore now, without the arousal keeping him hard and leaking. “Please, I need – need to go, please,”

Charles doesn’t answer initially, taking his time as he continues his cleaning process, slurping emphatically at the head of Oscar’s cock before licking a keen stripe up the length of it, his smile dangerous when Oscar shouts.

“Go, then,” he presses up to his knees, eyes intent on Oscar’s dick; tongue peeking out over the plush cushion of his lower lip. “Go on, mon lapin, now.”

It’s all Oscar needs as he finally lets go properly, a steady stream of piss erupting from his dick, coating his thighs and stomach and lap, wetting the waterproof sheet laid out beneath him. He can’t help but moan through it, the satisfaction somehow better than any orgasm he’s ever had, body feeling lax as he sinks into the mattress. Distantly, he recognises that this should feel far more embarrassing than it does – his mind is buzzing with a low hum, vision feeling blurry, but he can see Charles through it all, the way his fingers dig harder into Oscar’s thigh, the guttural groan he makes as he watches Oscar wet himself.

“Good boy, fuck, fuck, you’re so good,” he stumbles over his words, the most affected Oscar has ever seen Charles, and then he’s gripping himself in his hand, stripping his dick rough and fast and fierce. “Merde, you’re so hot, look at you – so fucking dirty, so easy,” he gasps when he comes, aiming his release all over Oscar’s stomach and lap, groaning with the way it mixes in with the liquid already spilled, fingers rubbing absently through the mess of Oscar’s thigh. “You made such a mess, mon lapin, look at this…”

Oscar whimpers, hands flying up to cover his face as it finally hits. Like it has every time, the overwhelming embarrassment that settles in too late. But Charles is already shushing him, hands curling around Oscar’s wrists to pull his hands away.

But the room is empty when he gets there, his soft breath of relief the only sound. There's something mocking about the way it echoes back, the sound of it wounded and edged with a sadness he's doing his utmost to keep at bay.

If he strains his ears he can hear the continued celebrations raging on outside the walls. Laughter and music and fireworks, booming voices over microphones, a raucous crowd that will be partying well into the early hours of the morning.

A few races ago, he was so sure this celebration would be for him. Now he looks up from the bottom of a wreckage he created.

It wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough. And somehow that knowledge hurts more than the loss, a punch to the gut that has him physically stumbling over to the small couch, hands scrambling for purchase on the arm as he folds into the cushions.

He's still there, sinking back into the sofa with his head in his hands, breaths blooming and sticking in his throat, too fast and too harsh, when he hears the snick of the door opening.

"I'll be out in five," he manages, voice muffled by his palms. His heart sinks at the intrusion, mind screaming at him to get it together; find some strength so that he doesn't look like the loser he is, but he can't. He needs -

Time. More than five minutes, but that's not going to happen here.

"Fuck that," the response is amused, accent curling abruptly around the vowels. "At least take ten, mate."

The familiarity of it has Oscar's spine zipping from top to tail, hands falling immediately into his lap. He senses his cheeks flushing as what feels like all the blood in his body rushes to them, coughing awkwardly as Max steps into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Um," Oscar manages, cringing at the way his voice sounds - high and airy, his surprise at Max's presence blatant. "Hi?"

Max doesn't answer him for a moment. He takes a few more steps past the threshold, eyes bright and inquisitive as he looks around the room with clear interest before they come to settle on Oscar.

"Huh," he comments, still amused. "It's smaller than the red bull rooms."

The nothingness of the comment has Oscar's shoulder relaxing a little, albeit not totally. There's an absurdity to the situation that makes him snort; this idea that Max has come to find him to - what, exactly? Measure room sizes?

Unlikely.

"Probably cheaper too," he arches a brow.

Max grins, too big for his face. "Definitely. You got any good snacks at least?"

He's already moving towards the small fridge in the corner, purposeful and like he's been here before. He hasn't. At least, Oscar thinks he hasn't and it would be pretty weird if he has, actually, so...

He shrugs, resisting the urge to pinch himself, like checking whether he's really awake after a bad dream. "Protein shakes, probably."

A few high-carb, high-protein snacks curated by Artturi, if he's lucky. He hasn't even looked in the fridge today, his stomach an anxious knot, but now he recognises the hunger in it. It growls loudly, forcing a deeper shade of pink to his face when Max half-smirks at him.

"Do you mind?" He asks but he's already reaching in and grabbing a packet of peanut butter protein balls, so Oscar's response seems superfluous at best.

Still.

"Knock yourself out," he mutters.

It's - weird, definitely. Max being here. Has him on edge, fingers drumming nervously over his thighs as he waits for Max to explain himself, make sense of this whole thing. He feels like he should - get up. Offer Max a drink or something, offer him his seat. But it's not like he invited Max here, and Max seems perfectly content to make himself at home anyway, so.

Oscar stays sitting, apprehensive as he watches Max make his way around the room, noisily ripping into the packet and shoving two of the balls in his mouth at once.

"They're a bit dry," he winces at the sight, unable to stop the sigh that leaves him when he realises he's definitely going to have to offer Max a drink now. Reaching across to the table, he grabs one of the full water bottles, handing it over. It's room temperature by now, but he wasn't exactly expecting any guests, so Max'll have to make do.

"Thanks," Max says around a mouthful, immediately washing it down with a gulp from the bottle. "These aren't very good," he shakes the packet under Oscar's nose. "Do you want one?"

"You haven't really sold them to me, mate."

Max shrugs. "Suit yourself."

A silence descends between them, awkward and stretching. Oscar can't figure out what he's meant to do or say, so he does and says nothing. It's probably not the best course of action but, honestly - he's starting to feel slightly irritated with Max the longer the silence remains. He's the one who has forced them into this situation and he's not making any effort to explain himself.

Oscar's throat itches.

He looks at the clock on the far side of the wall, following the minute arm around three more times before he cracks.

"Look," he frowns. "I'm not really in the mood for - whatever this is. Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Instantly he feels bad about the rudeness of it; can hear his mother's voice in the back of his head, telling him she didn't raise him to be like this. But it's a shit day at the end of a season that's torn him apart from the inside out, and the last thing he needs is Max and his weirdness.

Max seems to take it on the chin well enough. "Not really," he shrugs again, taking another slow, long mouthful of water. Oscar's eyes catch on the bob of his Adam's apple briefly before he forces his gaze back up. "Thought you might be holed up in here, of course," he continues, something careful in the way he looks at Oscar. "Feeling sorry for yourself."

It stings because it's true. Oscar feels heat prickle behind his eyes, horror rising like a tide in his throat, suffocating. Jesus. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Max Verstappen.

Clearing his throat, he keeps his tone painstakingly neutral. "Yeah, well. Not everyday you lose a championship."

"No," Max says agreeably. "But it is just your first."

Just. Like it doesn't matter somehow. Oscar wishes it didn't. But it's everything - Max of all people should know that, right?

"Easy for you to say," he says listlessly. "You've got four already."

He hears the soft chuckle Max makes, more of an exhale than anything of substance.

"Losing doesn't get easier, though."

Yeah. Oscar can appreciate that, he thinks, and that's even worse, really. The idea that he could feel like this again - that he probably will, over the course of his career. Hopefully, because at least that means he's going to be in the game for a long time. Silver linings, he supposes.

He doesn't know why, but Max's presence carves out a hole in his chest; has him confessing before he can truly think it through, this weakness he's about to show one of his strongest competitors.

"I'm worried I won't get another chance."

After, he doesn't risk looking at Max. Can't. Embarrassment floods him, fingers picking at an invisible piece of lint on his fireproofs, head down as he stares at the curves of his own thighs.

He didn't realise, really, how scared he's been until he said it. And it feels all at once like both a weight lifted and a weapon given. He doesn't know how to balance the confliction of those emotions, waves roiling in his stomach.

"Maybe you won't," Max says quietly.

Oscar does look at him then, surprise colouring his features - for a moment, he expects to feel - anger, maybe, at the fact that Max could say that. But he doesn't. With shock, he realises he feels relieved at the honesty, the way Max isn't handling him with kid gloves.

It speaks of a level of respect he's always wanted but has never been sure he can obtain, not from Max.

"But for what it's worth," Max offers him a smile. "I think you will have another chance. I think you will have plenty."

Oscar swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking at Max - there's something appreciative warming his chest now, together with a different kind of nervousness.

"Of course," Max continues. "I will be there to try to take it away from you."