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.