Alexandria

He unloaded the bakery bag onto the counter, already halfway through a croissant by the time Carlos stumbled in after him. The door slammed behind them.

“You were asleep before ten?” Carlos asked, sounding genuinely suspicious.

“Nope,” Oscar said around a mouthful of pastry.

Carlos wandered slowly toward the kitchen bench, glancing around the flat like he hadn’t been here three days ago.

“Then you could’ve answered my calls, no?” Carlos drifted around the kitchen island instead of looking at him directly. Like if he moved slowly enough, Oscar wouldn’t bolt.

“Mm,” Oscar hummed. “Guess so.”

Carlos exhaled quietly through his nose.

Oscar drank some water, refusing to look at him directly. He didn’t have the patience for this conversation after the twelve-hour social media campaign documenting Carlos Sainz’s romantic road trip through Italy with Charles Leclerc.

He had spent most of last night trying to shrug Baku off in pieces. He unpacked, stuffing sandy team kits into his hamper with the heat he imagined still clinging to the papaya mocking him from his suitcase. He showered off the adrenaline, scrubbing until he couldn’t feel the hollowed-out feeling that came with a race ending almost before it began. 

Last year, he had proudly stood on the top step, thrilled to have won at a street circuit so unforgiving. This year, he binned it in quali and the race like a bloody rookie. Impressive turnaround, really. 

The universe, naturally, had to rub it in his face in the most dramatic way possible. Carlos ended up on the podium and therefore invited to tag along with Charles’s post-race travel arrangements almost immediately. Oscar shouldn’t have been so shocked, honestly. Carlos jumped as soon as Charles indicated how high.

Carlos called during their descent into French airspace to ask whether the McLaren flight was safe. 

Lando leaned halfway across the aisle when he figured out who Oscar was talking to. “What’s he want?”

Oscar put him on speaker. 

Apparently, some dodgy weather report had Charles convinced landing in Nice constituted an unacceptable brush with death, more so than their standard race weekend threshold. They were diverting to Italy and driving the rest of the way home instead. Oscar rolled his eyes so hard it genuinely hurt. 

By the time he landed back in Nice a few hours later, all Oscar wanted was to be alone for ten to twelve business days. He got back to his flat exhausted, annoyed, carbon fibre still scattered across the back of his eyelids. He dropped his bag by the door and reached automatically for his phone before seeing Carlos’s last text telling him not to wait up. 

Oscar stared at it, exhaling through his nose. Then he sent back some generic safe travels message and sent it before he could think too much about the way the flat felt suddenly, unmistakably empty.

He went to bed alone while aggressively informing himself it didn’t matter. Unfortunately, the internet disagreed. There it was, in beautiful 4K, on TikTok and Instagram, and—Jesus Christ—Charles had even uploaded to YouTube Shorts. 

Oscar didn’t mean to open TikTok. His thumb simply lacked strength of character. 

The first shaky clip was filmed from the passenger seat of a rental van. Charles complained about Baku—mhm, Oscar could relate—before turning the camera towards the driver.

“Where are we, Carlos?”

Carlos glanced over briefly, smiling despite the hour, hands on the wheel, hair a mess from travel. He looked bright-eyed and comfortable in that way Oscar knew by heart. 

“The middle of Italy,” he said. 

Both of them started laughing, overtired enough to find the situation funny instead of inconvenient. The caption showed under the video. Best chauffeur in town. 

Yeah. Oscar bet he was. 

The next video loaded automatically. Carlos at the rental car park, gesturing at the van they had just filmed in. Charles had tagged him, comments already piling in.

are they lovers?

Charlos forever ❤️❤️

when you’re in an ‘i ❤️carlos sainz’ competition but charles leclerc shows up 🥀

Instagram was worse. Charles had uploaded a race weekend photo dump featuring three separate entries from their little Italian roadtrip alongside the caption: 10/10 chauffeur to go back home though. Oscar set his phone facedown on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.

Interesting, he thought bitterly. Very cool and normal emotions happening here. 

Oscar slept badly after races all the time, usually because his brain insisted on replaying every decision and mistake until sunrise. It seemed only natural to blame the result in Baku for the tight feeling in his chest when he couldn’t seem to clear the images of Carlos smiling at the camera from his mind after he had put away his phone. 

Charles and Carlos had always been like this. Carlos collected people everywhere he went—teammates, engineers, random airport staff. He was pathologically incapable of not stepping in to help if someone looked mildly inconvenienced within a fifteen metre radius. None of this was new.

The irritating part was that Oscar wasn’t actually worried about Charles, or Carlos, or anything concrete enough to justify behaving this irrationally. It was more self-pitying than that. 

While Oscar had been busy excavating himself from the psychological crater formerly known as his race weekend, the internet had gotten a very good look at Carlos being charming in somebody else’s passenger seat. 

Everyone had just seemed so bloody thrilled about it.

Carlos called eventually, presumably back in Monaco by then. Oscar ignored it out of principle.

A few hours later, Lando sent him three consecutive messages about pastries from the bakery down the street, which Oscar interpreted as emotional support from someone equally traumatised by the weekend.

That was how he ended up standing barefoot in his kitchen the next morning eating croissants while Carlos stared at him from the other side of the bench like a man attempting hostage negotiation.

“I wanted to be here last night,” Carlos said finally, voice tighter than usual. “Charles panicked about the weather and decided Italy was safer.”

Oscar snorted quietly, pressing his thumb into the edge of the bench, grounding himself in the pressure. “Think safer is an ambitious word in that situation.”

Carlos huffed a laugh. “He wanted to drive the van,” he said darkly. “I told him absolutely not. This was already his fault.”

That dragged a reluctant noise out of Oscar that almost qualified as amusement.

The flat was washed in pale morning light, the kind that made everything feel too exposed. Oscar still felt vaguely scattered across the Baku runoff area with the rest of the debris from his race.

He hated title fights for this. Every bad weekend felt catastrophic. Every mistake replayed itself in high definition. He had come home exhausted and hollow and wanting nothing more than to scream until the world would shut up for one evening. Instead he got TikTok edits of Carlos smiling softly at Charles in tunnel lighting.

Brilliant.

The kettle clicked off behind him. Oscar blinked at it. Right. 

Apparently some part of him had still automatically started the kettle for Carlos’s coffee despite actively refusing to look at him.

Embarrassing behaviour, honestly.

“But you are still mad at me,” Carlos observed.

“Didn’t have the best weekend, mate,” Oscar corrected, opening the fridge.

Carlos climbed onto one of the barstools, clicking his tongue softly. “Tough weekend,” he agreed, watching Oscar a little too carefully. “Usually after a bad race you want me closer, not further away, no?”

Oscar grabbed a protein shake and twisted the cap off. “You were busy,” he muttered, like that explained everything. “I survived the night somehow.”

Carlos rested his chin on one hand. “You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “this is actually quite flattering.” 

“Yeah?”

Carlos nodded, chin rocking against his hand. “I thought, how nice it would be finally to be home,” he said with the sigh of a deeply persecuted man. “Oscar will be happy for my podium.”

“Congratulations,” Oscar said flatly, folding his arms over his chest. 

Carlos ignored his sass. “I think you were so happy,” he said, sounding deeply entertained by the discovery, “that you wanted me all to yourself.”

Oscar rolled his eyes hard. “Yeah, mate. Desperate to lock you in a tower.” 

Carlos grinned. “I knew the Williams pace would scare people eventually.”

“Mm,” Oscar hummed, leaning against the bench. “Whole paddock’s trembling.” 

Carlos didn’t even blink. His dark eyes glittered, amused. “Yeah, so many struggled in Baku,” he nodded. “Very strange. But it has always been a strength for me.”

Oscar scoffed, pushing off. “Bit easier when half the grid eliminated themselves, mate.”

Carlos slid off the stool and stepped into his space without hesitation. “Lucky me, then,” he said, voice low. 

“That makes one of us,” Oscar said, holding his gaze. It helped that he had a few centimetres on the Spaniard, looking slightly down to meet his gaze. 

Carlos braced against the cabinet, flexing his arm next to Oscar’s head. “Yeah,” he breathed, his jaw sliding sideways as he considered all of Oscar. “At least I finished the race, mate.”

Well, the kitty had claws. 

Oscar’s lips pressed in a thin line. “At least I’m not someone’s fucking lap dog,” he said icily. 

Carlos went still for a second, blinking. “Lap dog?” he repeated, tilting his head, not unlike a fucking dog. “You’re not actually annoyed about the race, are you?”

Oscar didn’t look at him. “Drop it,” he said, already on the move. “It’s nothing.”

He ducked under Carlos’s arm before he could get any closer, slipping out of the corner of the kitchen, heading for the hallway like the conversation had ended.

Carlos caught his wrist before he made it two steps. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

Oscar tugged once at his grip. “Away from this conversation,” he said. 

“Oscar,” Carlos said, stepping in until leaving meant pushing past him. “Hey.”

Oscar tried to twist free. “Don’t hey me. Just—let go,” he said. “I don’t care.”

Carlos drew him closer, voice dropping. “That’s not what this looks like,” he said.

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “Right,” he said. “Because you’re suddenly an expert on what I’m thinking.”

He could feel the warmth of him now, the pressure of his grip around his narrow wrist. Heat climbed up his neck despite himself, and he hated that Carlos was close enough to see the flush he had no doubt was climbing his neck.

Carlos’s mouth twitched. “You are not so hard to read, you know,” he said. “I know you.”

“Fuck off,” Oscar snapped. “You don’t. You say that like you do, but you don’t, all right?”

He yanked harder, but it only dragged Carlos fully into his personal space, refusing to let go of his wrist. Carlos’s hips were pinning him against the counter now, one arm caging him in. Oscar tried to ignore the heat he could feel through his shirt where they touched, even barely. 

Carlos huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this about Charles?”

Oscar made a strangled sound and tried again to pull free.

Carlos shook his head. “All this,” he said, chuckling to himself “Because you’re jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” Oscar said, too fast, heat still high in his cheeks. “It’s not—just let go—”

Carlos slid his other hand to Oscar’s waist, not rough, but firm enough that leaving would take effort. “No,” he said, almost under his breath. “You don’t get to run now.”

Oscar’s pulse jumped, Carlos’s fingers strong and warm against his ribs. His skin prickled under the familiar touch, despite how mad he still felt. 

“Don’t,” he said, turning his shoulder, trying to slip past him. “Don’t start—”

Carlos leaned in, just enough that his voice dropped, that the words felt closer than they should. “Relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Oscar huffed, frustrated, his shoulders tightening. “Carlos,” he warned, low, but it lacked bite.

Carlos ignored him entirely. “This is incredible,” he went on, voice quieter now, words landing just shy of Oscar’s ear. “You, jealous. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I don’t,” Oscar said, but his voice wavered slightly.

Carlos’s thumb traced idly along his wrist, and then his mouth brushed against the line of Oscar’s neck, enough to make Oscar’s breath catch.

“You do,” Carlos said, annoyingly smug about it. “I can feel it.”

Carlos smelled like travel and sleep and something faintly citrusy. He didn’t smell like the cologne Oscar had come to recognize, or the woodsy soap Carlos’s skin usually smelled of, which only served to make Oscar want to thrash harder. 

Oscar huffed, looking away again. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

Carlos hummed in disagreement, brushing a light press of his lips just below Oscar’s ear. “You missed me,” he taunted, lips moving against his skin. 

Oscar’s breath caught, the kiss sending sparks all the way down one arm. He turned his head just enough to pull away from the Spaniard’s traitorous mouth. “I didn’t miss you,” he said, voice dropping against his will. 

Carlos didn’t let him get far. He followed immediately, mouth dragging back to his jaw, his neck, refusing the distance like it hadn’t been offered. “No?” he asked, nuzzling under his jaw and pressing his hips into Oscar’s. “Mm, I think you’re lying.”

Oscar made a frustrated sound and let his head tip back again despite his annoyance.

Carlos took advantage of it immediately. “Tell me again,” he said, his stubble rasping against Oscar’s neck, “maybe this time I will believe you.” Carlos’s dick pressing into his hip reminded Oscar how much he—how much they both—got off on this.

Oscar swallowed, the motion catching against Carlos’s mouth. His throat felt tight, like Carlos had reached into his ribs and pulled something humiliating out into the open just by not coming home when Oscar wanted him to. Oscar didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to admit to the bitterness, the pain leaking out around the edges of the carefully constructed barriers he had put up between them. It was a little like trying to down a chaser after drinking poison, knowing the burn couldn’t be soothed. 

Oscar had spent the night trying to swallow down every thought that Carlos belonged to him even a little bit. By morning it had spread through him completely, mean and feverish and embarrassing, until Carlos touching him felt like pressing on a bruise. And Carlos always had to push him, had to egg him on, had to make him even crazier with that fucking mouth of his, in more ways than one. 

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Carlos did drive him crazy. He hadn’t meant to be exclusive to Carlos; honestly, he had never meant for things with Carlos to become things at all.

It had started the way these situations always seemed to start in Formula One, with proximity, exhaustion, loneliness dressed up as convenience. They were simply two people constantly crossing paths in airports and paddocks and hotel bars, understanding each other instinctively because they were both trapped inside the same strange life.

They had tried to stop, tried to leave it as a one-time fluke after they fell into bed together the first time. The second had been labelled an honest mistake. After the fifth, they had stopped trying to make excuses.

Neither of them had the time or energy for anything heavier than casual. Between training and travel and media obligations and the relentless pressure of racing every other weekend, even maintaining friendships sometimes felt impossible. Dating outside the sport sounded exhausting in ways Oscar couldn’t even articulate properly anymore. There was too much explaining, too much apologising for cancelled plans and jet lag and disappearing emotionally after bad races.

Carlos understood all of it without needing anything translated. He understood why Oscar sometimes went silent after difficult weekends. He understood the exhaustion, the obsession, the strange emotional volatility that came with building an entire life around hundredths of seconds and public humiliation. He knew how to soothe Oscar back down from bad races without demanding explanations Oscar didn’t know how to give. 

Hell, Carlos even understood McLaren specifically. He knew the strange politics of the team, the constant balancing act beside Lando. Sometimes Oscar only had to repeat a phrase from debrief for Carlos to immediately grimace in recognition before Oscar even explained why it had annoyed him.

And Oscar, in return, understood Carlos too. He knew intimately the particular helplessness of arriving somewhere he hadn’t fully chosen and trying to wrestle back control anyway through sheer force of competence. He understood what it felt like to line up beside a teammate the team already loved before he had even arrived.

Carlos rarely complained about it directly, but Oscar knew him well enough to hear the frustration underneath the jokes sometimes. Carlos brought experience and technical understanding and consistency everywhere he went, yet somehow still kept ending up beside drivers who fit more neatly into the team’s long-term plans than he did.

The podium in Baku mattered so much, emotionally, politically. A result like that in a Williams changed things. It bought Carlos breathing room, garnered him leverage. It reminded the team exactly what he could drag out of a car when things finally came together around him for once.

They all knew momentum mattered almost as much as outright pace sometimes. One podium could shift the entire mood around a driver overnight. Suddenly engineers listened more attentively. Team principals spoke a little differently. Futures that had looked uncertain started looking valuable again. Carlos had needed that result desperately.

Which made Oscar feel even worse about spending the night irrationally wishing he wanted anyone else as much as he wanted Carlos. 

It sounded pathetic in the dark of his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. Oscar could fuck whoever he wanted. They both could. Nobody had asked for exclusivity. Nobody had promised anything at all. It had simply become easier to keep coming back to Carlos than to bother looking elsewhere.

Their needs fit together neatly enough. Carlos scratched an itch nobody else really could anymore. It wasn’t romantic.

At least that was what Oscar had been telling himself right up until watching Carlos smile at somebody else had made him feel vaguely sick. Thinking about how easily Carlos fit somewhere else with someone else spread through Oscar like a crack spreading through glass under pressure already there.

“You always do whatever he wants,” Oscar bit out, poisoned words spilling out of him like a gutted fish. “All he has to do is bat his eyelashes and you’re—”

Carlos cut him off by pinching the fuck out of his side. Oscar yelped, Carlos’s mouth already attaching just under his jaw as if in apology. 

“I wanted to be here,” Carlos went on, voice softer, almost coaxing now. “I was tired and annoyed at him.” 

Carlos’s hand slid over his ribs, and Oscar arched into the touch against his will to stay mad. 

“Wouldn’t have known the difference,” Oscar shot back, breath a little thinner now. “You looked pretty happy.”

Carlos pulled back just enough to look at him, something bright and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “Is that so?”

Oscar held his gaze, defiant even as his pulse kicked. “Yeah.”

Carlos’s mouth twitched. “And what if I bat my eyelashes?” he asked. “You forgive me then?”

Oscar snorted automatically. “No.”

Carlos’s fingers hooked into his shirt without warning.

Oscar caught his wrist immediately. “No—” he said, trying to plant his feet.

But before Oscar could brace for it, Carlos kissed him firmly enough to steal the rest of his protest. Oscar went still for a second, caught off guard, and Carlos took the opportunity to pull the hem of his shirt up over his head, quick and decisive, before Oscar could complain. 

Carlos’s mouth was back on his in a hurry, his fingers splaying across his exposed ribs, drawing him in. Oscar made a frustrated sound into it, hands finally coming up, hovering uselessly before pressing against Carlos’s stupid chest. 

Carlos finally released his wrist, both hands sliding down Oscar’s waist to his ass, pulling their hips together. Oscar turned his head slightly to kiss a little harder, a little deeper, tonguing into the Spaniard’s mouth as if he could lick out the indiscretions hiding behind his teeth. 

Oscar’s patience snapped somewhere between one breath and the next. “God, you’re—” he started, then gave up on the sentence entirely, grabbing a fistful of Carlos’s shirt and hauling him forward.

Carlos made a soft, surprised sound that turned into a grin almost immediately. 

“Don’t—” Oscar tried, already pulling at the hem, shoving it upward with more force than necessary.

Carlos went with it easily, arms coming up without hesitation, leaning into him instead of away. “You could just ask,” he murmured, ducking his head to make it easier.

“Not happening,” Oscar shot back, even as he dragged the shirt over his shoulders.

Carlos took the opportunity to press a quick kiss to his jaw, then another, like punctuation between movements. “Thought you didn’t care,” he added lightly.

Oscar scoffed, finally getting the shirt off and tossing it aside. “I don’t,” he said automatically.

Carlos’s hands slid around to his back, warm and rough in a pleasant way. “Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced. He nosed across Oscar’s jaw, his tongue darting out over his pulse point, and Oscar inhaled sharply, the feeling jolting down his neck. 

His hand flew up to Carlos’s hair automatically, threading through the Spaniard’s thick locks, holding his head in place as Carlos licked and sucked at the sensitive spot just under the sharp line of his jaw. 

When pain seared across his neck suddenly, Oscar yanked back on the thick hair, hard. “Fucking—ow, dickhead,” he cursed, rubbing at his neck, knowing Carlos’s apparent bloodlust would likely leave yet another mark on his neck that he would have to stay indoors for a day or two to hide. “Not so high, I said.”

Carlos looked at him hungrily through dark lashes, pupils blown. “Sorry,” he mumbled unconvincingly. “I forget.”

“No, you fucking didn’t,” Oscar muttered, bringing his head back anyway, sighing into the scrape of stubble against his own, Carlos’s arms wrapped firmly around him in the way that made him feel narrow and wanted. “You’re just a prick.”

Carlos nodded, brushing one more lingering kiss over his mouth like punctuation. “Yeah,” he agreed easily. “But I’m your prick, no?” 

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dunno,” he mumbled into the dark hair between his fingers. “Are you?” 

For a moment, it felt like everything paused with him—the air, the warmth between them, even Oscar’s own breath as it caught somewhere in his chest. He had said too much, felt too bare, as if he had ripped his own heart out and offered it to Carlos, ugly and fragile and stupid. 

His grip tightened reflexively on Carlos’s side, like he could take the words back, shove them down, pretend they hadn’t slipped out at all. 

Carlos went still, his breath warm against Oscar’s throat. The silence stretched, sudden and heavy, and Oscar’s stomach dropped with it. He shouldn’t have asked that. He knew better. His jaw tightened, already bracing for deflection and laughter. 

“That depends,” Carlos huffed softly. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asked, like it was obvious, like Oscar had asked something far less serious than he had.

The tension snapped clean through Oscar’s chest. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but it came out breathless.

Carlos smiled against his mouth. “That’s the idea.”

He didn’t give Oscar time to think about it. He caught Oscar’s hand and tugged him forward, already moving.

“Carlos—” Oscar started, stumbling over his own feet as he was pulled out of the kitchen.

“Come on,” Carlos said, not even looking back, like it was a foregone conclusion.

The hallway passed in a blur, sunlight giving way to the dimmer quiet of the bedroom. 

Carlos let go only long enough to kick the door shut behind them before turning back, already stripping off his own jeans, quick and distracted, shoving them down his hips, like it barely mattered compared to the fact that Oscar was still there.

He stepped out of them, then fell into Oscar’s bed like he belonged there, settling back against the pillows with a familiarity that made something in Oscar’s chest twist.

Carlos looked at him expectantly. “Don’t act shy now,” he teased, eyes dancing. “Too late for that.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was already moving, slipping off his own shorts, climbing onto the foot of his bed. 

Carlos reached out the second he got close, one hand sliding around his waist, the other braced at the back of his neck, and then Carlos was tugging him down and in, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.

Carlos always ran hot, radiating warmth through his bare thighs and hairy stomach, fitting their bodies together with strong hands in a way that felt absurdly natural. 

Oscar knew exactly how Carlos touched when he was tired like this—slower, clingier, more inclined to pull Oscar fully against him instead of keeping up the teasing distance. He knew the weight of Carlos’s arm across his back, knew the roughness of his fingertips from steering wheels and gym equipment, knew the taste of his morning breath before his first coffee, the scrape of his stubble before he had shaved. 

Knowing Carlos wasn’t the same thing as having him, though. Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem interested in the distinction. It didn’t matter how many nights Carlos lay like a borrowed book in his bed, on his sofa, Oscar’s fingers feeling every knob of his spine. Oscar’s name still wasn’t written inside, no matter how much familiarity blurred with something permanent. 

It felt good, kissing Carlos, losing the sharp edges of his thoughts in the heat between their mouths. Like this, Carlos looked almost unreal in white briefs against bronzed skin, all warm gold and dark lashes and sleepy eyes. Faint tan lines crossed his thighs where his cycling shorts always ended, but even the palest skin there looked brown against the cool ivory of Oscar’s legs.

“Come on,” Carlos murmured against his mouth, his fingers digging into Oscar’s waist with little restless movements that felt impatient. “Thinking too much.”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose as Carlos bit his lower lip, pulling him closer. Carlos shifted beneath him, rolling their hips together just enough to make heat spark low in Oscar’s belly. He made a quiet sound against his mouth before he could stop it. He could feel Carlos smirking in response, smug as anything. 

“Fuck off,” Oscar muttered automatically, though it lost most of its impact when he felt how hard Carlos was, jabbing against his stomach.

Carlos only laughed softly and kissed him harder. It felt unfair, honestly, how badly Oscar still wanted him.

He was still annoyed and carrying around the ugly, sour feeling from the night before. Some bitter part of Oscar still wanted to pick a fight, wanted to say something mean enough to wound. But instead he was sprawled over Carlos in his own bed, kissing him like he had been starving for it.

He had been starving for it, was the thing. While he had felt hollow except for the disappointment of watching a race continue without him, lying in bed alone and frustrated, he hadn’t wanted reassurance, or advice, or words at all, really. He wanted to lose himself in strong hands dragging him back into his body instead of leaving him stranded inside his own head with the replay of barriers and carbon fibre and disappointing radio messages looping endlessly behind his eyes.

Because the second Oscar had realised Carlos wasn’t coming over that night, it had hurt far worse than it should have, too much for what they were. 

His stomach tensed automatically under Carlos’s hand, easing down his torso with the heel of his palm. Oscar couldn’t help moaning as Carlos stroked at his desire, fingers feather-light over his shaft through his boxers. 

The annoying part was that Carlos knew exactly how Oscar would melt after a few more minutes of this. He knew exactly where to lick to make Oscar shiver, which words to say, or sometimes not to say, that dissolved his icy exterior, how to grind his thigh just so until the fight leaked harmlessly out of him. Oscar knew it too. That was the entire fucking issue.

Oscar could kiss the stubble under his jaw, could graze his teeth against his throat, could lave his tongue across Carlos’s collarbone, but none of it left Carlos breathless or without sense the way it did Oscar’s. Carlos would simply angle their lips and their tongues for a better slide, would pull his own thigh back for a better fuck. He never lost sight of the goal despite his wanting, and all Carlos wanted was to be fucked. 

Oscar wanted him so badly it overrode common sense. It erased pride, irritation, jealousy. Carlos definitely didn’t need in the same way as Oscar. He would’ve survived last night just fine without all this clawing want in his chest, without lying awake replaying videos until sunrise because the wrong person had been sitting in Oscar’s passenger seat instead of him. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed. 

Carlos nudged his nose against Oscar’s jaw, mouth finding the sensitive spot below his ear, and everything complicated in Oscar’s chest melted down into something simpler and infinitely more dangerous. His dick throbbed in Carlos’s lazy grip, with a degree of irony about the dangers of being held the right way for too long, with too much familiarity. 

He grunted, shoving his forehead against the Spaniard’s. Carlos huffed, rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, okay,” he said, voice raspy with lack of sleep. “You are so needy.”

Oscar hated when Carlos said shit like that, when he knew they both craved it more than sleep or training or anything remotely productive. Carlos raised up on one arm, twisting to reach in the bedside table drawer for the bottle they both knew had a permanent residence inside. 

Oscar caught him around the waist and shoved his hips hard enough to send him sprawling forward onto the mattress with a startled huff of laughter, bottle in hand. 

Carlos blinked once into the pillow before twisting his head slightly to look back over his shoulder, more amused than genuinely surprised.

“Oh?” he drawled. “You’re taking initiative suddenly?”

Oscar ignored the immediate rush of heat that went through him at the sight of Carlos stretched out beneath him lazily, barely even resisting where Oscar pinned him down against the mattress. Like he found the whole thing entertaining more than threatening.

Oscar kissed down Carlos’s spine, thumbs stroking his sides. His legs pushed outwards, spreading Carlos’s knees, one hand feeling up his strong thigh. 

Oscar’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Carlos’s briefs then, easing them down slowly over his hips. He kissed down the back of his shoulder, shoving them lower, while Carlos lifted helpfully off the sheets. They settled back on the bed, Oscar’s still-clothed hardness pressing between Carlos’s bare cheeks in a way that made him want to abandon plans of fucking entirely. 

He kissed his way up the line of Carlos’s spine. Carlos tipped his head forward automatically to give him more room. Oscar bit lightly at the warm skin beneath his hairline just to hear the pleased little noise it dragged out of him.

Carlos opened the bottle, propping up on his elbows, and Oscar moved to take it from him, indignant. But when his fingers wrapped around the bottle in Carlos’s grasp, knees already spreading his legs apart, Carlos caught his wrist immediately and shoved it firmly back without even looking.

Carlos twisted just enough to glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. 

“Eh, eh,” he murmured, firmly holding Oscar’s wrist. “This is important work.”

The indignation flared hot and immediate, ridiculous in how deeply it offended him to be physically repositioned like an over-friendly dog. Especially by Carlos, who was shorter than him and somehow still always managed to manhandle him. 

“Let me,” Oscar said, genuinely affronted.

“Mm, no, I have to,” Carlos murmured, sounding deeply put upon about it. “Your hands are too small, guapo, you can barely even reach.”

Like that was fucking necessary. 

Oscar glared at him, realising with a warming face that from down here, he had an up close and personal view of Carlos’s hand spreading lube over his taint.

Carlos had pulled his knees up, spreading his legs wider for better access, but his lazy swirling, head tipping forward into the pillow, sighing loudly at the pleasure of it—that was just to tease. 

Oscar’s gaze dragged downward helplessly to Carlos’s thighs, thick with strength, calves flexing under bronzed skin, lean and hard from cycling, dark hair catching warmth in the morning light. His hips and shoulders were broad where Oscar was slim against the sheets. 

Carlos’s hands were unfair too, broader than Oscar’s, rough through the palms, fingers thick where Oscar’s were fine-boned. Carlos’s fingers dripped shiny and wet between his spread legs. Oscar was only a little jealous of what those hands were allowed to touch. 

When just the tip of one finger breached his entrance, Carlos sighed, tilting his hips down, his eyes fluttering shut. Oscar just barely bit back his own gasp in time, eyes locked on the finger disappearing into tight heat, one hand squeezing Carlos’s hip with bruising pressure. His other hand apparently had its own agenda, reaching for smooth skin across Carlos’s thigh, just to feel, just to be near what was happening. 

Oscar rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt when Carlos caught his wrist again with another smug little no, no under his breath, guiding his hand away like Oscar was incapable of following basic instructions. Arrogant prick.

In retaliation, he pressed his palm flat between Carlos’s shoulder blades, pushing his chest more firmly into the pillows beneath him. Carlos only groaned softly at the positioning, eyes fluttering shut as his finger sank deeper with the new angle. 

With his hips canted more acutely, Oscar could see Carlos’s flushed dick resting heavy against his taut abdomen. His was shorter than Oscar’s but thick and dark, bobbing with every thrust of Carlos’s fingers. Familiarity with Carlos’s body had ruined Oscar a little bit, his eyes greedily tracing the curve of the Spaniard’s cock, the way his arms pressed his pecs together like tits, as if he didn’t know exactly how delicious he looked. 

Carlos’s back was warm under his palm, lean muscle twitching when he flexed in surprise. Oscar pressed harder with the heel of his palm, earning another groan muffled in the sheets. It was a ridiculous compromise, sulking while holding Carlos down like a disgruntled cat. Carlos’s mouth twitched.

“Mm, good,” Carlos hummed, cracking one eye open to look at him through dark lashes. “Make yourself useful and maybe I’ll forgive your attitude.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes at the smug curve of Carlos’s mouth before pinching sharply with his other hand at his side. Carlos jolted instantly.

“Ah—!” His stomach twitched hard under Oscar’s hand, surprise and annoyance flashing openly across his face before it dissolved into incredulous laughter. “Oscar!”

Oscar schooled his face to look deeply unimpressed by the whole thing. “That’s what you get,” he muttered.

Carlos stared at him for a second longer, still grinning in disbelief, hips lifting with a soft laugh as he settled back against the pillows again. “You little shit,” he accused fondly.

Oscar shrugged one shoulder, entirely unapologetic, though his fingers splayed wider on Carlos’s back afterward, thumb dragging idly over the skin there. 

Carlos’s eyes flicked down at the hand that had pinched him and laughed quietly through his nose. “So violent,” he sighed dramatically. “No gratitude.”

Before Oscar could brace himself, Carlos pushed his finger deeper, groaning softly with the slick noise of too much lube squeezed from too tight a space, which made Oscar’s ears go hot and his head feel heavy. Carlos seemed in no hurry to prep himself, finger pushing in at a leisurely pace, face pressing into the pillows with a sigh. 

Oscar’s eyes couldn’t stray from where his thick finger disappeared inside, how his skin folded in on itself with each thrust in and pulled on his knuckle on each drag out. Carlos was making these noises, little breaths when he clenched around his finger just to drive Oscar insane, he was pretty sure. 

Something restless and possessive unfurled under his ribs. Before he could think too hard about it, he tipped his head down and kissed Carlos’s back between his fingers. Oscar waited for the inevitable smug comment, for Carlos to laugh and twist away and make this into another thing Oscar regretted revealing too openly.

Instead, Carlos only exhaled softly through his nose, his fingers swirling around his hole without hesitation. He hummed distractedly, lost entirely in the lewd slide of his hand between his legs—two fingers now entering slowly, stretching himself before Oscar’s eyes. 

Oscar kissed higher on his neck, lips trailing up while his fingers dug into Carlos’s skin. Lean muscle twitched under tanned skin when Carlos flexed unconsciously at the touch. Carlos’s soft moaning was making him dizzy, making him so hard in his boxers it hurt. 

Carlos only arched beneath him into the stretch of his fingers, biting his plush lower lip as if he weren’t the one doing it to himself. 

“Ah,” he moaned, both fingers reaching their limit, Oscar only allowed to imagine how Carlos was curling his fingertips deep inside, if he was scissoring himself open or just enjoying the push deeper. His jealousy reared up meanly at that, too. Anyone could kiss their way up his neck right now, and Carlos wouldn’t even notice, too lost in his own pleasure, warm and smug about it. 

The thought made Oscar bite at the side of his throat before he could stop himself. Carlos’s breath caught softly, his shoulder twitching under Oscar’s grip before a grin spread slowly across his face.

Carlos looked unfairly good like this, spread out against white sheets with pleasure playing across his features as he toyed with Oscar’s sanity under the guise of prepping himself, two fingers fucking in faster now. 

Oscar hated that his body reacted instantly to the louder squelch, every ragged breath Carlos made, every little twitch under his mouth. Oscar’s hips unconsciously hitched when Carlos groaned, seeking friction against Carlos’s ass presented so perfectly for him, still unavailable to fuck. 

Oscar leaned back, letting his lips trail haphazardly over the curve of Carlos’s ass, flattening closer to the mattress. 

Carlos’s thigh was warmer under his lips, stronger beneath his hands, thick muscle jumping subtly when Oscar pressed an open-mouthed kiss there. 

Carlos’s free hand reached back and grabbed at his hair, moaning at the kiss, thrusting his fingers harder, deeper. 

Heat rushed low through Oscar’s stomach, somehow worse than just hearing and feeling Carlos’s hand working between his legs right next to Oscar’s face. He loved Carlos’s hand in his hair, loved the possessiveness of it, the absent-minded way Carlos kept him there. 

Oscar let it consume him, sucking on the inside of his thigh, biting where his flesh was most tender. Carlos groaned above him, hips canting towards his mouth. Oscar watched the faint bruise darken slowly under his mouth and felt something ugly in him quiet for the first time all morning.

He couldn’t have ownership, but he could leave proof that Carlos had come back here, that he had been warm under Oscar’s hands, letting Oscar touch him like this instead of anyone else.

Oscar dragged his mouth around, kissing over golden skin that still smelled faintly like clean sweat and citrus and sleep. Carlos’s hip tightened subtly under Oscar’s mouth. Above him, Carlos inhaled sharply, groaning something that sounded suspiciously like his name. Oscar tried very hard not to pay attention to that.

Carlos gasped when he sucked another bruise into Carlos’s side, skin no one else would be likely to see, feeling Carlos’s heartbeat jump faintly beneath his lips. They weren’t ashamed, not exactly, just careful. They both had to contend with sponsors and cameras and the internet’s endless appetite for narratives. 

They both had teammates who noticed too much, or so they told themselves. They wordlessly agreed to kissing and marking only in approved areas on each other, as if that was the rule between them, despite their never having established rules at all. They were most careful with themselves, maybe, holding each other at a careful distance. It was becoming difficult to think around it.

Oscar’s tongue danced between Carlos’s ribs, letting his hips fall enough that the back of Carlos’s hand rubbed against him on the upstroke. 

“Mm, I’ve spoiled you,” Carlos murmured into the pillow, low and rough. “Should never have let you touch, before.”

Oscar’s stomach twisted pleasantly, sucking another bruise high on his ribs. When a moan punched out of the Spaniard’s chest beneath him, Oscar helplessly moaned in echo, his dick twitching as he felt Carlos’s fingers thrusting faster, the lewd sound of him being fucked open making Oscar dizzy. 

Soon, Carlos was gasping again, hips lifting and hand indirectly rubbing against Oscar’s clothed arousal, making him want to do something entirely embarrassing. It wouldn’t be the first time Oscar had humped his hand until he came, but it would certainly be the most shameful. He could tell Carlos was attempting three fingers, working himself open without holding anything back just to make Oscar miserable.

Oscar’s hand found its way down, down, down his torso, slender fingers desperately vying for a share, a feel of what Carlos was doing, stubbornly working into dripping flesh alongside Carlos’s thicker digits.

Carlos keened at the extra stretch, letting Oscar fuck in his index finger alongside three of his own, hips rocking back into their combined hands, panting into the sheets.

If Oscar said anything, tried to convince him to let him take over, Carlos would shut him down again. Oscar firmly wrapped around Carlos’s wrist instead, pulling the thrusting fingers out, insisting wordlessly.

Carlos resisted at first before relenting, sliding out slowly, groaning softly at the loss. Oscar felt his face go redder at the way his hole clenched around his finger without the rest of Carlos’s fingers.

Three of Oscar’s slid in relatively easily, not nearly as thick, but the slick slide against the smooth pressure of Carlos’s walls made him groan automatically, pressing his forehead into the sweaty skin of Carlos’s back.

Oscar should’ve been embarrassed by the way his hips twitched against Carlos without permission, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was lost in the motions, fucking his fingers in deep, unable to stop his hips from mirroring the pace. He rutted against Carlos’s ass, his cockhead smearing over where he had soaked through the fabric of his boxers.

Carlos was flushed and breathing unevenly under him, face buried in the pillows, and suddenly the idea of leaving him untouched felt unbearable. Fuck it. Carlos didn’t care to leave marks on him; why shouldn’t he return the favour?

Oscar’s mouth drifted higher, kissing over his shoulder blade, the side of his throat. He sucked at the skin beneath his jaw before he could think better of it. Carlos jolted beneath him.

“Ah—hey,” he protested immediately, hips pushing down into his hand. “Oscar—”

The complaint dissolved halfway through into a breathier sound that sent heat flooding through Oscar’s chest. Carlos tilted his head sideways, exposing more of his throat in direct contradiction to every weak protest leaving his mouth.

“Oscar,” he tried again, sounding increasingly distracted now. “That’s not fair.”

Oscar pressed one more slow kiss against the blooming bruise beneath his jaw, lingering just long enough to feel Carlos shiver underneath him. He slowed his fingering to push hard and deep, just to hear the helpless noises Carlos made so close to his ear.

“Fuck,” Carlos muttered softly under his breath, sounding helplessly gone for a second.

Oscar’s stomach tightened hard enough to make him curl instinctively closer, breath catching somewhere embarrassingly high in his chest. It wasn’t enough to kiss Carlos, to scissor him open, to leave him flushed and breathless beneath him. Oscar felt every one of Carlos’s reactions echo straight back through his own body like a pulled wire. Carlos shivered, and Oscar’s pulse jumped with him. Carlos breathed harder, and suddenly Oscar couldn’t think properly either.

He wanted to hear more of those breathless little sounds dragged out of him. He wanted to be the only person in the audience of Carlos melting and ruined specifically because of Oscar’s hands, Oscar’s mouth, because of Oscar. He wanted, irrationally, to keep going until Carlos forgot every other person in the world existed.

His stomach twisted with something sour every time he imagined someone else privy to those sounds, even though they hadn’t claimed each other in that way, hadn’t given this thing between them a name. It was difficult to imagine Carlos, who was warm to everyone in any room, in any car, with anyone, giving him any kind of special treatment. Carlos performed tenderness as naturally as breathing.

Carlos’s dark lashes lowered, mouth parted slightly, broad back rising unevenly beneath Oscar’s hands. All that easy confidence from earlier had softened around the edges into something hungrier and a little helpless, too.

“Don’t make me beg,” Carlos muttered, sounding like he absolutely would.

Oscar made a frustrated sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and surrender, and then everything in him seemed to give way at once. He pulled his fingers out, probably a little too quickly, Carlos hissing at the hasty removal.

He scrambled clumsily to shove his boxers down, half-tangled in the sheets in his haste, too desperate now to care about dignity or maintaining whatever scraps of control he had left. Carlos’s grin widened immediately at the sight of his dick, flushed pink and shiny at the tip from how much he had already dripped into his boxers. Carlos looked smug and dark-eyed and entirely too pleased by how thoroughly Oscar had unraveled.

The second Oscar managed to free himself from the fabric, he climbed back over Carlos, fisting his aching arousal, squeezing himself tightly at the base, if only to keep from coming on the first thrust. It always surprised him a little how obscene it looked, wrapped with his pale, narrow fingers. He grabbed a condom from his bedside table, shaking hands not so clever with the packaging.

Eventually, he slid it over his thick length, throbbing steadily in both hands, practically panting. Oscar could hear the same desire that coursed through his own veins in Carlos’s ragged breathing, the occasional soft groan, but even affected, Carlos stayed even-keeled in a way he never could.

“Mm, no more thinking,” Carlos murmured. “Just come here.”

Carlos reached backwards for him with eager hands. He liked touching Oscar, liked being the one to guide him to his own entrance, to push Oscar’s head past his own rim. He loved how thick Oscar looked in his hand, eyes roving hungrily as he stroked his member from base to tip. Oscar could only grip his hips tightly as Carlos guided himself back onto him, a little bit at a time.

Oscar buried his face against Carlos’s neck almost helplessly, breathing him in deep. Carlos’s hips arched against him, one hand holding himself open, tantalizing in the most devastating way, like even that remaining inch of space between them offended him.

Oscar’s thighs trembled as Carlos’s hole sucked in his cock in short bursts. He tried to breathe through the need boiling low in his pelvis, hot and swirling. By the time he bottomed out, hips pressed flush against the Spaniard’s, moving seemed an impossibility. Desire and affection and leftover possessiveness tangled horribly together in his stomach, his composure weakened further by every spike of want at even the smallest reaction from the man beneath him.

Carlos pushed back against him slowly, not enough to push him away, but enough to pull Oscar just that little bit deeper, enough to get his rim around that last bit of cock that was somehow not already engulfed in impossibly tight heat. A desperate ache tightened low in his stomach hard enough to make him curl instinctively closer. He pressed his face harder into Carlos’s neck like that might somehow help contain the overwhelming rush of want surging through him.

“Fuck,” Oscar whispered helplessly.

He already felt frighteningly close to tipping over the edge, nerves lit up beneath his skin from the sheer wet pressure around his cock. Carlos was just too much for him sometimes. Oscar was suddenly, profoundly grateful Carlos couldn’t see his face from this angle.

Carlos reached back with one hand, grabbing at Oscar’s thigh, still pushing against him slowly. “Please,” he said, voice gone rough with want. “Move for me, just a little. I need more than this, or I’m going to lose my mind.”

Oscar swallowed hard, cheeks burning hotter because Carlos sounded just as affected as he felt despite somehow still holding himself together better.

“I can’t,” Oscar admitted, voice tight, almost angry about how close he was. “You’re—fuck, Carlos—”

His hands tightened with a bruising pressure at the Spaniard’s hips, slightly-too-long fingernails digging into golden skin as if he could stop his impending orgasm that way. But Carlos kept that maddening rhythm, fucking himself back onto Oscar despite his frozen form, desperately trying to pin Carlos’s hips to stillness.

"Oscar," Carlos breathed helplessly, laughing at how rigid Oscar had gone against him. "I know you want to."

Oscar’s knees dug into the mattress as his hips pushed in, unable to resist the intensity of feeling at every point of contact between him and the man pushing back against him.

“Can barely breathe right now, mate,” Oscar grunted, shifting to grip at Carlos’s shoulder, warm skin sticking lightly where sweat had started gathering between them.

Carlos’s back was damp against his chest now, warm and slick where their bodies pressed together without room to breathe properly. Every inhale dragged Oscar tighter against him; every exhale softened them together again. Carlos’s hand stayed hooked firmly around Oscar’s thigh, pulling him deeper with every thrust with insistence.

“Yeah?” Carlos teased breathlessly. “Going to come already? Make me do all the work?”

Oscar whined softly, biting his lip. Carlos was always so hot, so tight, so fucking bossy, telling him how to move and how to fuck him and to—not to come yet—fuck—

Oscar was draped over him like this, chest pressed against the sweaty ridge of his spine. He licked up the line of Carlos’s throat, hot and wet, dragging his lips over the stubble to keep his mind off the pleasure building hot between his legs. He bit harshly at the junction between Carlos’s neck and shoulder, letting it fill his mouth, pressing against his tongue. Maybe if he bit down hard enough, he could keep hold of his sanity alongside the thick, corded muscle between his teeth.

He fucked in faster, slim hips rabbiting opposite Carlos’s staccato “Ah, ah, ah,” as he drove into him, lust spiraling in his head, his stomach, his groin, out of his control.

Oscar’s head tipped forward suddenly, the last scraps of posture leaving him as he sagged over Carlos’s shoulder with a shaky exhale. Heat surged through him in relentless waves, too big for his body to contain neatly anymore. Every nerve felt bright and oversensitive beneath his skin.

He felt insane, helplessly consumed by wanting. Carlos slipped under his skin so thoroughly that Oscar stopped feeling like a coherent person and started feeling like one long exposed nerve ending reacting helplessly to every touch and breath and word. His pulse hammered hot and fast through his whole body.

He froze, tense and rigid in that way Carlos had to be familiar with by now, where Oscar’s whole body locked down because he could feel himself slipping too far too fast. His breathing stayed ragged against Carlos’s shoulder, but he stopped moving entirely, holding them both in place, hands gripping tightly at Carlos’s sides.

Oscar shook his head once against his neck, cheeks burning hot. “Don’t,” he muttered weakly. “Don’t move.”

Carlos exhaled a soft laugh. “You think I’m done with you already, guapo?”

Oscar made another small, overwhelmed sound at that, thighs trembling with the force of holding perfectly still.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Carlos soothed lightly, still teasing underneath it. “I know you want more.”

He started that—that bloody rocking again, pushing his hips back against Oscar, and Oscar squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see colour behind them. Carlos’s heartbeat pounded against his mouth, under his palms, through the heat of his back every time Carlos breathed. He could feel the pulse of it around his cock. His own face felt unbearably hot. 

“Carlos, I can’t—fuck, no,” Oscar panted. “Stop—stop, seriously, or I’m gonna—” 

Carlos moaned, an obscene noise given how dangerously close Oscar was to losing his ever-loving mind. Almost as if he wanted to snap the final thread himself, Carlos clenched around him deliciously tighter, making them gasp in unison at the sensation. 

“Wanted this all night,” Carlos rumbled, voice gravely with lust. “Needed, ah—needed you so much…”

For a terrifying moment, Oscar felt like he was in free fall, unrestrained, only able to feel Carlos clenching tight around him, skin dragging slick together where Oscar pressed against him. His cock throbbed hot and thick, deep inside Carlos, filling up the thin layer of latex separating them with a broken, choked off sound. 

Shame and embarrassment surged low and vicious through Oscar’s stomach as his body shuddered with release. He clung to Carlos almost desperately, trying to pull himself together fast enough to retreat before Carlos could say something, could do something—fuck, anything. He didn’t want Carlos to even look at him. 

Oscar pushed himself back abruptly, breath uneven. “Fuck’s sake, Carlos,” he muttered, voice rough already. “I told you—”

He pulled out of Carlos jerkily, hands shaking, legs unsteady. His cock was already softening, condom partially pulling off, filled with milky white evidence of his own failure. Carlos groaned softly, clenching around nothing, reaching back with one hand. 

“Oscar,” he grumbled. “Wait—”

Oscar refused to look at him. Heat still burned visibly up his neck and across his cheeks, made worse by how badly his body had betrayed him. He rolled halfway to the other side of the bed, propping up against the pillows. He tugged off the incriminating wrapper and tied it off before throwing it dejectedly at the bin. 

Carlos rolled carefully onto one side to look at him properly then, expression softening almost immediately at the sight of Oscar glaring furiously at absolutely nothing.

“Hey,” Carlos murmured. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

Oscar huffed. “No, you—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dunno what you want from me.”

The stupid part was that Carlos had never once made him feel ashamed about this, not the first time it happened, not any of the times afterward when Oscar came too soon, hips stuttering, fucking too deep, lost in the pleasure between Carlos’s thighs. Carlos had simply always been kind about it. 

All their careful distance clearly meant absolutely nothing if Carlos could talk him into pieces until he was possessive and shaking against Carlos’s back, vulnerability clawing up his throat. With a quiet groan of frustration, Oscar slung an arm across his face to block out Carlos’s dark eyes, unwilling to deal with the way Carlos was probably looking at him now.

“Oscar,” Carlos murmured, prying lightly at his wrist, “quit hiding.”

Oscar tried tugging once against his grip. “Leave me alone,” he muttered. “‘m not exactly useful anymore.”

Carlos went quiet before the mattress shifted gently beneath them as he moved closer. “I think,” he murmured softly. “I want you exactly like this.”

Oscar kept his arm stubbornly over his eyes.

Carlos ignored the barricade entirely. One warm hand slid slowly up Oscar’s side instead, broad palm smoothing over his ribs with lazy affection while Carlos kissed against the line of his jaw.

“You think I am disappointed because you wanted me too much?” he asked, teasing.

Oscar’s throat tightened immediately.

Carlos kissed him again, not waiting for an answer, mouth brushing slowly along his jaw while his hand continued stroking lightly up and down Oscar’s side like he was calming something frightened.

“You think too much, pequeño,” he murmured against his skin, fond and a little exasperated all at once. “So much better when you feel instead.”

The bed shifted again, and suddenly Carlos was half over him, warm weight settling carefully between Oscar’s thighs while Oscar still hid behind his forearm like that was accomplishing anything now.

Carlos’s hair brushed softly against Oscar’s chest as he ducked lower, kissing slowly, open-mouthed along his sternum. 

Oscar’s breathing hitched despite himself when Carlos kissed lower, his tongue tracing his happy trail, down the soft warmth of his stomach.

“You don’t know how hot it is,” Carlos murmured quietly against his skin. “Seeing you lose control a little…”

He kissed right where Oscar’s waistband would sit if he were wearing anything. His stubble prickled against Oscar’s stomach, and Oscar found it difficult to keep completely silent in response. 

“You sounded so sweet for me, eh,” Carlos rumbled, his voice dropping lower, his strong forearms wrapping around his thighs, settling across them. One of Carlos’s hands slid absently along the outside of his leg, slow and grounding.

Oscar swallowed hard while Carlos stayed draped warmly over him, entirely unconcerned with whether Oscar was useful or composed or capable of anything besides lying there flushed and overwhelmed beneath his hands.

A warm mouth suddenly enveloped the head of his soft cock, and Oscar almost died. 

What the fuck. 

He was still soft, still covered in come and the lube of the condom, and—and, Jesus, Carlos was sucking him down like it was his job. 

“Carlos,” Oscar breathed weakly behind his arm.

Carlos only hummed around his dick in response, the vibration dragging another helpless shiver from him. Oscar felt his tongue around his length, licking slowly like Oscar was worth tasting, and Oscar flushed deeper. 

Heat flashed through him hard enough to make his stomach tense despite the embarrassment and sensitivity. His thighs twitched under the weight of Carlos’s arms, his dick filling in the hot suction all around him. 

It was humiliating how much he loved the overwhelming too-muchness of Carlos’s wet mouth when he had lost his grip earlier, coming like an overexcited teenager. But Carlos’s head bobbing between his thighs, holding him down, taking what he wanted when Oscar was helpless to do more than moan and convulse under his tongue and lips and throat, was more than enough to make him throb painfully in the Spaniard’s mouth. 

His free hand found its way into Carlos’s hair, holding on for dear life as the man sucked every last bit of sanity from his aching length. 

“Christ, Carlos,” Oscar gasped when he felt the tip of his cock touch the entrance of his throat before pulling off with a wet pop. 

Oscar’s arm finally slipped away from his eyes, and light flooded back in all at once.

Carlos looked up immediately from where he was sprawled between Oscar’s thighs, hair a mess, mouth pink and damp from sucking Oscar’s cock. Oscar could only see bottomless pools of want when his eyes met Carlos’s dark gaze. There was no smugness left in them now, no teasing. 

Oscar felt another wave of heat climb straight into his face. 

Carlos pushed off the mattress, climbing over him, straddling his lap, bracketing his thighs with thick muscle, strong from cycling. Oscar stared up at him for a second after they settled, chest still heaving unevenly from the sudden shift.

Carlos looked devastating. His hair was wrecked now, dark locks shoved messily out of place from Oscar’s hand, sticking up slightly at the crown. His mouth was flushed pink and swollen, lower lip still damp and shiny. Red marks bloomed across the golden skin beneath his jaw, half hidden by the angle of his body. And somehow, despite all that visible evidence of Oscar all over him, Carlos still looked like the one winning here.

Actually, no. He looked like he had conquered something, like he was deeply pleased with himself for making Oscar like this.

Carlos’s hand slid into place at his waist, lifting up on his knees while his other hand stroked Oscar firmly, positioning him—

Oscar jolted faintly and grabbed for him on instinct, something nervous and hot twisting through his stomach.

“Oi—” His voice cracked slightly. “What’re you doing?”

Carlos, entirely unbothered by the panic creeping into Oscar’s voice, merely continued torturing Oscar’s cockhead against his rim, letting it catch before swirling him around like a toy. 

“What does it look like?” he murmured.

Oscar’s grip tightened around the man’s hips automatically. “Carlos,” he said weakly, almost pleading. 

They were both clean. They had established that early on, both too practical to be stupid about this. But this—they had never fucked like this. 

Carlos kissed him, one hand leaving his waist to cup his jaw. He left Oscar’s cockhead precariously just inside his rim, still slick with lube from before, bringing his hand to the other side of Oscar’s face. He licked into Oscar’s mouth slowly, hips rolling every so slightly, letting Oscar feel the pressure, the potential, if he just pushed, if he just wanted it enough—

Oscar’s hips twitched without his permission, bucking up against the tight heat teasing his tip as Carlos licked into his mouth. A groan punched out of his chest as wet warmth engulfed him. Even only halfway inside, Oscar couldn’t imagine anything worse had ever happened to him, anything more ruinous than feeling something so heavenly wrapped around the bare skin of his dick. 

Carlos hummed softly into the kiss like he could feel it happening already, Oscar disintegrating into his hands, his mouth, the tight furl of him sucking him in, in, in. 

Oscar’s hands gripped Carlos’s waist, and he tried to breathe before he did something stupid like thrust his entire throbbing cock into him in one go, as much as he wanted to. He moaned into Carlos’s mouth with every little twitch instead, slowly burying himself and his dignity a centimetre at a time. 

Carlos gasped when he finally sat fully against his thighs, eyes fluttering shut, Oscar finally buried inside. Oscar’s ears were ringing, the whole of him dizzy and hot as he tried to remember what came next, blinking hazily at the beautiful expanse of bronze muscle in front of him. 

Carlos’s fingers wound in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand firm on his shoulder. “Oscar,” he croaked. “Please.”

Oscar couldn’t think, but his hands lifted the man in his lap almost on instinct before lowering him once again, impaling him on his thick shaft. They moaned simultaneously when he bottomed out, Carlos’s fingers tightening in his hair. 

Oscar tilted up, pressing fully against Carlos’s chest, trapping his erection between their slick stomachs. Slowly, they lifted Carlos’s hips together, Oscar meeting him on the thrust and forcing a broken sound out of him that made Oscar’s dick pulse threateningly. 

They built up a rhythm, Carlos’s strong thighs picking him up enough to fuck down hard and deep, riding Oscar with tight strokes. They couldn’t keep their mouths off each other, sometimes kissing, licking, sometimes panting into each other’s skin. 

Oscar clawed into his lower back when Carlos rolled his hips while yanking his hair hard, pain spreading across the back of his head in a way that made him mewl with pleasure. 

Carlos lost his English when Oscar’s mouth wrapped around his nipple, sucking hard enough to leave a bright red hickey. He would’ve stopped there, but Oscar gave him a matching one on the other side just to hear Carlos swear in Spanish, totally wrecked. 

Oscar pressed into the crease of his throat, groaning into the clammy skin as Carlos rode him faster. Before he knew what he was doing, Oscar’s teeth had latched low on his neck, biting the Spaniard hard, a broken cry slipping out of Carlos. 

When he released his neck, deep red with faint indentations marked where he had bitten Carlos like a brand, Oscar groaned at the sight, fucking up into him faster but losing the rhythm of it quickly. “Carlos, ah—‘m not gonna last,” he gritted out.

Carlos was letting out little “ah, ah, ah”s with each thrust, eyes hazy with pleasure. “Come for me,” he pushed. “Want to feel you—inside.”

Oscar’s brain disconnected at the mere notion, and instinct said he needed to focus on his partner’s pleasure. His narrow fingers wrapped around Carlos’s weeping cock, slick with precome and sweat from their stomachs, and it only took a few strokes before Carlos was coming over his chest, painting him with white strokes, groaning and twitching in his hand. 

“Fuck—madre mía, fuck,” Carlos groaned, hips stuttering with the force of his release. 

Oscar followed almost immediately after, pumping Carlos full of his second orgasm, primal instincts filling his head with several single-syllable words. Pulsing deep inside without the barrier to which they had both been so accustomed made his brain melt out of his ears a little. 

Carlos exhaled shakily against Oscar’s temple, still panting a little as he tucked his face there without embarrassment, arms wrapping tight around Oscar’s shoulders almost greedily. Oscar could feel the lingering tremor still running faintly through Carlos’s body every few breaths, could feel how warm and sweaty they both were where their skin stuck together.

“You’re heavy,” Oscar muttered automatically, though his own arms had already circled Carlos’s waist.

“Mm,” Carlos hummed, making absolutely no effort to move.

Oscar could feel Carlos’s heartbeat slowing gradually against his chest now, steady and familiar after all the earlier chaos. The room smelled like sweat and sex and Carlos again instead of airports and Italy and somebody else’s road trip.

Carlos kissed along Oscar’s jaw, then settled again with a soft sigh like he was finally somewhere he wanted to be.

Oscar peeked down at the flushed line of his neck, at the red marks that couldn’t be hidden from the public eye. He saw Carlos’s cheeks flushed deep from heat, mouth swollen pink from kissing.

Oscar tightened his hold slightly before he could think too hard about why. He had spent the entire night aching for Carlos’s hands on him. But judging by the way Carlos clung to him now, sweaty and boneless and reluctant to let go, perhaps he hadn’t been the only one.

Eventually, Oscar nudged Carlos upright with reluctant hands at his waist.

Carlos made an immediate wounded sound at the movement, face twisting as he climbed awkwardly off Oscar’s lap, shoving a hand between his legs to not leak come all down his thighs. “Ay,” he complained under his breath, voice roughened by exhaustion and kissing alike.

Oscar laughed breathlessly until Carlos glared at him. 

“It was your idea!” he squeaked. 

“Be nice to me,” Carlos muttered, shamelessly dramatic as he walked to the bathroom. 

Oscar rolled his eyes and escaped to the bathroom long enough to grab paper towels for them both, cleaning himself of the frankly impressive spread of sweat and lube and come over his hips. Leaving Carlos to the en suite, he pulled on a pair of shorts and flopped sideways across the mattress. Eventually, Carlos joined him, sliding in half under the sheets. 

Oscar found Carlos’s shorts tangled somewhere near the edge of the bed and tossed them over before climbing back onto the mattress. The second he settled, Carlos reached for him automatically, hooking an arm around Oscar’s waist to drag him close again without even looking first. Clingy bastard. 

Oscar let himself be pulled down anyway, warm skin slotting against warm skin as Carlos tucked himself against Oscar’s chest with another quiet sigh. For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Oscar asked, “When d’you have to leave?”

Carlos looked up at him with sleepy eyes. “No meeting today,” he said, sounding smug again now that he’d found enough energy for it. “Perks of getting a podium.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “Right,” he murmured.

Carlos had come here after a damn near sleepless night and could have gone home afterward. He could have showered and slept in his own bed and escaped Oscar’s miserable mood entirely. Instead, he was still here, warm and sleepy in Oscar’s arms, pressing lazy kisses into Oscar’s shoulder whenever silence stretched too long.

Carlos had kissed him despite the jealousy and embarrassment anyway. His arms had lain heavily across Oscar’s thighs while Oscar spiralled. Oscar remembered the softness in his voice making him come, wrapping up Oscar’s shame, swallowing every drop. He had held Oscar like there had never been anywhere else he wanted to be.

Oscar ducked his face into Carlos’s neck before he could think himself out of it, hiding there for a second in warm skin and the lingering smell of him.

“You can stay,” he murmured against his throat. “If y’want.”

Carlos sounded a little surprised around the edges somehow, “Yeah?”

Oscar tightened his arm around his waist and hummed against his skin. “Mhm.”

Carlos slotted their legs together, wiggling as if settling in further to stay. “Good,” he sighed contentedly. “Don’t want to be anywhere else.” 

~~~ Thank you to @choneysuns for beta reading!!!

There was a rough hand on his chest, under his hoodie, palm spread flat over his sternum, fingers moving in absent, soothing paths. It shifted, fingers gliding outward along his chest, then back again, thumb brushing lightly where Max’s ribs curved, along the edge of his muscle, cupping his pectoral like a breast. The rough pad of a thumb brushed over his nipple and Max felt heat bloom in his gut, like flicking on a light switch. 

This time the words resolved. 

“Proper little handfuls, aren’t they?” George murmured into his hair, voice rough with need, fond in a way that made Max’s chest tighten.

George followed the words with a heated kiss at the curve of Max’s neck, then another, open-mouthed, as if he struggled not to consume Max entirely. “Fuck, I love your tits, Max. Honestly, you’re lucky I let you wear a shirt at all, looking the way you do.”

Max frowned faintly, lashes fluttering, his mind trying to catch up as the words settled into place and stayed there. Half asleep or not, they threaded straight through him, loosening something he usually kept locked down tight. 

The warmth in his core deepened, a quiet ache curling under his ribs, desire blooming in that familiar, dangerous way that left him feeling exposed even with his eyes still closed. He shifted slightly, instinctively, the movement small and unplanned, like his body was reaching for something his mind hadn’t approved yet.

Max felt cool air over his ass, his balls—what had happened to his boxer briefs?—And then something, something wet—Max’s heart was picking up, thudding heavier against his ribs, and he became acutely aware of how close George was, pressed up against his back, and something was pushing in and—

Max cried out, the stretch so overwhelming, so hot and huge that he couldn’t think about anything other than the feeling of cock sinking into him.

With sudden clarity, Max realized that George was fucking him. George was grabbing his hips and stuffing him full of his cock, opening him up and making him take it, and Max was whimpering into the sheets. 

What in the actual goddamn fuck?

They’d talked about it. More than once.

Max had been mortified, obviously. Sitting on the edge of the bed, pink to the ears, staring determinedly at the floor like it had personally betrayed him. “You—what,” he’d said, horrified. “That’s—don’t—” He’d hidden his face behind his hands, groaning. “Jesus.”

George had watched him, entirely unsympathetic to his discomfort. The way Max folded in on himself when flustered, shoulders up, ears glowing, like the attention itself was too warm to stand. “It deserves a proper conversation!” he’d insisted, as if that made it any easier.

Max hadn’t said no. George had kissed the words out of him. Again. And again. Like he already knew where this was going.  Eventually Max had cracked, eyes opening just a slit, flustered and pink and glaring up at him as if George had personally engineered this betrayal.

“So,” George had asked quietly, gently. “Would you hate it?”

Max had stared at him for a long moment, cheeks burning, pride and want having a very obvious argument on his face. He’d huffed, frustrated with himself more than anything, “No,” he’d admitted at last, barely audible. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

George’s expression had softened in a way that made Max immediately regret saying anything at all. “Yeah?” he’d asked gently.

Max had rolled his eyes, cheeks still burning. “Don’t make me say it again.” He’d tried desperately not to think about waking up to George on top of him, George’s fingers opening him up, George’s tongue violating him when he had no idea, no say in the matter. 

Max had pressed his thighs together under the table, shoving his hands between his legs in an attempt to keep a lid on the kettle threatening to boil over in his gut. “I mean,” he’d muttered, “I don’t mind. Just—don’t make it weird.”

George had promised, earnestly.

He let out a broken moan into his pillow as George somehow fucked deeper, splitting him open, cleaving him in two, remaking him from the inside out. His hole fluttered helplessly around the hardness deep inside him, forcing a groan out of George. 

“God’s sake, Max,” George rasped, smoothing a hand up Max’s back and into his hair, pressing his face into the pillow. “So fucking desperate.”

Max had been sleeping, actually, he hadn’t requested anything of the sort. He wasn’t desperate, he didn’t need George’s length filling him to bursting, he didn’t need it the way he needed oxygen to breathe, he just—Max had been sleeping, and George had interrupted that by taking what he wanted, and by using Max like a human sex toy, and Max just, Max wanted. 

Oh, god, he wanted. 

Max wanted to be used, he wanted to be wanted, he wanted to be needed, to be touched, to be manhandled, to be shoved in the pillow, to be rendered a whimpering mess without a say in the matter, and holy fuck—George felt so much deeper like this, and Max couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped his throat, his eyes fluttering when George tangled fingers in his hair. George’s other hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to fuzz his thoughts. 

It was so much better than he’d even imagined. 

“Bloody gorgeous like this,” George murmured, nosing at Max’s cheek, stroking his jaw with his thumb. “Look so fucking pretty with my cock in you.”

“Please,” Max whimpered, George fucking up into him in a slow, deep grind, forcing a few hot tears to spill down his cheeks. 

George pushed so deep Max would swear he could feel it in his throat, gasping with each pass of his hips. “So good for me, aren’t you? In my bed, in my jumper…” He cut off with a long groan, burying his face in the crook of Max’s neck. “Ah—Want you here, want you in my things—mine—”

Max couldn’t stop trembling, gasping and panting into the fabric practically shoved into his mouth. He loved the press of George’s fingers against his throat, how they blurred his traitorous thoughts, the pleasure it added to the cock nailing his prostate. 

“You’re a state, aren’t you,” George rumbled, his voice raw and fucked out, and Max nodded, helpless, incapable of doing anything except letting himself be fucked. He clutched at the pillow under his face wet with tears and spit, certain his face was blotchy red and flushed. Messy, desperate, wanting. He wasn’t good for anything else, really. George was right, this was what he was good for.

George couldn’t stop the filthy murmurs into Max’s neck. “So wet for me, such a tease,” he groaned, biting Max’s neck hungrily. “Acting like such a brat, knowing it would turn me on.” 

It took a moment for the words to reach him. Max swallowed hard against the hand holding his neck, breath uneven, letting the words sink in and the warmth spread. 

George’s teeth grazed his jaw, burying his hips so deeply Max could see stars. “Of course the champion wouldn’t want to share,” he said, voice low and close. 

Max’s shamefully hard dick pulsed at the words, dripping more precome into the sheets at the memory. 

The photo. George and Alex, out at dinner, after Monaco. Alex picking up the check. Max had stared at it longer than he should have, chest tight, heat crawling up his neck. It wasn’t that Alex was touching him. It was the way George looked open, unbothered, like he hadn’t spent the evening backing out of plans with Max instead.

Max had told himself he was being dramatic. That George was allowed to go out. That he didn’t own George. That he hadn’t been promised anything. That no one had left him, because that would imply he’d been waiting in the first place.

And then he’d gone to George’s apartment, drowned himself in one of his oversized hoodies, and crawled into his bed fully clothed, curled up on his side. The sheets had smelled like George too. Everything did. The pillow, the air, the stupid hoodie twisted under his chin. 

So if he’d been a little bratty when George had canceled their evening plans, that was between him and the man currently fucking him stupid. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come home to you?” George breathed, his lips sliding up Max’s neck. “You drive me mad. Did you need me to prove it?”

Max whimpered, squirming, bringing a hand to his aching dick. His hand could hardly follow instruction, his mind hazy with sleep, with George’s hand wrapped around his neck, with a massive cock splitting him open at God knows what hour. Fumbling, clumsy fingers wrapped around his untouched dick, spreading his slick down the hot length of him, punching a groan out of his throat. 

“Christ,” George murmured, breathy and undone, like the word had been pulled out of him rather than chosen. “You feel… heavenly. Can’t fuck you this deep when you’re awake, can I?”

Max whimpered, shaking his head. He was so close, just a little more—

George made a low noise, and Max knew he must look pathetic, touching himself, sloppy and rough, tears leaking into the pillow, but he couldn’t stop, so desperate to come that he’d die if George didn’t let him.

George grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand away from his cock, pinning it behind his back.

“No,” Max whined, looking down at his cock with a devastated expression, his hips fucking up against nothing. His dick twitched helplessly without any stimulation, hard and leaking.

He was so close. He was still so close, he could come from nothing, if George would just—

“Fuck me,” Max choked out, and his face flushed hotter, ashamed at the neediness in his voice, the obscene roll of his hips back shainst George’s, the tight buds of his nipples scraping against the roughness of George’s palms. “Please.”

The sound George let out at Max’s request was frankly obscene. His thrusts turned from slow and deep to punishing, brutal, pounding into Max’s hips. He braced an arm across Max’s middle, holding him in place while he fucked Max into a whimpering, leaking mess. 

Max’s free hand scrabbled, clutching at the arm across his middle, desperate for leverage, to feel the restraint as George pounded into him. 

“Fuck,” George groaned, pushing Max’s briefs down his thighs further. “Absolutely gagging, aren’t you?” His hand stroked up Max’s throat, massaging at his pulse points and sending waves of pleasure through him with each thrust. Max could only cling to the strong arm holding him, the broad chest burning behind him, the hot mouth panting in his hair. 

“Come on, love,” George said, voice ragged, nipping at his ear. “Be a good boy and come for me.” He reached between Max’s legs and finally, finally grasped Max’s aching dick. 

Max moaned, pushing against the hand holding his throat, fucking into the hand around his arousal, needy and past the point of caring. “Please, please, please,” he begged, voice raspy with sleep. “Need it—hnng—don’t stop—”

George barely stroked a few times before Max was dripping, streaking, spurting over his knuckles, hot and sudden. 

Max moaned hoarsely, his hole clenching so tight that George cursed, hips faltering. 

But George fucked him through it, stroking his cock and tweaking his nipple, kissing his neck and murmuring how beautiful he looked and how perfect he was until all Max could hear was TV static in his brain. 

George brought his come-covered fingers to Max’s mouth, slipping them easily between his soft lips. Max was too far gone to argue, letting his mouth drop open, sucking his own come off the long fingers he’d come to adore, looking across the bedroom with unseeing eyes. 

“So good for me,” George breathed, gripping Max’s hips under the rucked up hoodie, yanking Max back onto his cock, hard and rough, ignoring Max’s breathy whimpers of oversensitivity. “Should just—ah—keep you like this always, fucked open in my bed.”

Max’s eyes fluttered, then drifted mostly closed on their own. He sucked absentmindedly on George’s fingers as George’s hips continued their punishing rhythm. His mind went pleasantly foggy, edges blurring as if he were sinking back into sleep without quite leaving the moment. Max’s lashes lowered fully, his focus narrowing down to warmth and sound and the steady presence holding him there. The world felt distant, unimportant.

“Want you so much, Max,” George murmured, breath warm and uneven in Max’s hair, the words broken by the press of his mouth against Max’s throat. “Only you,” he added softly, quieter now, almost lost to the space between them. “Always you.” The last part came out rougher as his thrusts stuttered, George filling the condom with a gasp of Max’s name. Max’s thighs trembled, his spent cock giving a feeble twitch.

Max exhaled, long and loose, tension easing out of him in a way he rarely allowed. His thoughts slipped out of order, drifting instead of snapping into place. He was aware only of how safe it felt to be like this, wrapped in someone who wanted him exactly as he was.

“Mm,” George murmured, fond, clearly pleased by Max’s quiet surrender.

Max barely heard it. His mind was already floating, eyes closed, body relaxed and warm, letting himself be held there just a little longer before the day could find him again.

He could feel George, the steady warmth of him, the familiar weight curled close, the quiet press of a chest against his back. George’s hand rested at his waist, thumb moving in absent, reassuring strokes. 

George spoke softly into his hair. “You don’t like sharing,” he breathed, fingers tracing idly through Max’s hair. “Neither do I.”

Max made a quiet sound, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t have the energy. He let the sound of George’s voice wash over him instead, familiar enough to feel safe.

George smiled, pressing a gentle kiss into Max’s hair. “You pretend you don’t need anyone,” he whispered, like it was a secret meant only for the dark. “But you do. And I like that you let it be me.”

Max’s fingers twitched faintly in the duvet.

“No one’s ever trusted me like you do,” George went on, softer still. “Letting me take you.” He slid a hand over Max’s chest, warm fingers spreading over his sternum. “Letting me keep you.”

He kissed Max’s temple, lingering there, like he was committing the feeling to memory. “God,” he whispered, breath catching, “you’ve rather ruined me, I’m afraid.” 

Max’s breathing slowed, deepening, his thoughts slipping loose one by one. The words slipped past defenses he didn’t have the strength to hold up anymore.

George stayed like that, whispering truths big and small into the dark, unguarded things he’d never say when Max was fully awake, until Max finally drifted properly under, relaxed and warm, held together by the sound of George’s voice and the quiet certainty that he was wanted.

~~~~~

You were doing fine. Laughing, sipping your drinks. Picking at chocolate from one of those ridiculous little tray’s one of the host’s friends handed you. 

“Supposed to be spiked,” She said. “Like, aphrodisiac spiked.”

And you laughed. Popped one in your mouth. Moved on.

Forgot about it. 

Until now.

He’s leaning against the bar, sleeves rolled up, in conversation with someone. 

Your heart lurches.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. You even checked. Avoided his circles and favorite places like the plague. Blocked his number, deleted his socials. Haven’t even said his name in months.

Not since he left you shaking in a hallway with mascara running down your face.

You’re careful not to look in his direction again.

Not toward the bar. Not to his tanned forearms. Not to the curve of his throat.

You don’t even know who he’s talking to…and you won’t give yourself the chance to find out either.

Instead, you disappear into another group of people. Let someone refill your drink. Let someone else laugh into your ear. 

And suddenly everything starts to feel a little too sharp. Your dress clinging to your skin in places it didn’t before. And the insides of your thigh’s feel damp.

Your stomach tenses and suddenly you can’t stop thinking about the fucking chocolate. The stupid little square. The way it melted so easily on your tongue. Tasted good too.

And your nipples are hard beneath your dress. Can feel the ache low in your belly. 

So you excuse yourself to the bathroom. Walk into a darkly lit hallway. It’s pretty quiet except for the hum of music behind the wall.

You turn the corner. Not watching where you’re going. Just trying to breathe. Cool off.

And then you collide with him.

Hard chest. Solid. Familiar scent. And that body. The body you used to know with your eyes shut.

You breathe in sharply. 

And your hands press into his chest before you can stop yourself. Trying to brace for a fall.

His hand shoots out quick, steadying you. Fingers hot against the strip of skin at your side. And you jolt.

He’s already looking at you.

Like he knew this would happen. Like he was waiting for it.

“Careful, cariño,” his voice is smooth. Low. Thick with something you don’t want to acknowledge. “Didn’t see you there.”

You step back quickly. Almost stumbling away from him.

“Jesus,” you snap. “What the fuck are you…”

“Walking,” he shrugs his shoulders. Cocking his head. “Relax.”

You straighten. Glare at him. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Didn’t know this was your party.” He grins.

“It’s not,” you cross your arms along your chest.

“Then I guess I’m allowed to be here,” His voice low. “Sorry to disappoint.”

You glare. But the heat building between your legs makes it hard to hold your ground. Your skin is fucking burning. Pulse pounding.

And he’s close. Too fucking close.

You hate him. You hate how he left. You hate the fucking smirk on his face. You hate that’s he’s the only person who’s ever made you come so hard that you couldn’t speak for minutes after.

And he’s looking at you with those dark eyes like he knows. Like he can see the flush in your cheeks. The tremble in your hands.

“You’re flushed,” He mutters.

You roll your eyes. “So? It’s warm in here.”

“Mmm.” His gaze flicks down, lingers at your stomach. “I’d believe that…y’know?…If I didn’t see you eat one of those chocolates earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

“What?”

You try to take a step back, but he follows. Lazily. Easily. Cutting off your exit without even lifting a hand.

“Tell me,” he mutters. “How long have you been feeling it?”

His voice is low. Slow. The kind of tone he used to use when his hand was already slipped in between your legs.

“Fuck off, Carlos.”

“You’re already fucking yourself in your head,” He says. Taunting.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re flushed.”

His gaze drags over you. From your eyes, down to your mouth, pausing for a few moments, then down to your chest.

“Just look at you,” He says. “So fidgety. Breathing as if I’ve got my fingers shoved up in you already.”

You want to slap him. But you don’t. Every word lands directly between your fucking legs.

“You always got like this whenever I touched you. So fucking easy.” He laughs. “One hand on your throat and you’d fuckin’ melt for me, yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

“You used to beg me to talk like this…remember?”

Your knees are weak.

“Used to get so fuckin’ dumb for me.” He whispers. “All I had to do was say a few things and you’d be soaking.”

Your stomach clenches and you breathe hard. Trying to swallow the whimper in your throat. But he see’s it. Of course he does.

“Still like that, huh?” He grins. “You’re squirming, baby.”

“Carlos…”

“No. Don’t say my name like that.” His voice is sharp. “Not unless you’re gonna say it while you’re moaning and begging again.”

You take a step back. But he follows. Again. Cruelly. Like he’s savoring the way you’re falling apart. Slowly.

“Used to talk to you like this while I fucked you from behind, yeah?” His lips hover by your ear. “One hand in your hair. One on your hip. And I’d say the filthiest shit…just to feel your pussy clench around my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the wall behind you.

“I’d tell you how tight you were. How fuckin’ wet. How you were made for me.”

You clench your jaw. Body fuckin’ buzzing.

He brushes a hand near your jaw. Hovering. Not touching.

“Bet if I put two fingers in you, you’d come instantly.”

Your thighs are pressed so tightly together it hurts. But you don’t move. 

“I hate you.”

“No.” He grunts. “You hate that no one else can get you off the way I can.”

You flinch.

“Want me to remind you how good you were?” His voice is dark. “How you used to ride my fingers like a good fucking slut while I spat in your mouth?”

Your legs nearly give out.

“Still got that pretty moan?” He breathes.

“Fuck you.” You shove him back. Hard.

He doesn’t expect it, and stumbles back. Catches himself quick.

And you adjust your dress. Lift your chin.

“You haven’t changed.” You say, voice full of disgust.

You push past him. Don’t even look over your shoulder as you say, “I’ll go find someone else. Someone who isn’t a fucking coward.”

And that’s when you hear the scrape of his shoe against the floor.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

You feel it before you turn. Him storming up to you. Something unhinged in his presence.

You turn your head. And his face? 

Grin gone. He looks furious.

“Y’think I’m gonna let you walk out there and let someone else fuck you?” He grunts. “Let some idiot put his hands on you?”

You blink. “I’m not yours.”

“The fuck you’re not.”

And he’s in front of you again. Shoulders tense. Chest heaving.

“Y’think I didn’t see it? The way your thighs were rubbing together like you couldn’t stand a single second without my cock shoved up there?”

He steps closer. “You can pretend all you want. But you walk out there, and I swear to fuckin’ God…”

He stops. Fists clenched.

“You want someone else? Go ahead.” His voice is sharp. “Let them try to fuck you the way I did.”

You swallow.

“Let them try to make you come with nothing but their hand around your throat and two fingers buried in that needy cunt.”

And you see it.

The edge in his eyes. The small flush in his cheeks. Chest rising. Vein in his neck.

You narrow your eyes.

“You took one too.”

And he laughs. Shaky.

“Yeah.” His voice low. “Didn’t think much of it, til I saw you…and now I can’t fucking breathe.”

His hands are clenched.

“Been hard for an hour,” He groans. “Every time I close my eyes I picture you on your knees.”

He laughs again. Bitter. 

“I’m gonna say this once,” His voice cracks. Feral. “No one else gets to touch you.”

You glare. “You don’t get to say that. You left..”

“I know,” He cuts you off. Snapping. “I know I did. And I fucking hate myself for it.”

His forehead drops to yours. Body trembling.

“But I swear…I swear if anyone else touches you tonight…if anyone gets to learn how fucking wet you are..”

He groans. Like he’s in pain.

“I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

And his hips roll toward you once. And it sends a zap of heat straight to your core.

His cock is fucking hard. Straining. Throbbing.

“Fuck,” He mutters. “Y’feel that? Feel what you do to me?”

Your hands find his chest, but not to pull him away. Just to feel him. His heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” His voice is wrecked. “Haven’t. Even when I tried to fuck someone else…I’d have to close my eyes and picture it was your cunt squeezing me.”

You whimper. Lips trembling.

“Yeah,” He groans. “That sound. Fuck..that’s the one.”

You don’t even have time to process it before he’s pulling you down the hall. Shoulders tense. And you stumble to keep up. Until he shoulders a door open and yanks you in after him.

A bathroom.

He kicks open the first stall. Slams it shut behind you both. 

Locks it.

And then his hands are on you.

And his mouth crashes into yours. Hot. Hungry. Teeth scraping your bottom lip like he wants to bite it. You gasp into him, and he groans like the sound alone might make him come.

“You still hate me?” He mutters against your mouth, dragging your dress up. Bunching the fabric.

“I do,” you whisper. “I fucking do.”

“So why the fuck are you this wet for me?” He cups you through the thin fabric of your panties. “Hm? Why’s your pussy begging for me if you hate me so much?”

You whimper. Grind against his hand. And all hell breaks loose.

“Fuck this.” He yanks your panties to the side.

Fingers slip through your folds and he outright groans. Loud. Like you’re ruining him.

“You need me this bad, baby?”

You nod. Desperate. Delirious.

“Say it.”

You hesitate.

He presses two fingers against your clit. Rubbing slow circles. Mean. 

“Carlos…”

“Say you need me.”

You’re breathless. “I need you.”

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing his pants, dragging them low enough to free his cock. Thick. Flushed. Leaking. Perfect. 

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits. Voice wrecked. “You feel too good. Look too pretty. M’gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

He grabs your thigh, hooks it over his hip.

And pushes in. All the way.

You cry out. Nails digging into his back as your pussy clenches down on him. 

He chokes on a gasp, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck…fuck…still so fuckin tight.” 

He doesn’t move. Breathing hard against your skin.

“No one else gets this. No one.” His voice is harsh. “Y’understand me? Say it.”

He starts moving. “Say it while I fuck you.”

And he slams back in. Hard.

“Yours,” you cry out. “I’m yours.”

And that’s all he needs.

Then he’s fucking you hard. Relentless. The stall doors shaking with each thrust. 

“Dirty fuckin’ whore.” He pants. “This pussy missed me, hm?”

His hands slip between your bodies, rubbing your clit.

“C’mon make it quick.” He mutters. “Cunt is choking my cock. Know you’re there.”

And you do. 

Your entire body snaps, clenching as you cry out his name. He grunts.

Groans, loud as he spills inside of you.

“Fuck, baby…” His neck is flushed. “Take it all.”

He’s still inside you. Still hard. When he presses a kiss to your throat.

“I need more.”

You nod without thinking. And you’re barely breathing before he slides out of you. Pulls up his pants. 

Grabs your wrist. 

Pulls you out of the stall. His come leaking down your thighs.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, just drags you down the hallway. His grip on you is strong. 

He finds the first empty door. Shoves it open. Slams it shut.

And the second you turn to face him, he’s on you.

Hands in your hair. Mouth on yours. Kissing you like it hurts. Dress ripped off in one swipe. Pants unbuttoned and shoved down. Shirt stripped off.

He walks you backwards until your knees hit something.

A mattress.

And then he shoves you down. Climbs over you. Dragging you to the edge of the bed like he owns you.

“Never should’ve let you go.” 

And he slams back into you.

You both moan.

“Still so perfect.” 

His hips move. Slow. Filthy.

He drops his head to your chest. Hips slamming into you harder. Losing control. 

“I’ve thought about this every fucking night.” He breathes. “My cock inside you. You coming all over me. Every single fucking night.”

You arch into him. And he snaps.

Slams into you. Again and again.

“You blocked me,” He grunts. Pushing in deeper. “Everywhere.”

He’s holding your wrists down on the bed, hips grinding into you.

“I fuckin’ tried, y’know that?” His voice is harsh. “Open.”

You do.

And he spits right onto your tongue. You moan. Shaky. Breathless.

“Swallow it.”

And you do. Instantly.

“I called. Texted. Showed up. And you just disappeared on me.”

His voice rough. Cracking. Eyes locked on you.

“Blocked me on every fucking thing,” he fucks you harder. “And now?”

He leans in closer. “Now you’re letting me back in with this pussy before you even let me apologize…before I even explain myself.”

You whimper. And he laughs. Mean.

“So fuckin’ easy.”

He splits you wide open, cock driving into you.

“Dios mío,” He breathe against your skin, voice cracking. “This fuckin’ body…” His hands slide against your skin. Possessive. 

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.” He grunts. Voice hoarse. “And I ruined it. I know that I did.”

His hand slips down to rub your clit. Eyes never leaving yours.

“Mi puta,” He whispers into your ear. “Mía.”

“Come again,” he whispers. “One more time. Wanna feel you fuckin’ squeeze me and tell me you still want me.”

And when you do….

He follows.

“Fuck…fuck, I fucking love you.”

You’re not sure how long you stay like this.

Chest pressed against you. Legs tangled. Cock still buried in you.

Twitching like he doesn’t want to let you go.

And then he’s moving again. Slow. Deep. Mean. Hand tangled in your hair, holding your head against the mattress as you arch.

And then he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow it, mi amor. Like a good girl.”

You do.

“Buena chica,” He grunts. “Always were. Always knew how to take it.”

And then he’s pushing your thighs up to your chest, slamming into you harder.

And you scream. 

“You still hate me?” He asks. Voice ruined.

You look at him. Eyes glassy. Breathless.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

And his hips slow. But he still hits you deep.

“No mientas,” He exhales. “Don’t lie.”

Your nails dig into his back. “I hate how much I missed this. Missed you.”

And he groans.

“Say you’re mine.”

“Soy tuya.” You breathe.

And then his mouth is on yours. Claiming.

And his hand circles your clit.

“Hazlo,” He hisses against your lips. “Come for me. Again. Vamos, mi amor.”

And you do. Gasping his name.

And he falls apart with you. Spilling inside you again.

And this time he collapses onto you. Slipping out.

His come leaking onto the sheets below you.

“I was scared,” He breathes. “Didn’t deserve you. Still don’t.”

You blink. Dazed.

“Didn’t even let me say sorry.”

You exhale. “You didn’t fucking try.”

He goes still. 

His eyes search yours. “What do I do now?”

You don’t answer. 

Just brush your fingers against the back of his neck. And you feel the way he shudders.

Just holding each other.