#chewie

Huge emphasis on uncomfortably, by the way, because Oscar is slowly realizing Ferrari’s couches, though wider, aren’t nearly as comfortable as McLaren’s. Or maybe he’s just gotten so used to the papaya ones that the bright red cushions simply aren’t doing it for him. 

No, actually, scratch that.

Oscar realizes he doesn’t really care about couches, or comfort, or even how overwhelmingly red everything is, because Charles makes up for all of it. He’s warm, and he smells lovely, and he’s kissing Oscar as if breathing is entirely optional. And, see, Oscar agrees, leans into it, even, pushing himself up just enough to show Charles how badly he wants this too, eagerly licking and nipping at those plump lips, sighing when the older driver returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.

“Charles,” Oscar babbles into a moan, trembling beneath the firm grip in his hair and the slow drag of their crotches together. He feels a little lightheaded when he realizes Charles is already hard, panting against his skin as he kisses him feverishly—his cheek, his jaw, his chin, then lower, down the side of his neck, as if keeping his mouth busy is easier than letting himself think. 

And Oscar gets it, truly. After all, it’s been quite the race for Ferrari, and for Charles especially. That’s why Oscar barely hesitated when the Monegasque invited him over, as anticipation, desire, and nervous excitement tangled together until he could barely remember how he’d made it to his rival’s motorhome in the first place.

Everything happened pretty quickly. Oscar waited until everyone had filtered out before slipping inside, feeling like a secret, which he probably is, though he couldn’t care less. 

Charles is still kissing at his neck, breathing him in between soft gasps, when Oscar rolls his hips up into him, silently asking for something more than these teasing, frustratingly shallow touches. 

He tries again by whispering, “Can’t you—um—can you…” Oscar mumbles, snaking a hand between their bodies to grab Charles’ cock over his trousers, delighting in the groan that slips from his lips. He must be mad, far too impatient and way too turned on, because Oscar can’t help but murmur, “C’mon, Charles.” 

A little chuckle reaches his ears and he shivers. “Impatient, non?” Charles teases before lifting his head again, closing the distance to gently rub their noses together. When Oscar chases another kiss, he giggles again. “I’ll give you what you want.” 

Please, he means to say, and only doesn’t because Charles snakes one hand between their bodies as well, grabbing Oscar’s wrist and pulling it up to pin it against the cushion while bracing himself on his other arm. Oscar feels weirdly trapped like this, but not in a bad way; far from it, actually. He knows he’s strong, knows he could move if he wanted to. Oscar doesn’t, though, he doesn’t want to move. 

Charles isn’t done, however. He rubs their noses together again and repeats in another whisper, “I’ll give you what you want.” A little smile appears on his lips, and Oscar melts, slumping further into the sofa. “Just let me enjoy this.” He gently pecks Oscar’s lips, forcing his eyelids to flutter shut. When Oscar stays silent, Charles presses, “Yes?” 

Yeah, he wants to say, but doesn’t—Oscar is too busy trembling when a leg slips between his own. Oscar hasn’t been able to find words for a while, he realizes; hasn’t found enough strength to do so. The McLaren driver is far too pliant, letting Charles kiss him through the lingering frustration of the race and all of Oscar’s own realizations. 

Jesus. Oscar could get used to this, he thinks. To the silence and the feeling of being wanted, even if in secret. He could. Charles isn’t cruel—he just gets what he wants, and right now he wants Oscar, he wants— 

“Ah.” A second—wait, third—voice resonates through the room and Oscar freezes. “Right.”

There’s no one else that voice and accent could belong to. He’s watched the interviews, talked to him, heard him countless times since joining the sport. 

Lewis. 

Oscar’s whole body goes taut, terrified of being caught like this—it could simply ruin everything. People would know, they’d talk, and Lewis… What if Lewis loses any sort of respect for him? What if this is the moment everything fucks up? What if— 

No. Something is wrong. Charles hasn’t stopped kissing his skin, hasn’t even stopped grinding their hips together, nor has he let go of Oscar’s wrist. In fact, he lets out a breathy chuckle, pressing his thigh more firmly against Oscar’s crotch. And he’s still hard. 

“Um,” Oscar mumbles, finally opening his eyes, avoiding any sort of eye contact. His face is burning, probably so flushed by this point he’s practically Ferrari red. Because, after all, what the fuck. 

“What is it?” Charles asks, lifting his head a little before softening as he studies Oscar’s face. “Oh, right.” He sounds like he’s smiling, though Oscar can’t quite tell—he realizes he can’t bring himself to look at the older driver’s face even if he tried. But he can piece things together well enough to know Charles is looking behind him now. “Bit early, LH.” He sounds… annoyed, maybe. Or at least a little. 

Before Oscar can think any of it through, Lewis replies, “Don’t mind me.”

And Oscar minds, that’s the thing. He minds a lot.

Charles doesn’t, clearly. He lets go of Oscar’s wrist to cup his jaw, turning him until they’re face-to-face again, then gently nips at his lower lip. His rings bite into Oscar’s skin, and he sighs—mortifyingly, he sighs in pleasure. 

Charles’ voice is almost a purr when he whispers, “You could just not mind him.” And Oscar waits for a but. “Or you could give him—what you say—a show, Oscar.” 

“It’s true, Oscar,” Lewis says. From the shuffling noises around him, Oscar guesses he’s dragging over a chair and angling it to watch the two of them. 

This is, undeniably so, one of the weirdest moments of Oscar’s career. Or, better yet, his life. They keep saying his name over and over, and it’s starting to get overwhelming, and Oscar doesn’t know what to do except give in. He even finds the courage to glance over at Lewis, and Charles lets him, even though he’s still holding Oscar by the jaw. The McLaren driver swallows dryly when Lewis arches an eyebrow and curls his lips into a smile, slumping even farther back in his chair. 

Well.

It’s like pouring fuel on the fire, because it’s not like Oscar wants to leave or stop. So he turns back and practically swallows Charles’ lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer, delighting in the surprised gasp. It’s strangely satisfying to know he can still surprise Charles, too. 

Things escalate quickly from there. At some point, after kissing and kissing for what feels like forever, they even change positions, Charles pulling Oscar upright until they’re both sitting, giving Lewis a better view and themselves a little more room. They can’t fuck, much to Oscar’s despair, but they make the most of it anyway. 

Charles slips a hand down Oscar’s trousers, and the younger driver immediately resents wearing jeans. They don’t have much time either, so a handy will have to do, though part of him wishes he could drop to his knees and show Charles—and Lewis—what he can do. 

“At least pull off his trousers, will you,” Lewis says, and both of them turn to look at him. Oscar feels the blood rush down even faster when he realizes Lewis is subtly palming himself, and the seven-time world champion laughs at their matching expressions of confusion. “Talking to you, Charles.” 

Charles does it instantly. Oscar barely has time to blink before helping him tug his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, hissing through his teeth as Charles starts stroking him in slow, steady motions, his thumb brushing over Oscar’s slit. It’s so much, too much, and Oscar has to take a deep breath to stop himself from doing something embarrassing, like moaning out loud—or worse, coming all over himself. 

And the McLaren driver tries not to think about the fact that Lewis never asks him to touch Charles, so he doesn’t. Instead, he grips the Monegasque’s thigh while Charles keeps pumping him, twisting his wrist every so often, as Oscar tries not to look too stupid while his tip keeps drooling over Charles’ knuckles, making everything sound wetter and wetter. 

Lewis keeps palming himself through his own trousers, and Charles keeps kissing at Oscar’s neck, his hand never slowing, and Lewis— 

“Faster,” he says, though his voice comes out slightly strained. Oscar gasps, heat flooding his face as sweat trickles down his temple. “Do it faster, Charles.” And Charles obeys without hesitation, much to Oscar’s despair. He’s right on the edge now, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the endless groans threatening to spill out. 

“Um.” Oscar winces at himself. “Guys,” he starts, and Charles seems to understand immediately. “Charles, if you—” 

A string of chuckles reaches his ears, and it’s still Lewis, while Charles mouths at Oscar’s jaw and cheek, licking at the sheen of sweat there, breathing softly against his skin as his hand keeps moving—up and down, up and down, twisting, dragging more precome—and it’s too much, far too much— 

Oscar slaps a hand over his mouth, muffling the broken sound that tears out of him as he comes all over Charles’ hand. Some of it lands on his thigh, and he feels gross, delirious, still achingly turned on, and he’s just come in front of Lewis, and no one says a word. 

Really, no one says anything. The driver’s room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, and the air smells unmistakably of sex. 

But then someone finally says something, and it’s Lewis. Oscar tries not to dwell on it, though. “Great choice.” The world champion lets out a quiet chuckle, his voice still edged with arousal. “Next time, we’ll make sure we have more time, isn’t that right, Charles?” 

Charles’ eyes never leave Oscar’s face, even though he’s no longer touching him. He must be hurting, Oscar thinks, his cock still straining against his jeans. Well, but then again, the same probably goes for Lewis.