#ficlet ask

“Come on, Charles,” Carlos says, accent dripping in sultry tones. 

Charles takes in his former teammate’s face. He’s still standing there, large brown eyes looking even bigger than usual, dark hair tousled, full lips swollen. Kiss-bitten. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. A flash of white teeth. A ghost of a smile they used to share. 

Charles is weak and Carlos knows it. Knows he’ll step aside. His body moves on autopilot, allowing the man waiting outside to step over the threshold. Carlos grabs his waist and pulls him against his body as the hotel door closes with a deafening click. 

Charles stiffens when he smells Lando’s cologne on his collar. He wonders how Carlos left him. Asleep? Naked? Did he fuck him raw? Leave him messy? His eyes prickle. Fuck. He’s cried enough today—he doesn’t have any more tears. 

“Mon amour,” Carlos murmurs. The French sounds bitter and stilted, and Charles almost gags when his arms wrap around his back, trapping him. He’s already hard when his lips trace along Charles’ jaw. 

It doesn’t turn him on like it did before, and Charles pushes him away.  

“You should go,” he says, training his eyes on the carpet between Carlos’ shoes. They’re new Pumas. Red with gold stitching. A goodbye gift from his team. Charles can’t help but feel relief at the thought of next season. The absence of him.

“But I just got here,” Carlos protests.

Charles shakes his head. “You fucked him, and now you’re in my room, hoping for me?” 

Carlos’ mouth sets in a tight line. “It’s not like that.” 

Charles laughs, but it sounds like a sob. He doesn’t believe him anymore, doesn’t want to look at him or touch him, and it’s killing him. A year ago, they were fucking in his flat, watching telenovelas with French subtitles, feeding each other pasta. And now—it’s so far from how they used to be. How he used to feel about this man.  

“Please, I can make you feel better. You know I can.” 

Carlos steps forward again, fingers coming to rest around Charles’ neck, massaging the base, urging him to breathe. It’s familiar. Maybe he should just give in. Fuck his dignity—he lost it on the track today. 

Charles closes his eyes. Yes, please, he wants to say.

“That was a long time ago,” he says instead, squaring his expression before finally meeting Carlos’ gaze. He catches a flicker of pain in those dark pupils, but it’s gone before he can be sure.

“Once more then. For old time’s sake,” Carlos says. 

Charles’ vision blurs. One last time. He flinches but doesn’t pull away, fingers clenching at Carlos’ shirt. He should push him back, but he can’t. He’s never been good at drawing boundaries and sticking to them.

 Carlos kisses his temple, his cheek, his jaw. 

It’s supposed to be tender, Charles thinks. It feels like gunshots. He tilts his head anyway, mouth parting. He wishes he was stronger than his own lust. 

Carlos’ mouth is soft, his lips warm and pliant, and Charles can’t stop the shaky gasp wrenched from his throat when he tastes bitter salt and old champagne on his tongue. Remnants of his celebration with another.

He doesn’t resist as Carlos leads him to bed and peels his clothes off. Charles hands him the lube. He knows how this will end, but he continues to steer them toward it.

Carlos opens him slowly, and Charles wishes he would be rougher, meaner. He wants to fucking hate it.

“Did you use a condom?” With him tonight. It’s unspoken, but Carlos’ eyes flicker with recognition.  

“Of course,” he says.  

The admission makes Charles want to vomit, but he pushes aside the implication and rolls onto his back, legs spreading to make space. Carlos grips the back of his thighs, and Charles cries out when he slides home. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Carlos murmurs, cupping his hips, thrusting deep. 

It feels good, and Charles despises the pleasure shooting down his spine. Carlos’ pace quickens as he drills his spot over and over. He knows his body well enough to stroke the places that drive him crazy. God, Charles wishes it hurt. He wishes it was awful. He’s not going to last long. 

“Fuck,” he says, digging his nails into Carlos’ ribcage. 

Carlos gasps in pain. 

Good, Charles thinks. I want to hurt you.  

“I know,” Carlos says

Jesus, did he say that out loud? He doesn’t have time to ask before he’s coming. Carlos follows suit. It’s much too fast for a pity fuck. His resentment returns, burning angrily in his gut. 

“I lo—” 

“No,” Charles cuts in, roughly shoving him away. He feels empty and wet. His body stutters from the loss. There would be no cuddling. No soft nothings. This was just a final transaction. 

“Charles—”

“I do not want to hear it. You got what you wanted. Leave me.” 

Carlos closes his mouth and does as he’s told. The severity in his tone must have done it. He buttons his shirt, properly this time, and pulls on his jeans. He gives him one more long glance before heading to the door. 

He pauses there in the frame. Charles watches his shoulders and back expand as he breathes. Broad and flowing into a tapered waist. He had always liked that about him.

Fuck. Is he going to say it? After everything? Is he going to selfishly ruin him for anyone else?

Carlos doesn’t. The handle turns, and then he’s gone. 

There’s a half-empty glass of Pinot in your hand when you begin your rant, detailing not only how shit your Friday was but also how badly Derrik’s mistakes will fuck up the rest of your week, how do you email over 50 documents worth of the wrong project, fucking dumbass-

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass as you remember, the remaining red wine shifting as quickly as your mood.

He clears his throat, his broad hands shifting his tie as he calmly begins to undo it. With years of being unfazed by legal bullshit behind him, Andy’s a stark contrast to your tense figure.

He finally gets an idea of how to fix your week - and his, though that’s a discussion for much later - through the seven unexpected little words that you finish with:

“Just got to ride it out, right?”

You sound so resigned and for Andrew Barber that simply won’t do.

There’s a thrumming in his blood as both of his hands reach out towards you, one to pluck the empty glass from you and another entwining itself with your free hand. “Let me help you, then.”

The walk to your shared bedroom isn’t hurried, and neither is the way Andy strips himself of his clothes, stark white shirt unbuttoned with care as he sits on the edge of the mattress with you standing wantonly between his legs. His pants and boxer briefs go soon after and all that’s left are the warm puffs of air you can feel through your skirt as he presses his forehead to your pelvis, thick fingers gliding up the sides of your legs until the black material is bunched up around your waist. His touch is delicate but deliberate, teasing you while he hums in appreciation at the sight of wet lace.

Fuck, he’ll never stop looking forward to that.

“Honey, god,” he rasps, bringing you with him as he lies down, “come here.”

You feel the scrape of his beard against your thigh, peppered kisses and sweet smiles complimented only by you swiftly moving your panties to the side. His gaze speaks volumes, the eagerness and excitement visible in his baby blues - there’s no hesitation as you sink down.

What better way to start Andy’s weekend than to taste the parts of you reserved just for him, his tongue gently lapping at the slick gathered at your entrance, every stuttered moan and broken whimper rewarded with a firm suckle on your clit or a broad, sweeping lick to your sensitive folds.

The corded muscles in his arms pull you closer, hold you tighter, palms firm as his fingertips dig deep into your bare, heated flesh. You’ll feel the bruises from them later, and he’ll try and pretend to give a shit - even as he puffs his chest up in pride.

Andy groans when he feels your fist in his hair, wedding ring warm against his scalp, and when you roll your hips against his beard harder and sing his praises - Andy, baby, right there, so good sosogood - he’s halfway gone already.

It’s only been three days since you last rode him but clearly, it was three days too long. It seems that bad things happen when you don’t sit on his face.

At least, that’s the excuse he’ll make tomorrow. And it will almost certainly work because even though you hate people, you love your husband, your Andy, more.

-------

It's all wrong and Wille is confused, so fucking confused and a little bit too tipsy to really connect the dots (have there been hints all evening? have there been signs he misread?). Instead of asking any of the millions of questions floating around his mind (Why do you want me now? Did you change your mind? What happened to the new guy? Why here?) he just stutters, unsure what to say, unsure what to do about the goosebumps mottling the skin of his neck, even moments after Simon has already pulled away again. "Simon, I don't..." (Why didn't you text? Why didn't you call?) Simon's expression twists painfully and Wille knows, oh god he knows what this sounds like and he needs to fix this. "I...," and the words still don't make their way out, so he reaches out, fingers grazing the inside of Simon's wrist, so soft and so smooth and so reminiscent of the times this was what they did. (Why did you push me away when this is what you want?) "We can't," Wille tries instead, desperate, breathless, feels his chest contract angrily, feels his resolve crumble with every passing second that he's skin to skin with Simon. Fingertips on the wrist are enough to set his skin on fire. Enough to bring him back to two years ago. (Why didn't you want me to fight harder?) "Is it because you don't want to?" Simon asks, voice gentle and careful and so painfully small - Wille hates when Simon feels like he needs to make his voice smaller - that the pang goes right to Wille's heart. (Why would you ever think I don't want you?) He shakes his head fervently, like he can shake off the hurt and the confusion and the incessantly rising heat of want that crawls up the inside of his throat. "No. God, no," he tries, feels and hears his voice break on the first no. (Did I not prove to you that you're all I ever want?) Simon's eyes meet his again, finally. Glistening even in the dim light of this hallway, and Wille wishes he could read him better, wishes there weren't two years of distance lodged in between them. Simon moves his arm and just as Wille is about to gasp at the prospect of losing him again he feels Simon's grip on his upper arm instead, firm and warm even through the thin fabric of his shirt. The breath gets stuck somewhere deep inside of Wille's rib cage. He doesn't dare make a single move while Simon tugs on his arm, places it around himself, takes another step towards Simon. (Why did I ever let you go?) The look in Simon's eyes is dangerous, is gnawing away at every bit of distance, at every wall that Wille has desperately tried to build up over these past years. Simon squeezes Wille's bicep, signaling him he can touch him back and- Fuck. And Wille does. Wille's hand still perfectly fits on top of Simon's hipbone. "If you still in any way want me..." (What the fuck did I do to make you think there'd ever be an 'if'?) "if this is still," and Simon is standing so close to him now that Wille thinks he must be feeling him. Must be feeling that Wille, despite himself and all that work he put into getting over Simon, very much fucking wants him. Now, always, probably for fucking ever. "If this is something you might want..." Simon presses against him now, hips against hips, and Wille wants to moan and cry and wrap him tightly in his arms because he can feel Simon again, too, here, close. Simon leans forward, lips moving towards Wille's ear. "Let me have this, Wille. If you still want this, let me have you."

Wille's moan is barely stifled when he feels the subtle movement of Simon against him, of Simon pressing into him, onto him, of Simon searching for contact and friction and more of Wille. "Not here," Wille tries, but he's already losing the battle and grinding his erection against Simon's, that quietly flickering flame he never quite managed to put out now stoked into a raging fire. "We don't have- and we're just-" And while he stammers away, while he digs his fingertips into Simon's side and relishes in the heady feeling of having him here again, he feels Simon slip something into his palm, a small bottle, familiar enough to make Wille's mind spin. (How did you-?) "I knew you'd be here," Simon confesses, unprompted. "I knew I'd see you." His lips leave burns in their wake as they brush down the side of Wille's jaw. Wille barely has control over his own hands, just barely registers that must be pulling Simon closer. And it seems like this breaks a dam inside of Simon. "Been thinking about you," he gasps out and Wille can feel his hands under his shirt now, digging nails into Wille's skin that remembers. "Been missing you," Simon admits, much more quietly, but before Wille has any chance - But why did you-? - Simon pushes on. "Missed feeling you... missed having you like this." And god, god, Wille is a broken man. He's never had a sense for when to stop, when to turn away from Simon before things become detrimental, and he's not about to now start acting like he has any control over his feelings towards this man. This man that ruined Wille for everyone forever. So of course Wille finds himself perched behind Simon in one of the seemingly countless storage rooms in Maddie's house, of course he's got Simon holding on to a shelf in front of him, with his pants bunched up around his knees, and of course he's back to opening Simon up for him, nice and slow and grabbing one of his ass cheeks, holding him open for a better view while he does it, because simply feeling him is not enough right now. Of course Simon is back to letting out those sounds that Wille has never stood a chance against, quiet hiccup-y moans that he draws out for a moment longer whenever Wille pulls out and gently eases his fingers back in, teasing. Simon feels just like Wille remembers, he moves just like Wille remembers, he lets out that same broken sound when Wille drops to his knees and asks if he can, please, if Simon is okay with it. He arches his back and pushes back against Wille's mouth, moans at every flick of his tongue, just like he's always done. The filthy string of profanities and desperate pleas falling from his mouth is just as enticing and encouraging as it's always been. The way Wille needs to hold Simon's hips in place, thumbs on his ass cheeks to help hold him open, the way Simon tastes, the way he grinds back and lets Wille fuck his tongue into him... It all hasn't changed one bit. Wille feels delirious, feels like he's stuck in one of those dreams that kept haunting him for weeks, months, after. He feels like he could risk waking up to his empty bed again if he pulls away to catch his breath. It still feels like a dream when he lines himself up with Simon's back, when he presses closer, not pushing in, just feeling the heat of Simon's body through his shirt, just relishing in the slick, hot tightness of being between Simon's thighs. It's so much, so fucking much that Wille needs a moment, that he needs to prepare for what he's sure will ruin him, that he needs to wait before entering him again.

"Are you okay?" Simon asks, breathing heavily and grinding back desperately, and it's almost like it used to be, almost as sweet and caring and devastatingly gentle as they used to be. Almost, because there's an edge of fear, of worry, of uncertainty. Wille nods, pressing his forehead against the soft wispy hairs at the back of Simon's neck. He's so okay. He's so much more than okay, feels so much better than he has months and that alone is absolutely fucking breaking him apart. "So okay," Wille gasps out, pulling back slightly to line himself up. He ignores the slight tremor in his hands, that anticipatory shiver of pleasure that courses through him. "So fucking okay," he moans when he slowly pushes in, sinks against Simon, slips back into that old, familiar, breathtaking sensation of connection and closeness, of soft, warm bliss. And Simon does it, too, moans, throws his head back, angles himself so that Wille can slide home, can claim this feeling for the two of them, finally again. Simon's affirmative hum travels through Wille's chest like the heavy bass on the dance floor did earlier, Simon's sweetly assertive command for "more, Wille" pierces him like a knife. But he can, he absolutely wants to give Simon more. He pulls back slightly, only to thrust into him again, giving more and deeper and harder, making Simon's breathing stutter, making the shelf that's bearing more of less all the force groan under the impact. Every bit of desperation, every yearning thought Wille has tried to neatly file away breaks lose in him, every single time he dreamt of this imagined just one more chance at this hits him at once. By the time he pulls back, words of warning on his lips, mumbled apologies for being so gone so quickly, for not making this last any longer falling into the sweat-heavy air around them, his eyes are burning, his throat closing up. It can't be over already, not again, not now, not ever. Simon's arm shoots behind him, grabbing onto Wille's ass, pulling him closer again, urging him back inside to the hilt. Wille's hips stutter and he gasps out another pleading warning, sure that he's going to fall any minute now, but Simon only digs his blunt fingernails into Wille's skin. "Stay," Simon presses out, so quietly that Wille barely hears it. But it's enough to make Wille press his eyes shut, go rigid against Simon's back. "Inside me, please," he adds, words so drawn out and voice so breathy that Wille can't help but moan in response. Simon needs him, is all Wille can think of when Simon grinds back against him, Simon needs to feel him again, he thinks, as he listens to Simon's staccato breaths and the sound of his slickened hand jerking himself off. It's all the way it used to be, it's like he was never gone, it's like they picked up where they left off, like it's them, together, against all odds again. It takes no more than a couple thrusts before Wille is coming, gasping into the sweaty hair in the back of Simon's neck, pressing closer, wrapping his arms tightly around Simon's chest and stomach, like that will keep him from ever leaving again. Wille is still panting, still shaking, when he feels Simon's come hit his arm, feels Simon go pliant in his arms. He doesn't ask why now, why after all this time, when Simon, hands still holding Wille against him, like he, too, is scared Wille will leave, pants out a quiet "thank you". Wille doesn't ask what this means, either. Doesn't ask what Simon now thinks of him, what Simon now wants to do. He doesn't, can't, get out a single question while he holds onto Simon and Simon holds onto him.

OOOF. I......... I guess that was the vibe when I sat down to write this today. Thank you so so much for sending in that prompt, dear anon! I hope you enjoyed it! 💜💜💜