#mitchmark

Smut prompt list: 9. Revenge sex

Mitch Evans is not stupid, and he knows Oscar Piastri is not stupid either.

So when Mark shows up in London on Friday morning with a hickey barely hidden under his collar, Mitch clocks it immediately. The kid put it there to mark territory, cute really, the way Oscar thinks Mark still wants Mitch the way he used to.

That hasn't been true, not since the old man was able to get his hands into the boy's pants.

Mitch remembers, years ago, the last few times he had Mark all to himself. When Mark had fucked him with mechanical efficiency, mind clearly elsewhere. With his shiny new toy, probably. The one who looked at Mark like he hung the fucking moon, who followed him around like a puppy desperate for scraps of attention.

Mitch had been devastated then. Moved on eventually, or so he thought.

Now it's pretty much exclusive between Oscar and Mark. Mitch knows this because everyone knows this, even if they pretend not to. He knows Oscar has never really liked him either—sees the way the kid's eyes go flat and calculating whenever Mitch approaches Mark on the rare occasion where the three of them are together, the subtle way Oscar positions himself between them.

————

Mitch loses the fucking championship, and the whole thing tastes like ash in his mouth. Oscar gets his first win—because of course he fucking does, on the same day Mitch's season dies. And Mark is not there with Oscar, is not in his room with champagne-soaked hair and that proud smile he used to wear for Mitch.

Mark is there with Mitch instead, because that's what good managers do.

They're supposed to have a drink at Mark's hotel room at 8. Mitch shows up at 8:15, that’ll show him, he thinks stupidly. Mark is on the phone, pacing by the window, voice soft in that way that makes Mitch's teeth ache.

"I know, I know, I'm so sorry," Mark says, Australian accent thick with guilt. He glances at Mitch, holds up one finger—just a minute—and turns back to the window. "When I'm back in Monaco, yeah? I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Mitch sits on the edge of the bed, watching Mark pace. Eight-twenty becomes eight-thirty becomes eight-forty-five.

"No, listen to me," Mark's saying, voice dropping to something unbearably tender. "You were brilliant today, absolutely brilliant. It was not your fault, I'm so fucking proud of you." A pause, then a soft laugh. "Yeah, I know you wanted me there. I wanted to be there too, but Mitch needed—"

He cuts himself off, and Mitch watches Mark's shoulders tense as he realizes what he's just said. That Mitch needed him, past tense, like the championship loss is already ancient history.

"We'll celebrate properly when I'm home," Mark continues, deliberately not looking at Mitch now. "I'll take you to that place you like. We'll get champagne, the expensive stuff." Another pause, softer. "I love you too. So much."

It goes on. And on. Mark murmuring reassurances and apologies, painting pictures of their reunion in Monaco, his voice doing that thing it does—dropping low and intimate, like he's the only person in the world who matters.

Mitch sits there for thirty minutes, watching Mark cosplay devotion, feeling his anger calcify into something uglier.

Finally, finally, Mark says, "I really do have to go now. I'll call you before bed, yeah? Love you."

He pockets his phone, turns to face Mitch with guilt written across every line of his face.

"Sorry about that," Mark says, moving toward the minibar. "Drink?"

They get drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but enough that Mark's defenses come down, enough that when Mitch leans in Mark doesn't pull away. Enough that when Mitch kisses him, Mark kisses back with something that tastes like resignation and old muscle memory.

"We shouldn't," Mark says, but his hands are already on Mitch's hips, familiar in a way that makes Mitch want to scream.

"No, we shouldn't," Mitch agrees, and pulls Mark toward the bed anyway.

It's loveless.

Mark fucks him, because that's how it always was between them, and Mitch lets him. Mark's hands are rougher than they used to be, like he's forgotten how to be gentle with anyone who isn't twenty-three and soft and perfect. He fucks into Mitch with efficient brutality, and Mitch takes it, watching Mark's face stay carefully blank.

Even here, even with his cock buried in Mitch, Mark is thinking about Oscar.

"Harder," Mitch demands, nails digging into Mark's shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Mark obliges, hips snapping forward with punishing force, but his eyes are distant. Somewhere in Hungary, probably, with his pretty boy who thinks a hickey makes him special.

He reaches up, frames Mark's face with both hands, forces Mark to look at him.

"That's it," Mitch gasps, clenching around Mark deliberately. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Mark's rhythm stutters, and something finally breaks in his expression. Guilt, maybe, or shame, or just the exhaustion of pretending this means anything at all.

When Mark leans down to bury his face in Mitch's neck, thrusting harder, more desperate, Mitch sees his opportunity. He tilts his head, mouth finding the junction of Mark's throat and shoulder, right next to where Oscar's mark is already fading a little.

He sucks, hard and deliberate, teeth scraping skin. Marks Mark the way Oscar marked him, claims territory that was never really his to begin with.

Mark doesn't notice, too far gone in his own guilt and the mechanics of rutting into someone who isn't the person he wants. He comes with a choked sound that might be Mitch's name or might be someone else's—Mitch doesn't ask, doesn't want to fucking know.

Afterward, Mark rolls off him, breathing hard. Mitch watches him in the dim light, watches him reach for his phone instinctively before catching himself.

"Fuck," Mark says quietly, running a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't have," Mitch agrees, getting up to clean himself off. In the bathroom mirror, he can see Mark still sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling with that hollow expression that means he's already thinking about Oscar.

Calculating how to act normal on the phone later, probably. How to sound like he didn't just fuck Mitch while the kid was alone in Hungary. Mark's hand rests on his chest, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm, completely unaware of the mark blooming purple on his neck.

The poor bastard.

Good, Mitch thinks viciously. Let the boy see it. Let Oscar see the hickey that matches his own, purple and obvious right next to it. Let him wonder if Mark was thinking about him, or if Mark can't even keep his dick in his pants for one night while his precious boy celebrates his first win.

Mitch dresses quickly, efficiently. Mark watches him from the bed.

"I really am sorry," Mark says, and Mitch knows he's not apologizing to him. "About your championship."

"Yeah," Mitch says, buttoning his shirt. "Me too."

He leaves Mark there, guilty and naked and marked. Sends Mark back to Monaco with a hickey his sweet little Osc won't be able to miss. Did it while Mark fucked him, while Mark was too lost in his own head to notice the revenge Mitch was taking.

He guesses they're even now.