#whoops..

There’s silence from behind him, no indication that Oscar’s heard him. Carlos doesn’t - when he gets like this, he doesn’t always have the best handle on how loud he’s being. More than once, Oscar’s had to shush him when he’s fucking him in Carlos’ driver’s room. 

He thought he’d been pretty loud. Carlos licks his lips, filmy with dried spit, tries again. “Oscar,” he says. “Oscar - please.” 

Carlos waits for Oscar to laugh, to give some indication that he’s just joking around. That he’s going to untie Carlos’ hands, massage them with the moisturising cream Oscar bought specifically for the occasion. There’s nothing; just the sound of Oscar’s quiet breathing. And then, the gentle sound of a button being pressed. If the room wasn’t so quiet, Carlos wouldn’t have heard it. But it is, and he did - and more than that, he can feel it. The vibrations of the plug ratchet up a notch, and his back draws tight like a bow. Carlos tries not to thrash, but the feeling is so overwhelming - a cold sort of pleasure, a sweat breaking on his brow. 

He feels like a broken record. “Oscar - I want… red. Red, please - I can’t anymore.”

Oscar does laugh then, at the sound of their safeword. Sweat’s dripping from Carlos’ forehead now. The pleasure is so overwhelming like this, focused on that tight bundle of nerves. Nothing he can grasp at with his hands to channel some of the energy, no way to work out the pain. 

And then - “You asked for this, remember?” Oscar says. Carlos’ stomach gives a painful lurch at the realisation that Oscar’s genuinely not moving, that saying red hasn’t done anything, and then it’s a sickening freefall into oblivion. 

Carlos does remember, is the worst part. After two glasses of wine last week with dinner, curled up on the sofa, enjoying a rare moment of private time. He’d said - he’d asked Oscar to do this. To ignore it when Carlos begged him to stop. Ignore it, even if Carlos uses his safeword. Oscar had been concerned by the idea. Carlos had pushed. It’s his fault. 

It’s Carlos’ fault that this is happening to him.  

It’s a strange feeling, the sensation of pure, unadulterated panic. It’s not something Carlos is accustomed to feeling with Oscar. To know that there’s genuinely no way out - nothing he can say to get Oscar to stop doing this to him. It’s electrifying and horrifying in equal measure. 

“Oscar–” Carlos croaks, hissing when the vibrations increase again. He can feel his legs moving on the bed, but there’s no control behind it, nothing he can do to stop it. “I - Oscar, I can’t – can’t anymore,” he says - begs, really. “I’m sorry,” he finishes weakly, hating the feeling that he’s letting Oscar down, denying him what he wants. But Carlos really doesn’t think it’s possible for Oscar to wring another orgasm out of him - he’s so sore. Probably doesn’t help that the two of them have been fucking like rabbits basically since the season ended, no concern for sore muscles or tight backs when they don’t have to be in the car again for months. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Oscar says, voice steady. “Be better.” 

Those works sink into Carlos slowly, the steady drip of their impact muted, like he’s underwater. How many times has he heard those words - from his coaches, from his father? And now. From Oscar.

“Because you can be,” Oscar continues. “You’ll give me another one, right?” 

Oscar’s doing what Carlos asked him to do. He’s ignoring the safeword. Pushing Carlos past his self-imposed limits. Carlos scrunches his eyes closed, takes a steadying breath, ignoring the feeling of blood pounding in his head. 

Oscar moves closer, thighs bracketing Carlos’ own. He can hear the material of Oscar’s shorts rustle as he moves. “You’ve been so good for me,” he practically croons. He’s certainly improved at the whole dirty talk thing. Especially compared with the start of the season, when he could barely say the word cock without blushing. “So good, and all mine, Carlos.” 

Mine. The word reverberates around Carlos’ mind, driving him to distraction. 

Oscar’s hands smooth over the sore skin of Carlos’ ass, the skin hot to the touch. His hands are blessedly cool. And then, like the shock of touching a livewire, Oscar’s fingers find the base of the plug. He twists it in a cruel motion, bearing down on the base of it. The pressure is unrelenting, almost unbearable. 

“You can do it, right?” Oscar asks. “Just one more. One more and I’ll untie you.” 

Carlos opens his eyes, stares at the crumpled bedsheets in front of him, and lets the word no die on his tongue. 

He lets his head hang between his shoulders, no longer trying to crane around to look Oscar in the eyes. He dips his head once, a slow, purposeful motion, to communicate to Oscar what he’s asking. What he’s agreeing to. He can’t say it out loud - can’t be party to his own unmaking in such an intimate way. This will have to be enough. 

It seems it is, for Oscar at least. He moves closer, and his hands roam the bare planes of Carlos’ skin. His ass, his lower back. Oscar presses his thumbs into the dimples of Carlos’ spine, hitches his hips higher in the air. It helps take some of the pressure off his shoulders, and like an idiot - like some unthinking, drooling whore - Carlos can’t help but arch into it. 

His cock’s half-hard, probably the most it can manage after two orgasms already, leaking steadily like a tap. Carlos cries out when Oscar wraps his hand around it, thumbing over the stickiness, spreading it around the length of him. Even that stimulation is too much, and he bucks backwards, trying to escape it, only to find Oscar’s crotch pressed against his ass. 

Carlos can feel his cock, hard and wanting. Oscar grunts slightly, no doubt as a result of the vibrations from the plug pressed up against his dick. With his free hand, he bumps the vibrations up another couple of notches, until Carlos really can’t handle it anymore. He thrashes violently against the restraints, anything to escape, anything to get away from the steady creep of pleasure-pain that threatens to overwhelm all his senses. 

He screams when Oscar reaches for the plug again, twists it cruelly, hand still stroking his cock gently, steadily. It’s a crude facsimile of fucking, Carlos realises. Between Oscar’s hand on his dick and on the plug, Carlos is rocking back and forth between the stimulation. He keeps bumping against the hard planes of Oscar’s body. 

It’s not a choice, not really. It’s the illusion of one, whether to buck into Oscar’s hand or to let him force the plug against that bundle of nerves. It’s a flagrant attempt at undoing, at complete surrender. 

Whatever it is, it’s working. 

Carlos can feel it approaching, drawing up from deep within him. He’s never - not since he was a horny teenager has he been able to come in such quick succession. 

That’s what initially drew him to Oscar. His sense of responsibility, his work ethic. Carlos recognised something within him, something similar enough to make him reach out, even though he couldn’t stand the guy on track. And look at where it’s gotten him. 

Carlos can feel himself quivering. He grasps the headboard as best he can with his hands tied, something to hold onto. To ground him. 

Oscar leans forward, covering Carlos’ back with his chest. Skin on skin, sweaty and sticking. 

“C’mon,” Oscar pants, breathless himself now. “Just one more. For me.” 

Carlos cries out at a particularly vicious thrust of the plug, Oscar’s hand tightening around his cock. It’s coming, and it hurts, it’s too much too much too much –

Carlos comes with a yell, still only half-hard. There’s barely a dribble of come, his cock spent and sore. His vision goes fuzzy, or he nearly passes out, he’s not sure. All he can feel is the overwhelming pain-pleasure. It aches, like sinking your fingers into a bruise. There’s enough pleasure to drown out the sharpest edges of it, but only just. 

There’s a sickening moment, where Oscar’s hand remains on his cock, heel of his other palm pressed to the plug, still vibrating. Oscar could - if he wanted to. He could do anything. Carlos asked him to. 

Thankfully, he decides Carlos has had enough. The plug stops vibrating, but Oscar doesn’t take it out. He does take his hand off Carlos’ cock though, for which Carlos is grateful. 

Oscar undoes the ties with a deft movement, and Carlos definitely won’t be making fun of him for tying quick-release knots anytime soon. He pitches face-first onto the bed, arms too weak to hold him up. 

Oscar snickers behind him, and then there are hands, cool and callused on his sides, rolling him onto his back. Finally, Carlos can look at Oscar’s face. He’s flushed pink with exertion, spreading down to his chest. 

Oscar presses in close, kneeling over Carlos’ thighs. “That was so good,” he says, and despite it all Carlos feels the familiar hum of pleasure rush through him. A job well-done. “Fucking unbelievable,” Oscar says. “Fuck.” 

Carlos hums, suddenly bone-tired. He wants to smile, reach out for Oscar, but his body won’t do what he’s telling it to. 

Oscar seems to realise that. He cradles Carlos’ face in between his hands, presses a searing kiss to his mouth. 

It’s long, heated and slow, and ends with a healthy dose of tongue. It’s - Oscar’s licking him, Carlos thinks absurdly, and then realises. He’s licking the tears from Carlos’ face. Tears, because Carlos has started crying. When, he’s not sure. It should frighten him, to feel this disconnected from his own body. 

It doesn’t though. Not when Oscar’s holding him like this. 

They kiss for a long time, long enough for Carlos to again grow aware of how desperately he needs a shower. He’s sticky with dried come and sweat, and he feels disgusting. He wants a bath - maybe with those special bath oils Oscar’s trainer likes him to use. 

He also grows aware of another pressing matter - hard, throbbing, and right up against his hip. 

Carlos doesn’t have the energy to move his head, gestures weakly to Oscar’s crotch. “I could - with my mouth?” He offers weakly, still massaging feeling back into his wrists. 

Oscar frowns at him, tilts his head. “Why would I want your mouth?” he asks. Carlos doesn’t understand. Not until he continues – “When you’ve got a perfectly good hole right here.”

He’s tracing around the edge of Carlos’ rim, stretched around the base of the plug. Carlos shudders, shoulders going tight. Oscar pulls it out in one slow movement, lingering at the widest part of it, stretching him out even more. Until suddenly, blissfully, it’s out, and tossed onto the bedsheets. 

“Spent all that time getting you ready for me,” Oscar shrugs. “Be a waste not to put it to good use.” He punctuates the statement with his fingers, two of them, stuffed unceremoniously inside Carlos. 

Carlos makes a noise so high-pitched he’d thought himself incapable of it. He’s loose from the plug, and it’s - he can’t tighten up, not even around two of Oscar’s fingers. He can feel his hole clenching desperately.

“Yeah,” Oscar laughs. “You want it.” 

Carlos shakes his head, doesn’t know how he could possibly muster up the energy to let Oscar - after three.  

“No?” Oscar probes, with his voice and his fingers. He locates Carlos’ prostate with ease - he’s spent all afternoon torturing it, after all - and bears down with his fingers. 

Carlos’ cock twitches, weakly against his thigh. Oscar laughs at the sight of it, and Carlos barely resists the urge to cover himself with his hands. He’s not - before Oscar. He’s not used to this, he’s never… he’s always been the one in charge. He’d thought that would continue with Oscar. Hadn’t expected to be shown another way, 

“Seems like you do,” Oscar comments, like he’s discussing the weather. 

That’s not fair, Carlos wants to tell him. It’s just a bodily reaction - nothing he can help. 

“I’m tired,” Carlos tries, knowing there’s no way out. No escape. 

Hating, more than anything, that he likes that. 

Oscar smiles at him. It’s nothing different to his usual smile - goofy, wide, kind. Front teeth hooking on the skin of his bottom lip. But the words he’s saying are a stark contrast to his expression. “You just lie there - let me take care of you. And this hungry little hole.”

Carlos could move, now he’s been untied. He might be shorter than him, but he’s stronger than Oscar. And his exhausted muscles aren’t that much of a challenge - not really. He’s clambered into the car feeling worse than this, hurled himself around corners going hundreds of miles per hour. He could get up, wrestle Oscar into submission. If he wanted to. 

He doesn’t move.

And it’s that inaction which damns him. 

Oscar’s quick about it, fumbling for the lube, lost in the bedsheets when he’d first opened Carlos up on his fingers, eased the plug into him until Carlos was babbling. He slicks up his cock with efficient movements, spreads Carlos’ thighs wide with his hands. 

They end up hooked around Oscar’s hips. Like this, Carlos is terribly exposed. He can feel his hole clenching in desperation, his body betraying him. He’s spent and exhausted, but he still wants. 

That’s always been his problem. He’s always wanted too much, the weight of his desire threatening to swallow him up. It usually winds up in disappointment. He’d thought, signing with Ferrari - that might - but no. They hadn’t wanted him either, in the end. The depth of his desire too much for anyone to handle. 

Maybe apart from Oscar. 

His hole flutters when Oscar presses the spongy head of his dick to it, and Oscar laughs, watching the point of connection between their bodies. “Look at that,” he comments, and Carlos feels his cheeks burn. 

Oscar moans as he slides into Carlos, and the feeling is mutual. His cock isn’t as thick as the plug, but it’s longer, penetrating deeper into Carlos. His hole is sore with overstimulation, but it still feels good. Good in a way it hasn’t with anyone else for a long time - in a way only Oscar can bring out of him, these days.

Oscar doesn’t waste any time, rutting into him with abandon. He pulls out as far as he can without sliding out completely, slams home with a muffled grunt. 

“So good for me,” Oscar says, voice tight and strained. “Carlos, fuck,” he groans. “So tight. All for me, yeah?” 

Carlos nods, licks his cracked lips. “Yours,” he agrees, squeezing his tired legs around Oscar’s hips. 

Another surprising thing about Oscar. He’s sort of possessive. Hand on the back of Carlos’ neck, brushing against his waist when they cross paths in the paddock. Like a claiming, a reminder. Of who he belongs to. 

“Knew you could take it,” Oscar rasps. “Never enough for you, is it? Always - fuck, always want more.”

Carlos’ face burns at the truth in Oscar’s words, and he nods, looking down and away. Well, trying to at least, because Oscar’s hand on his chin stops him before he can. Hips still pistoning, Oscar yanks Carlos back to face him. Until he has no choice but to meet Oscar’s gaze. 

“Don’t you?” Oscar demands. 

Carlos really might fall to pieces, soon. 

“Yes,” he gasps, at a particularly vicious thrust. “Yes, I want - Oscar.” 

That seems to be answer enough for Oscar, who buries his face in the joint between Carlos’ shoulder and his neck. Licking and sucking at the sweaty skin there, leaving marks they can only get away with for a brief window of time. 

It feels good, like this. His cock is lying limp against his stomach, no chance of hardening again. Carlos doesn’t think he could come again even if Oscar fucked him for hours - like he’s passed some invisible threshold. But it’s nice, like this. It’s a gentle, warming sort of pleasure, one that fills him up from the inside. 

He’s still crying, Carlos notes with some surprise. It’s not bad though, not like this, with Oscar pressed up inside of him, covering him with his body. The surrendering of control, the thing Carlos has always hated, feared the most. It’s not as bad as he’d thought it would be. 

Oscar’s thrusts turn jerky and uncoordinated, his groaning louder. He’d not touched his cock once, during the time Carlos spent tied up. He must be pretty close, need it badly. 

Carlos tilts his hips up, squeezes around Oscar’s cock as best he can. Oscar’s breathing and the sound of the bed creaking under their combined weights are the only sounds, aside from the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Oscar,” Carlos says. He threads his heavy, uncooperative arms around Oscar’s neck, cards through the hair starting to curl with sweat. “I want it - please.” 

It’s as close to begging as he’s yet come. Not in words perhaps, but in meaning. He wants to feel Oscar finish inside him, wants to feel that stamp of ownership he can’t even truly admit to himself that he craves. 

“You want it?” Oscar asks, breathing raggedly. “I know you do. Come on,” he says, hands finding Carlos’ hips, thrusting harder, harder. 

“Fuck,” Oscar pants. “So good, so - Carlos,” he nearly growls out the name. “Can’t believe you,” Oscar says. “Fucking insane, the things you let me - oh, fuck,” Oscar says, and then his hips are stuttering once, twice, and he’s spilling, hot and sticky inside of Carlos. 

It should be disgusting. It is, a bit. 

It’s nice, all the same. 

Oscar keeps fucking into him, until his cock softens enough to slip out. It’s only then, after an indeterminable length of time, that Oscar finally collapses next to him on the bed. He’s breathing hard, like he’s just finished a race, but he looks quietly satisfied. There’s a glow off him. Carlos thinks he might look similarly, from the smile Oscar gives him when their eyes meet. 

“What do you say?” Oscar asks, quiet voice somehow loud in the silent room. 

There’s a halting pause, where Carlos thinks it over. He’d asked Oscar for this. To wrest control from his grasp, push him beyond his self-imposed boundaries. To say - to lay himself bare for Oscar like that… 

There’s no coming back from that. 

Oscar watches him with a quiet smile, like he can read every thought thrumming through Carlos’ overtired mind. Carlos wonders if he knows before Carlos himself does when he makes the decision. When he opens his mouth.