#yswtt

just thinking omegaverse in f1……he‘d not like anyone picking up his omega like that, nu-uh! he‘s like yeah rico is max‘s friend but…that‘s not quite so friendly. he‘s literally lifting max like a little doll and manhandling him and max is all smiley and cute and flushed about it! charles will a) be standing there watching it with a 🙂 smile on his face while his body is vibrating from his growling b) you bet he‘s by max‘s side with a possessive hand on his waist whenever he can after because rico can take his big damn hands and put them on someone else‘s waist and not max‘s (he‘s also going insane about how little max‘s waist feels) and c) as soon as they‘re in private he‘s very thoroughly scenting max all over, like, really all over. (also thinking about charles being like i can carry you around like that too pfff to max being all big alpha with his ego hurt and max is amused like mh-hm. put yo money where yo mouth is. charles tries to manhandle and lift max during sex in a big cosplay of strength and max ends up with half of a concussion and charles with a sprained wrist or smth but mostly they just end up in a heap of naked limps in the moment hysterically giggling. charles has to admit that okay maybe he can‘t exactly lift max like that. only maybe. yet.)

ANYWAY yswtt—idk who would ever lift max like that in yswtt but you‘d best believe they/ or rico wouldn‘t even get that close without charles stepping in first—you wanna charge at max like that? surely not! but if there was rico to lift max like that you‘d see charles standing there trembling from barely concealed possessiveness and protective instincts like, externally he‘s 🙂 yeah that‘s cool 🙂 fun 🙂 and internally it‘s 👹 get your fucking hands off my max 👹 right now 👹 before i hack them off 👹 i got my glock on me rn 👹

max sees his poor alpha standing there looking seconds from exploding with instincts and quickly makes sure to soothe him before a vessel pops in charles‘ neck 🤣 charles for sure has his hands all on max for the next days. the audacity of someone else to put them on max like that!

Max is still sat at the edge of the bed, watching Charles with concern and he just won’t go, and Charles bites his lip but pitiful little growls escape him anyway while he tries to not grind his hips into the bed but there’s Max‘s scent on every single piece of the nest around him, and Max is right there, the source of the wonderful scent that is usually heaven to Charles, but right now it might as well be hell at the same time because he wants it, he wants Max, but he can‘t have him. He shouldn‘t have him. He can‘t allow himself to have Max. He‘s already hanging on to the last threads of sane lucidness, the rational thoughts dwindling fast because before he could at least control himself but that control is slipping through the cracks of his sweaty fingers, palms digging into the bedsheets. Now he can‘t even control his hips anymore, trying to get any sort of relief on his hard, aching cock by grinding against the mattress and he groans, making himself turn onto his back so he can‘t do that because the more he gives into it, the less he can keep composure. If he even has any left.

„Charles,“ Max sighs for the umpteenth time, and even just his voice makes Charles twitch in his pants and want to reach out, tug the Omega closer, on top of him, he wants to bury his nose in that scentgland so hard he can taste his scent and he wants to bury himself inside of him, he wants, and this want is like a growling beast thrown into a cage but the door isn‘t locked, it‘s all open, he could just waltz right out.

„Please. The only person you‘re hurting and torturing here is yourself, Charles.“

The gulp Charles swallows down hurts in his throat as if it gets caught in the dry ridges of it. He presses his eyes close and determinedly doesn‘t look at Max. To feel his presence is enough to make his last resolve fray at the edges like a poorly sewn shirt.

„Max,“ he presses out through shut teeth, „Just go.“

There‘s movement by the end of the bed but Max‘s weight doesn‘t lift off the mattress.

„No.“ Max says, because he is fucking terrible like that and never listens and his lack of regards for his own personal safety is horrifying. „Charles. I won‘t leave you like this. Come on. If you‘re not—at least use the toys or something. You can‘t spend your rut like this, stop denying yourself now. This is just painful.“

„Max.“

„No, stop being an idiot. I will not watch you torture yourself like this.“

Charles makes a wounded noise at that, planting his feet onto the mattress to feel somehow grounded, although he‘s not. He‘s not grounded to reality by anything other than Max’s voice, his scent, his presence, and it shouldn‘t. It keeps him grounded and yet lifts him afloat all the same.

He can hold out like this, he tells himself.

Three days of some discomfort, he can take that. He can power through that. The toys won‘t help him with anything other than losing his comprehension and falling deeper into rut, only to realize that it doesn‘t bring him much pleasure, barely even release, and he doesn‘t—he doesn‘t want to even just imagine himself so deep into his rut that his body figures that the toys are not enough and there is something much better, someone much better right in this house, and he can‘t. He can‘t even imagine himself seeking out Max, all out of control, attacking him even. It sends a shiver down Charles‘ back of the unpleasant kind, makes him feel nauseous.

When suddenly, a warm, steady weight crawls on top of him and settles to sit on his hips, he startles, eyes flying open. His body immediately reacts, hips slightly bucking up and he barely even restrains his hands from shooting out—instead, he forces his hands up above his head to cling onto the headboard so he won‘t reach out and touch Max.

„Max,“ he growls panickedly, „Get off.“