ain't real cherry
oscar piastri/carlos sainz jr jealous!oscar
rating: EXPLICIT
length: ~11.7k
ao3 link
When Oscar arrived at his flat carrying a brown paper bag from the bakery down the street, he only smirked a little at the man slouched against the wall outside his door.
Carlos still wore yesterday’s clothes. His hair was a mess, anxious fingers had been run through the shiny locks too many times to count. He looked exhausted enough to be human again.
His head tipped back at Oscar’s approach. “Hi,” he said, looking up at him through dark lashes.
“Reckon y’could let me through?” Oscar asked.
Carlos shifted sideways with a tired scrape of trainers against tile while Oscar unlocked the door. Oscar ignored the hand that caught it before it could swing shut again.
He unloaded the bakery bag onto the counter, already halfway through a croissant by the time Carlos stumbled in after him. The door slammed behind them.
“You were asleep before ten?” Carlos asked, sounding genuinely suspicious.
“Nope,” Oscar said around a mouthful of pastry.
Carlos wandered slowly toward the kitchen bench, glancing around the flat like he hadn’t been here three days ago.
“Then you could’ve answered my calls, no?” Carlos drifted around the kitchen island instead of looking at him directly. Like if he moved slowly enough, Oscar wouldn’t bolt.
“Mm,” Oscar hummed. “Guess so.”
Carlos exhaled quietly through his nose.
Oscar drank some water, refusing to look at him directly. He didn’t have the patience for this conversation after the twelve-hour social media campaign documenting Carlos Sainz’s romantic road trip through Italy with Charles Leclerc.
He had spent most of last night trying to shrug Baku off in pieces. He unpacked, stuffing sandy team kits into his hamper with the heat he imagined still clinging to the papaya mocking him from his suitcase. He showered off the adrenaline, scrubbing until he couldn’t feel the hollowed-out feeling that came with a race ending almost before it began.
Last year, he had proudly stood on the top step, thrilled to have won at a street circuit so unforgiving. This year, he binned it in quali and the race like a bloody rookie. Impressive turnaround, really.
The universe, naturally, had to rub it in his face in the most dramatic way possible. Carlos ended up on the podium and therefore invited to tag along with Charles’s post-race travel arrangements almost immediately. Oscar shouldn’t have been so shocked, honestly. Carlos jumped as soon as Charles indicated how high.
Carlos called during their descent into French airspace to ask whether the McLaren flight was safe.
Lando leaned halfway across the aisle when he figured out who Oscar was talking to. “What’s he want?”
Oscar put him on speaker.
Apparently, some dodgy weather report had Charles convinced landing in Nice constituted an unacceptable brush with death, more so than their standard race weekend threshold. They were diverting to Italy and driving the rest of the way home instead. Oscar rolled his eyes so hard it genuinely hurt.
By the time he landed back in Nice a few hours later, all Oscar wanted was to be alone for ten to twelve business days. He got back to his flat exhausted, annoyed, carbon fibre still scattered across the back of his eyelids. He dropped his bag by the door and reached automatically for his phone before seeing Carlos’s last text telling him not to wait up.
Oscar stared at it, exhaling through his nose. Then he sent back some generic safe travels message and sent it before he could think too much about the way the flat felt suddenly, unmistakably empty.
He went to bed alone while aggressively informing himself it didn’t matter. Unfortunately, the internet disagreed. There it was, in beautiful 4K, on TikTok and Instagram, and—Jesus Christ—Charles had even uploaded to YouTube Shorts.
Oscar didn’t mean to open TikTok. His thumb simply lacked strength of character.
The first shaky clip was filmed from the passenger seat of a rental van. Charles complained about Baku—mhm, Oscar could relate—before turning the camera towards the driver.
“Where are we, Carlos?”
Carlos glanced over briefly, smiling despite the hour, hands on the wheel, hair a mess from travel. He looked bright-eyed and comfortable in that way Oscar knew by heart.
“The middle of Italy,” he said.
Both of them started laughing, overtired enough to find the situation funny instead of inconvenient. The caption showed under the video. Best chauffeur in town.
Yeah. Oscar bet he was.
The next video loaded automatically. Carlos at the rental car park, gesturing at the van they had just filmed in. Charles had tagged him, comments already piling in.
are they lovers?
Charlos forever ❤️❤️
when you’re in an ‘i ❤️carlos sainz’ competition but charles leclerc shows up 🥀
Instagram was worse. Charles had uploaded a race weekend photo dump featuring three separate entries from their little Italian roadtrip alongside the caption: 10/10 chauffeur to go back home though. Oscar set his phone facedown on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
Interesting, he thought bitterly. Very cool and normal emotions happening here.
Oscar slept badly after races all the time, usually because his brain insisted on replaying every decision and mistake until sunrise. It seemed only natural to blame the result in Baku for the tight feeling in his chest when he couldn’t seem to clear the images of Carlos smiling at the camera from his mind after he had put away his phone.
Charles and Carlos had always been like this. Carlos collected people everywhere he went—teammates, engineers, random airport staff. He was pathologically incapable of not stepping in to help if someone looked mildly inconvenienced within a fifteen metre radius. None of this was new.
The irritating part was that Oscar wasn’t actually worried about Charles, or Carlos, or anything concrete enough to justify behaving this irrationally. It was more self-pitying than that.
While Oscar had been busy excavating himself from the psychological crater formerly known as his race weekend, the internet had gotten a very good look at Carlos being charming in somebody else’s passenger seat.
Everyone had just seemed so bloody thrilled about it.
Carlos called eventually, presumably back in Monaco by then. Oscar ignored it out of principle.
A few hours later, Lando sent him three consecutive messages about pastries from the bakery down the street, which Oscar interpreted as emotional support from someone equally traumatised by the weekend.
That was how he ended up standing barefoot in his kitchen the next morning eating croissants while Carlos stared at him from the other side of the bench like a man attempting hostage negotiation.
“I wanted to be here last night,” Carlos said finally, voice tighter than usual. “Charles panicked about the weather and decided Italy was safer.”
Oscar snorted quietly, pressing his thumb into the edge of the bench, grounding himself in the pressure. “Think safer is an ambitious word in that situation.”
Carlos huffed a laugh. “He wanted to drive the van,” he said darkly. “I told him absolutely not. This was already his fault.”
That dragged a reluctant noise out of Oscar that almost qualified as amusement.
The flat was washed in pale morning light, the kind that made everything feel too exposed. Oscar still felt vaguely scattered across the Baku runoff area with the rest of the debris from his race.
He hated title fights for this. Every bad weekend felt catastrophic. Every mistake replayed itself in high definition. He had come home exhausted and hollow and wanting nothing more than to scream until the world would shut up for one evening. Instead he got TikTok edits of Carlos smiling softly at Charles in tunnel lighting.
Brilliant.
The kettle clicked off behind him. Oscar blinked at it. Right.
Apparently some part of him had still automatically started the kettle for Carlos’s coffee despite actively refusing to look at him.
Embarrassing behaviour, honestly.
“But you are still mad at me,” Carlos observed.
“Didn’t have the best weekend, mate,” Oscar corrected, opening the fridge.
Carlos climbed onto one of the barstools, clicking his tongue softly. “Tough weekend,” he agreed, watching Oscar a little too carefully. “Usually after a bad race you want me closer, not further away, no?”
Oscar grabbed a protein shake and twisted the cap off. “You were busy,” he muttered, like that explained everything. “I survived the night somehow.”
Carlos rested his chin on one hand. “You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “this is actually quite flattering.”
“Yeah?”
Carlos nodded, chin rocking against his hand. “I thought, how nice it would be finally to be home,” he said with the sigh of a deeply persecuted man. “Oscar will be happy for my podium.”
“Congratulations,” Oscar said flatly, folding his arms over his chest.
Carlos ignored his sass. “I think you were so happy,” he said, sounding deeply entertained by the discovery, “that you wanted me all to yourself.”
Oscar rolled his eyes hard. “Yeah, mate. Desperate to lock you in a tower.”
Carlos grinned. “I knew the Williams pace would scare people eventually.”
“Mm,” Oscar hummed, leaning against the bench. “Whole paddock’s trembling.”
Carlos didn’t even blink. His dark eyes glittered, amused. “Yeah, so many struggled in Baku,” he nodded. “Very strange. But it has always been a strength for me.”
Oscar scoffed, pushing off. “Bit easier when half the grid eliminated themselves, mate.”
Carlos slid off the stool and stepped into his space without hesitation. “Lucky me, then,” he said, voice low.
“That makes one of us,” Oscar said, holding his gaze. It helped that he had a few centimetres on the Spaniard, looking slightly down to meet his gaze.
Carlos braced against the cabinet, flexing his arm next to Oscar’s head. “Yeah,” he breathed, his jaw sliding sideways as he considered all of Oscar. “At least I finished the race, mate.”
Well, the kitty had claws.
Oscar’s lips pressed in a thin line. “At least I’m not someone’s fucking lap dog,” he said icily.
Carlos went still for a second, blinking. “Lap dog?” he repeated, tilting his head, not unlike a fucking dog. “You’re not actually annoyed about the race, are you?”
Oscar didn’t look at him. “Drop it,” he said, already on the move. “It’s nothing.”
He ducked under Carlos’s arm before he could get any closer, slipping out of the corner of the kitchen, heading for the hallway like the conversation had ended.
Carlos caught his wrist before he made it two steps. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.
Oscar tugged once at his grip. “Away from this conversation,” he said.
“Oscar,” Carlos said, stepping in until leaving meant pushing past him. “Hey.”
Oscar tried to twist free. “Don’t hey me. Just—let go,” he said. “I don’t care.”
Carlos drew him closer, voice dropping. “That’s not what this looks like,” he said.
Oscar’s jaw tightened. “Right,” he said. “Because you’re suddenly an expert on what I’m thinking.”
He could feel the warmth of him now, the pressure of his grip around his narrow wrist. Heat climbed up his neck despite himself, and he hated that Carlos was close enough to see the flush he had no doubt was climbing his neck.
Carlos’s mouth twitched. “You are not so hard to read, you know,” he said. “I know you.”
“Fuck off,” Oscar snapped. “You don’t. You say that like you do, but you don’t, all right?”
He yanked harder, but it only dragged Carlos fully into his personal space, refusing to let go of his wrist. Carlos’s hips were pinning him against the counter now, one arm caging him in. Oscar tried to ignore the heat he could feel through his shirt where they touched, even barely.
Carlos huffed a quiet laugh. “Is this about Charles?”
Oscar made a strangled sound and tried again to pull free.
Carlos shook his head. “All this,” he said, chuckling to himself “Because you’re jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” Oscar said, too fast, heat still high in his cheeks. “It’s not—just let go—”
Carlos slid his other hand to Oscar’s waist, not rough, but firm enough that leaving would take effort. “No,” he said, almost under his breath. “You don’t get to run now.”
Oscar’s pulse jumped, Carlos’s fingers strong and warm against his ribs. His skin prickled under the familiar touch, despite how mad he still felt.
“Don’t,” he said, turning his shoulder, trying to slip past him. “Don’t start—”
Carlos leaned in, just enough that his voice dropped, that the words felt closer than they should. “Relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Oscar huffed, frustrated, his shoulders tightening. “Carlos,” he warned, low, but it lacked bite.
Carlos ignored him entirely. “This is incredible,” he went on, voice quieter now, words landing just shy of Oscar’s ear. “You, jealous. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I don’t,” Oscar said, but his voice wavered slightly.
Carlos’s thumb traced idly along his wrist, and then his mouth brushed against the line of Oscar’s neck, enough to make Oscar’s breath catch.
“You do,” Carlos said, annoyingly smug about it. “I can feel it.”
Carlos smelled like travel and sleep and something faintly citrusy. He didn’t smell like the cologne Oscar had come to recognize, or the woodsy soap Carlos’s skin usually smelled of, which only served to make Oscar want to thrash harder.
Oscar huffed, looking away again. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”
Carlos hummed in disagreement, brushing a light press of his lips just below Oscar’s ear. “You missed me,” he taunted, lips moving against his skin.
Oscar’s breath caught, the kiss sending sparks all the way down one arm. He turned his head just enough to pull away from the Spaniard’s traitorous mouth. “I didn’t miss you,” he said, voice dropping against his will.
Carlos didn’t let him get far. He followed immediately, mouth dragging back to his jaw, his neck, refusing the distance like it hadn’t been offered. “No?” he asked, nuzzling under his jaw and pressing his hips into Oscar’s. “Mm, I think you’re lying.”
Oscar made a frustrated sound and let his head tip back again despite his annoyance.
Carlos took advantage of it immediately. “Tell me again,” he said, his stubble rasping against Oscar’s neck, “maybe this time I will believe you.” Carlos’s dick pressing into his hip reminded Oscar how much he—how much they both—got off on this.
Oscar swallowed, the motion catching against Carlos’s mouth. His throat felt tight, like Carlos had reached into his ribs and pulled something humiliating out into the open just by not coming home when Oscar wanted him to. Oscar didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want to admit to the bitterness, the pain leaking out around the edges of the carefully constructed barriers he had put up between them. It was a little like trying to down a chaser after drinking poison, knowing the burn couldn’t be soothed.
Oscar had spent the night trying to swallow down every thought that Carlos belonged to him even a little bit. By morning it had spread through him completely, mean and feverish and embarrassing, until Carlos touching him felt like pressing on a bruise. And Carlos always had to push him, had to egg him on, had to make him even crazier with that fucking mouth of his, in more ways than one.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Carlos did drive him crazy. He hadn’t meant to be exclusive to Carlos; honestly, he had never meant for things with Carlos to become things at all.
It had started the way these situations always seemed to start in Formula One, with proximity, exhaustion, loneliness dressed up as convenience. They were simply two people constantly crossing paths in airports and paddocks and hotel bars, understanding each other instinctively because they were both trapped inside the same strange life.
They had tried to stop, tried to leave it as a one-time fluke after they fell into bed together the first time. The second had been labelled an honest mistake. After the fifth, they had stopped trying to make excuses.
Neither of them had the time or energy for anything heavier than casual. Between training and travel and media obligations and the relentless pressure of racing every other weekend, even maintaining friendships sometimes felt impossible. Dating outside the sport sounded exhausting in ways Oscar couldn’t even articulate properly anymore. There was too much explaining, too much apologising for cancelled plans and jet lag and disappearing emotionally after bad races.
Carlos understood all of it without needing anything translated. He understood why Oscar sometimes went silent after difficult weekends. He understood the exhaustion, the obsession, the strange emotional volatility that came with building an entire life around hundredths of seconds and public humiliation. He knew how to soothe Oscar back down from bad races without demanding explanations Oscar didn’t know how to give.
Hell, Carlos even understood McLaren specifically. He knew the strange politics of the team, the constant balancing act beside Lando. Sometimes Oscar only had to repeat a phrase from debrief for Carlos to immediately grimace in recognition before Oscar even explained why it had annoyed him.
And Oscar, in return, understood Carlos too. He knew intimately the particular helplessness of arriving somewhere he hadn’t fully chosen and trying to wrestle back control anyway through sheer force of competence. He understood what it felt like to line up beside a teammate the team already loved before he had even arrived.
Carlos rarely complained about it directly, but Oscar knew him well enough to hear the frustration underneath the jokes sometimes. Carlos brought experience and technical understanding and consistency everywhere he went, yet somehow still kept ending up beside drivers who fit more neatly into the team’s long-term plans than he did.
The podium in Baku mattered so much, emotionally, politically. A result like that in a Williams changed things. It bought Carlos breathing room, garnered him leverage. It reminded the team exactly what he could drag out of a car when things finally came together around him for once.
They all knew momentum mattered almost as much as outright pace sometimes. One podium could shift the entire mood around a driver overnight. Suddenly engineers listened more attentively. Team principals spoke a little differently. Futures that had looked uncertain started looking valuable again. Carlos had needed that result desperately.
Which made Oscar feel even worse about spending the night irrationally wishing he wanted anyone else as much as he wanted Carlos.
It sounded pathetic in the dark of his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. Oscar could fuck whoever he wanted. They both could. Nobody had asked for exclusivity. Nobody had promised anything at all. It had simply become easier to keep coming back to Carlos than to bother looking elsewhere.
Their needs fit together neatly enough. Carlos scratched an itch nobody else really could anymore. It wasn’t romantic.
At least that was what Oscar had been telling himself right up until watching Carlos smile at somebody else had made him feel vaguely sick. Thinking about how easily Carlos fit somewhere else with someone else spread through Oscar like a crack spreading through glass under pressure already there.
“You always do whatever he wants,” Oscar bit out, poisoned words spilling out of him like a gutted fish. “All he has to do is bat his eyelashes and you’re—”
Carlos cut him off by pinching the fuck out of his side. Oscar yelped, Carlos’s mouth already attaching just under his jaw as if in apology.
“I wanted to be here,” Carlos went on, voice softer, almost coaxing now. “I was tired and annoyed at him.”
Carlos’s hand slid over his ribs, and Oscar arched into the touch against his will to stay mad.
“Wouldn’t have known the difference,” Oscar shot back, breath a little thinner now. “You looked pretty happy.”
Carlos pulled back just enough to look at him, something bright and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “Is that so?”
Oscar held his gaze, defiant even as his pulse kicked. “Yeah.”
Carlos’s mouth twitched. “And what if I bat my eyelashes?” he asked. “You forgive me then?”
Oscar snorted automatically. “No.”
Carlos’s fingers hooked into his shirt without warning.
Oscar caught his wrist immediately. “No—” he said, trying to plant his feet.
But before Oscar could brace for it, Carlos kissed him firmly enough to steal the rest of his protest. Oscar went still for a second, caught off guard, and Carlos took the opportunity to pull the hem of his shirt up over his head, quick and decisive, before Oscar could complain.
Carlos’s mouth was back on his in a hurry, his fingers splaying across his exposed ribs, drawing him in. Oscar made a frustrated sound into it, hands finally coming up, hovering uselessly before pressing against Carlos’s stupid chest.
Carlos finally released his wrist, both hands sliding down Oscar’s waist to his ass, pulling their hips together. Oscar turned his head slightly to kiss a little harder, a little deeper, tonguing into the Spaniard’s mouth as if he could lick out the indiscretions hiding behind his teeth.
Oscar’s patience snapped somewhere between one breath and the next. “God, you’re—” he started, then gave up on the sentence entirely, grabbing a fistful of Carlos’s shirt and hauling him forward.
Carlos made a soft, surprised sound that turned into a grin almost immediately.
“Don’t—” Oscar tried, already pulling at the hem, shoving it upward with more force than necessary.
Carlos went with it easily, arms coming up without hesitation, leaning into him instead of away. “You could just ask,” he murmured, ducking his head to make it easier.
“Not happening,” Oscar shot back, even as he dragged the shirt over his shoulders.
Carlos took the opportunity to press a quick kiss to his jaw, then another, like punctuation between movements. “Thought you didn’t care,” he added lightly.
Oscar scoffed, finally getting the shirt off and tossing it aside. “I don’t,” he said automatically.
Carlos’s hands slid around to his back, warm and rough in a pleasant way. “Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced. He nosed across Oscar’s jaw, his tongue darting out over his pulse point, and Oscar inhaled sharply, the feeling jolting down his neck.
His hand flew up to Carlos’s hair automatically, threading through the Spaniard’s thick locks, holding his head in place as Carlos licked and sucked at the sensitive spot just under the sharp line of his jaw.
When pain seared across his neck suddenly, Oscar yanked back on the thick hair, hard. “Fucking—ow, dickhead,” he cursed, rubbing at his neck, knowing Carlos’s apparent bloodlust would likely leave yet another mark on his neck that he would have to stay indoors for a day or two to hide. “Not so high, I said.”
Carlos looked at him hungrily through dark lashes, pupils blown. “Sorry,” he mumbled unconvincingly. “I forget.”
“No, you fucking didn’t,” Oscar muttered, bringing his head back anyway, sighing into the scrape of stubble against his own, Carlos’s arms wrapped firmly around him in the way that made him feel narrow and wanted. “You’re just a prick.”
Carlos nodded, brushing one more lingering kiss over his mouth like punctuation. “Yeah,” he agreed easily. “But I’m your prick, no?”
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dunno,” he mumbled into the dark hair between his fingers. “Are you?”
For a moment, it felt like everything paused with him—the air, the warmth between them, even Oscar’s own breath as it caught somewhere in his chest. He had said too much, felt too bare, as if he had ripped his own heart out and offered it to Carlos, ugly and fragile and stupid.
His grip tightened reflexively on Carlos’s side, like he could take the words back, shove them down, pretend they hadn’t slipped out at all.
Carlos went still, his breath warm against Oscar’s throat. The silence stretched, sudden and heavy, and Oscar’s stomach dropped with it. He shouldn’t have asked that. He knew better. His jaw tightened, already bracing for deflection and laughter.
“That depends,” Carlos huffed softly. “Are you going to fuck me?” he asked, like it was obvious, like Oscar had asked something far less serious than he had.
The tension snapped clean through Oscar’s chest. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but it came out breathless.
Carlos smiled against his mouth. “That’s the idea.”
He didn’t give Oscar time to think about it. He caught Oscar’s hand and tugged him forward, already moving.
“Carlos—” Oscar started, stumbling over his own feet as he was pulled out of the kitchen.
“Come on,” Carlos said, not even looking back, like it was a foregone conclusion.
The hallway passed in a blur, sunlight giving way to the dimmer quiet of the bedroom.
Carlos let go only long enough to kick the door shut behind them before turning back, already stripping off his own jeans, quick and distracted, shoving them down his hips, like it barely mattered compared to the fact that Oscar was still there.
He stepped out of them, then fell into Oscar’s bed like he belonged there, settling back against the pillows with a familiarity that made something in Oscar’s chest twist.
Carlos looked at him expectantly. “Don’t act shy now,” he teased, eyes dancing. “Too late for that.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was already moving, slipping off his own shorts, climbing onto the foot of his bed.
Carlos reached out the second he got close, one hand sliding around his waist, the other braced at the back of his neck, and then Carlos was tugging him down and in, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.
Carlos always ran hot, radiating warmth through his bare thighs and hairy stomach, fitting their bodies together with strong hands in a way that felt absurdly natural.
Oscar knew exactly how Carlos touched when he was tired like this—slower, clingier, more inclined to pull Oscar fully against him instead of keeping up the teasing distance. He knew the weight of Carlos’s arm across his back, knew the roughness of his fingertips from steering wheels and gym equipment, knew the taste of his morning breath before his first coffee, the scrape of his stubble before he had shaved.
Knowing Carlos wasn’t the same thing as having him, though. Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem interested in the distinction. It didn’t matter how many nights Carlos lay like a borrowed book in his bed, on his sofa, Oscar’s fingers feeling every knob of his spine. Oscar’s name still wasn’t written inside, no matter how much familiarity blurred with something permanent.
It felt good, kissing Carlos, losing the sharp edges of his thoughts in the heat between their mouths. Like this, Carlos looked almost unreal in white briefs against bronzed skin, all warm gold and dark lashes and sleepy eyes. Faint tan lines crossed his thighs where his cycling shorts always ended, but even the palest skin there looked brown against the cool ivory of Oscar’s legs.
“Come on,” Carlos murmured against his mouth, his fingers digging into Oscar’s waist with little restless movements that felt impatient. “Thinking too much.”
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose as Carlos bit his lower lip, pulling him closer. Carlos shifted beneath him, rolling their hips together just enough to make heat spark low in Oscar’s belly. He made a quiet sound against his mouth before he could stop it. He could feel Carlos smirking in response, smug as anything.
“Fuck off,” Oscar muttered automatically, though it lost most of its impact when he felt how hard Carlos was, jabbing against his stomach.
Carlos only laughed softly and kissed him harder. It felt unfair, honestly, how badly Oscar still wanted him.
He was still annoyed and carrying around the ugly, sour feeling from the night before. Some bitter part of Oscar still wanted to pick a fight, wanted to say something mean enough to wound. But instead he was sprawled over Carlos in his own bed, kissing him like he had been starving for it.
He had been starving for it, was the thing. While he had felt hollow except for the disappointment of watching a race continue without him, lying in bed alone and frustrated, he hadn’t wanted reassurance, or advice, or words at all, really. He wanted to lose himself in strong hands dragging him back into his body instead of leaving him stranded inside his own head with the replay of barriers and carbon fibre and disappointing radio messages looping endlessly behind his eyes.
Because the second Oscar had realised Carlos wasn’t coming over that night, it had hurt far worse than it should have, too much for what they were.
His stomach tensed automatically under Carlos’s hand, easing down his torso with the heel of his palm. Oscar couldn’t help moaning as Carlos stroked at his desire, fingers feather-light over his shaft through his boxers.
The annoying part was that Carlos knew exactly how Oscar would melt after a few more minutes of this. He knew exactly where to lick to make Oscar shiver, which words to say, or sometimes not to say, that dissolved his icy exterior, how to grind his thigh just so until the fight leaked harmlessly out of him. Oscar knew it too. That was the entire fucking issue.
Oscar could kiss the stubble under his jaw, could graze his teeth against his throat, could lave his tongue across Carlos’s collarbone, but none of it left Carlos breathless or without sense the way it did Oscar’s. Carlos would simply angle their lips and their tongues for a better slide, would pull his own thigh back for a better fuck. He never lost sight of the goal despite his wanting, and all Carlos wanted was to be fucked.
Oscar wanted him so badly it overrode common sense. It erased pride, irritation, jealousy. Carlos definitely didn’t need in the same way as Oscar. He would’ve survived last night just fine without all this clawing want in his chest, without lying awake replaying videos until sunrise because the wrong person had been sitting in Oscar’s passenger seat instead of him. He probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
Carlos nudged his nose against Oscar’s jaw, mouth finding the sensitive spot below his ear, and everything complicated in Oscar’s chest melted down into something simpler and infinitely more dangerous. His dick throbbed in Carlos’s lazy grip, with a degree of irony about the dangers of being held the right way for too long, with too much familiarity.
He grunted, shoving his forehead against the Spaniard’s. Carlos huffed, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, okay,” he said, voice raspy with lack of sleep. “You are so needy.”
Oscar hated when Carlos said shit like that, when he knew they both craved it more than sleep or training or anything remotely productive. Carlos raised up on one arm, twisting to reach in the bedside table drawer for the bottle they both knew had a permanent residence inside.
Oscar caught him around the waist and shoved his hips hard enough to send him sprawling forward onto the mattress with a startled huff of laughter, bottle in hand.
Carlos blinked once into the pillow before twisting his head slightly to look back over his shoulder, more amused than genuinely surprised.
“Oh?” he drawled. “You’re taking initiative suddenly?”
Oscar ignored the immediate rush of heat that went through him at the sight of Carlos stretched out beneath him lazily, barely even resisting where Oscar pinned him down against the mattress. Like he found the whole thing entertaining more than threatening.
Oscar kissed down Carlos’s spine, thumbs stroking his sides. His legs pushed outwards, spreading Carlos’s knees, one hand feeling up his strong thigh.
Oscar’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Carlos’s briefs then, easing them down slowly over his hips. He kissed down the back of his shoulder, shoving them lower, while Carlos lifted helpfully off the sheets. They settled back on the bed, Oscar’s still-clothed hardness pressing between Carlos’s bare cheeks in a way that made him want to abandon plans of fucking entirely.
He kissed his way up the line of Carlos’s spine. Carlos tipped his head forward automatically to give him more room. Oscar bit lightly at the warm skin beneath his hairline just to hear the pleased little noise it dragged out of him.
Carlos opened the bottle, propping up on his elbows, and Oscar moved to take it from him, indignant. But when his fingers wrapped around the bottle in Carlos’s grasp, knees already spreading his legs apart, Carlos caught his wrist immediately and shoved it firmly back without even looking.
Carlos twisted just enough to glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Eh, eh,” he murmured, firmly holding Oscar’s wrist. “This is important work.”
The indignation flared hot and immediate, ridiculous in how deeply it offended him to be physically repositioned like an over-friendly dog. Especially by Carlos, who was shorter than him and somehow still always managed to manhandle him.
“Let me,” Oscar said, genuinely affronted.
“Mm, no, I have to,” Carlos murmured, sounding deeply put upon about it. “Your hands are too small, guapo, you can barely even reach.”
Like that was fucking necessary.
Oscar glared at him, realising with a warming face that from down here, he had an up close and personal view of Carlos’s hand spreading lube over his taint.
Carlos had pulled his knees up, spreading his legs wider for better access, but his lazy swirling, head tipping forward into the pillow, sighing loudly at the pleasure of it—that was just to tease.
Oscar’s gaze dragged downward helplessly to Carlos’s thighs, thick with strength, calves flexing under bronzed skin, lean and hard from cycling, dark hair catching warmth in the morning light. His hips and shoulders were broad where Oscar was slim against the sheets.
Carlos’s hands were unfair too, broader than Oscar’s, rough through the palms, fingers thick where Oscar’s were fine-boned. Carlos’s fingers dripped shiny and wet between his spread legs. Oscar was only a little jealous of what those hands were allowed to touch.
When just the tip of one finger breached his entrance, Carlos sighed, tilting his hips down, his eyes fluttering shut. Oscar just barely bit back his own gasp in time, eyes locked on the finger disappearing into tight heat, one hand squeezing Carlos’s hip with bruising pressure. His other hand apparently had its own agenda, reaching for smooth skin across Carlos’s thigh, just to feel, just to be near what was happening.
Oscar rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt when Carlos caught his wrist again with another smug little no, no under his breath, guiding his hand away like Oscar was incapable of following basic instructions. Arrogant prick.
In retaliation, he pressed his palm flat between Carlos’s shoulder blades, pushing his chest more firmly into the pillows beneath him. Carlos only groaned softly at the positioning, eyes fluttering shut as his finger sank deeper with the new angle.
With his hips canted more acutely, Oscar could see Carlos’s flushed dick resting heavy against his taut abdomen. His was shorter than Oscar’s but thick and dark, bobbing with every thrust of Carlos’s fingers. Familiarity with Carlos’s body had ruined Oscar a little bit, his eyes greedily tracing the curve of the Spaniard’s cock, the way his arms pressed his pecs together like tits, as if he didn’t know exactly how delicious he looked.
Carlos’s back was warm under his palm, lean muscle twitching when he flexed in surprise. Oscar pressed harder with the heel of his palm, earning another groan muffled in the sheets. It was a ridiculous compromise, sulking while holding Carlos down like a disgruntled cat. Carlos’s mouth twitched.
“Mm, good,” Carlos hummed, cracking one eye open to look at him through dark lashes. “Make yourself useful and maybe I’ll forgive your attitude.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes at the smug curve of Carlos’s mouth before pinching sharply with his other hand at his side. Carlos jolted instantly.
“Ah—!” His stomach twitched hard under Oscar’s hand, surprise and annoyance flashing openly across his face before it dissolved into incredulous laughter. “Oscar!”
Oscar schooled his face to look deeply unimpressed by the whole thing. “That’s what you get,” he muttered.
Carlos stared at him for a second longer, still grinning in disbelief, hips lifting with a soft laugh as he settled back against the pillows again. “You little shit,” he accused fondly.
Oscar shrugged one shoulder, entirely unapologetic, though his fingers splayed wider on Carlos’s back afterward, thumb dragging idly over the skin there.
Carlos’s eyes flicked down at the hand that had pinched him and laughed quietly through his nose. “So violent,” he sighed dramatically. “No gratitude.”
Before Oscar could brace himself, Carlos pushed his finger deeper, groaning softly with the slick noise of too much lube squeezed from too tight a space, which made Oscar’s ears go hot and his head feel heavy. Carlos seemed in no hurry to prep himself, finger pushing in at a leisurely pace, face pressing into the pillows with a sigh.
Oscar’s eyes couldn’t stray from where his thick finger disappeared inside, how his skin folded in on itself with each thrust in and pulled on his knuckle on each drag out. Carlos was making these noises, little breaths when he clenched around his finger just to drive Oscar insane, he was pretty sure.
Something restless and possessive unfurled under his ribs. Before he could think too hard about it, he tipped his head down and kissed Carlos’s back between his fingers. Oscar waited for the inevitable smug comment, for Carlos to laugh and twist away and make this into another thing Oscar regretted revealing too openly.
Instead, Carlos only exhaled softly through his nose, his fingers swirling around his hole without hesitation. He hummed distractedly, lost entirely in the lewd slide of his hand between his legs—two fingers now entering slowly, stretching himself before Oscar’s eyes.
Oscar kissed higher on his neck, lips trailing up while his fingers dug into Carlos’s skin. Lean muscle twitched under tanned skin when Carlos flexed unconsciously at the touch. Carlos’s soft moaning was making him dizzy, making him so hard in his boxers it hurt.
Carlos only arched beneath him into the stretch of his fingers, biting his plush lower lip as if he weren’t the one doing it to himself.
“Ah,” he moaned, both fingers reaching their limit, Oscar only allowed to imagine how Carlos was curling his fingertips deep inside, if he was scissoring himself open or just enjoying the push deeper. His jealousy reared up meanly at that, too. Anyone could kiss their way up his neck right now, and Carlos wouldn’t even notice, too lost in his own pleasure, warm and smug about it.
The thought made Oscar bite at the side of his throat before he could stop himself. Carlos’s breath caught softly, his shoulder twitching under Oscar’s grip before a grin spread slowly across his face.
Carlos looked unfairly good like this, spread out against white sheets with pleasure playing across his features as he toyed with Oscar’s sanity under the guise of prepping himself, two fingers fucking in faster now.
Oscar hated that his body reacted instantly to the louder squelch, every ragged breath Carlos made, every little twitch under his mouth. Oscar’s hips unconsciously hitched when Carlos groaned, seeking friction against Carlos’s ass presented so perfectly for him, still unavailable to fuck.
Oscar leaned back, letting his lips trail haphazardly over the curve of Carlos’s ass, flattening closer to the mattress.
Carlos’s thigh was warmer under his lips, stronger beneath his hands, thick muscle jumping subtly when Oscar pressed an open-mouthed kiss there.
Carlos’s free hand reached back and grabbed at his hair, moaning at the kiss, thrusting his fingers harder, deeper.
Heat rushed low through Oscar’s stomach, somehow worse than just hearing and feeling Carlos’s hand working between his legs right next to Oscar’s face. He loved Carlos’s hand in his hair, loved the possessiveness of it, the absent-minded way Carlos kept him there.
Oscar let it consume him, sucking on the inside of his thigh, biting where his flesh was most tender. Carlos groaned above him, hips canting towards his mouth. Oscar watched the faint bruise darken slowly under his mouth and felt something ugly in him quiet for the first time all morning.
He couldn’t have ownership, but he could leave proof that Carlos had come back here, that he had been warm under Oscar’s hands, letting Oscar touch him like this instead of anyone else.
Oscar dragged his mouth around, kissing over golden skin that still smelled faintly like clean sweat and citrus and sleep. Carlos’s hip tightened subtly under Oscar’s mouth. Above him, Carlos inhaled sharply, groaning something that sounded suspiciously like his name. Oscar tried very hard not to pay attention to that.
Carlos gasped when he sucked another bruise into Carlos’s side, skin no one else would be likely to see, feeling Carlos’s heartbeat jump faintly beneath his lips. They weren’t ashamed, not exactly, just careful. They both had to contend with sponsors and cameras and the internet’s endless appetite for narratives.
They both had teammates who noticed too much, or so they told themselves. They wordlessly agreed to kissing and marking only in approved areas on each other, as if that was the rule between them, despite their never having established rules at all. They were most careful with themselves, maybe, holding each other at a careful distance. It was becoming difficult to think around it.
Oscar’s tongue danced between Carlos’s ribs, letting his hips fall enough that the back of Carlos’s hand rubbed against him on the upstroke.
“Mm, I’ve spoiled you,” Carlos murmured into the pillow, low and rough. “Should never have let you touch, before.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted pleasantly, sucking another bruise high on his ribs. When a moan punched out of the Spaniard’s chest beneath him, Oscar helplessly moaned in echo, his dick twitching as he felt Carlos’s fingers thrusting faster, the lewd sound of him being fucked open making Oscar dizzy.
Soon, Carlos was gasping again, hips lifting and hand indirectly rubbing against Oscar’s clothed arousal, making him want to do something entirely embarrassing. It wouldn’t be the first time Oscar had humped his hand until he came, but it would certainly be the most shameful. He could tell Carlos was attempting three fingers, working himself open without holding anything back just to make Oscar miserable.
Oscar’s hand found its way down, down, down his torso, slender fingers desperately vying for a share, a feel of what Carlos was doing, stubbornly working into dripping flesh alongside Carlos’s thicker digits.
Carlos keened at the extra stretch, letting Oscar fuck in his index finger alongside three of his own, hips rocking back into their combined hands, panting into the sheets.
If Oscar said anything, tried to convince him to let him take over, Carlos would shut him down again. Oscar firmly wrapped around Carlos’s wrist instead, pulling the thrusting fingers out, insisting wordlessly.
Carlos resisted at first before relenting, sliding out slowly, groaning softly at the loss. Oscar felt his face go redder at the way his hole clenched around his finger without the rest of Carlos’s fingers.
Three of Oscar’s slid in relatively easily, not nearly as thick, but the slick slide against the smooth pressure of Carlos’s walls made him groan automatically, pressing his forehead into the sweaty skin of Carlos’s back.
Oscar should’ve been embarrassed by the way his hips twitched against Carlos without permission, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was lost in the motions, fucking his fingers in deep, unable to stop his hips from mirroring the pace. He rutted against Carlos’s ass, his cockhead smearing over where he had soaked through the fabric of his boxers.
Carlos was flushed and breathing unevenly under him, face buried in the pillows, and suddenly the idea of leaving him untouched felt unbearable. Fuck it. Carlos didn’t care to leave marks on him; why shouldn’t he return the favour?
Oscar’s mouth drifted higher, kissing over his shoulder blade, the side of his throat. He sucked at the skin beneath his jaw before he could think better of it. Carlos jolted beneath him.
“Ah—hey,” he protested immediately, hips pushing down into his hand. “Oscar—”
The complaint dissolved halfway through into a breathier sound that sent heat flooding through Oscar’s chest. Carlos tilted his head sideways, exposing more of his throat in direct contradiction to every weak protest leaving his mouth.
“Oscar,” he tried again, sounding increasingly distracted now. “That’s not fair.”
Oscar pressed one more slow kiss against the blooming bruise beneath his jaw, lingering just long enough to feel Carlos shiver underneath him. He slowed his fingering to push hard and deep, just to hear the helpless noises Carlos made so close to his ear.
“Fuck,” Carlos muttered softly under his breath, sounding helplessly gone for a second.
Oscar’s stomach tightened hard enough to make him curl instinctively closer, breath catching somewhere embarrassingly high in his chest. It wasn’t enough to kiss Carlos, to scissor him open, to leave him flushed and breathless beneath him. Oscar felt every one of Carlos’s reactions echo straight back through his own body like a pulled wire. Carlos shivered, and Oscar’s pulse jumped with him. Carlos breathed harder, and suddenly Oscar couldn’t think properly either.
He wanted to hear more of those breathless little sounds dragged out of him. He wanted to be the only person in the audience of Carlos melting and ruined specifically because of Oscar’s hands, Oscar’s mouth, because of Oscar. He wanted, irrationally, to keep going until Carlos forgot every other person in the world existed.
His stomach twisted with something sour every time he imagined someone else privy to those sounds, even though they hadn’t claimed each other in that way, hadn’t given this thing between them a name. It was difficult to imagine Carlos, who was warm to everyone in any room, in any car, with anyone, giving him any kind of special treatment. Carlos performed tenderness as naturally as breathing.
Carlos’s dark lashes lowered, mouth parted slightly, broad back rising unevenly beneath Oscar’s hands. All that easy confidence from earlier had softened around the edges into something hungrier and a little helpless, too.
“Don’t make me beg,” Carlos muttered, sounding like he absolutely would.
Oscar made a frustrated sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and surrender, and then everything in him seemed to give way at once. He pulled his fingers out, probably a little too quickly, Carlos hissing at the hasty removal.
He scrambled clumsily to shove his boxers down, half-tangled in the sheets in his haste, too desperate now to care about dignity or maintaining whatever scraps of control he had left. Carlos’s grin widened immediately at the sight of his dick, flushed pink and shiny at the tip from how much he had already dripped into his boxers. Carlos looked smug and dark-eyed and entirely too pleased by how thoroughly Oscar had unraveled.
The second Oscar managed to free himself from the fabric, he climbed back over Carlos, fisting his aching arousal, squeezing himself tightly at the base, if only to keep from coming on the first thrust. It always surprised him a little how obscene it looked, wrapped with his pale, narrow fingers. He grabbed a condom from his bedside table, shaking hands not so clever with the packaging.
Eventually, he slid it over his thick length, throbbing steadily in both hands, practically panting. Oscar could hear the same desire that coursed through his own veins in Carlos’s ragged breathing, the occasional soft groan, but even affected, Carlos stayed even-keeled in a way he never could.
“Mm, no more thinking,” Carlos murmured. “Just come here.”
Carlos reached backwards for him with eager hands. He liked touching Oscar, liked being the one to guide him to his own entrance, to push Oscar’s head past his own rim. He loved how thick Oscar looked in his hand, eyes roving hungrily as he stroked his member from base to tip. Oscar could only grip his hips tightly as Carlos guided himself back onto him, a little bit at a time.
Oscar buried his face against Carlos’s neck almost helplessly, breathing him in deep. Carlos’s hips arched against him, one hand holding himself open, tantalizing in the most devastating way, like even that remaining inch of space between them offended him.
Oscar’s thighs trembled as Carlos’s hole sucked in his cock in short bursts. He tried to breathe through the need boiling low in his pelvis, hot and swirling. By the time he bottomed out, hips pressed flush against the Spaniard’s, moving seemed an impossibility. Desire and affection and leftover possessiveness tangled horribly together in his stomach, his composure weakened further by every spike of want at even the smallest reaction from the man beneath him.
Carlos pushed back against him slowly, not enough to push him away, but enough to pull Oscar just that little bit deeper, enough to get his rim around that last bit of cock that was somehow not already engulfed in impossibly tight heat. A desperate ache tightened low in his stomach hard enough to make him curl instinctively closer. He pressed his face harder into Carlos’s neck like that might somehow help contain the overwhelming rush of want surging through him.
“Fuck,” Oscar whispered helplessly.
He already felt frighteningly close to tipping over the edge, nerves lit up beneath his skin from the sheer wet pressure around his cock. Carlos was just too much for him sometimes. Oscar was suddenly, profoundly grateful Carlos couldn’t see his face from this angle.
Carlos reached back with one hand, grabbing at Oscar’s thigh, still pushing against him slowly. “Please,” he said, voice gone rough with want. “Move for me, just a little. I need more than this, or I’m going to lose my mind.”
Oscar swallowed hard, cheeks burning hotter because Carlos sounded just as affected as he felt despite somehow still holding himself together better.
“I can’t,” Oscar admitted, voice tight, almost angry about how close he was. “You’re—fuck, Carlos—”
His hands tightened with a bruising pressure at the Spaniard’s hips, slightly-too-long fingernails digging into golden skin as if he could stop his impending orgasm that way. But Carlos kept that maddening rhythm, fucking himself back onto Oscar despite his frozen form, desperately trying to pin Carlos’s hips to stillness.
"Oscar," Carlos breathed helplessly, laughing at how rigid Oscar had gone against him. "I know you want to."
Oscar’s knees dug into the mattress as his hips pushed in, unable to resist the intensity of feeling at every point of contact between him and the man pushing back against him.
“Can barely breathe right now, mate,” Oscar grunted, shifting to grip at Carlos’s shoulder, warm skin sticking lightly where sweat had started gathering between them.
Carlos’s back was damp against his chest now, warm and slick where their bodies pressed together without room to breathe properly. Every inhale dragged Oscar tighter against him; every exhale softened them together again. Carlos’s hand stayed hooked firmly around Oscar’s thigh, pulling him deeper with every thrust with insistence.
“Yeah?” Carlos teased breathlessly. “Going to come already? Make me do all the work?”
Oscar whined softly, biting his lip. Carlos was always so hot, so tight, so fucking bossy, telling him how to move and how to fuck him and to—not to come yet—fuck—
Oscar was draped over him like this, chest pressed against the sweaty ridge of his spine. He licked up the line of Carlos’s throat, hot and wet, dragging his lips over the stubble to keep his mind off the pleasure building hot between his legs. He bit harshly at the junction between Carlos’s neck and shoulder, letting it fill his mouth, pressing against his tongue. Maybe if he bit down hard enough, he could keep hold of his sanity alongside the thick, corded muscle between his teeth.
He fucked in faster, slim hips rabbiting opposite Carlos’s staccato “Ah, ah, ah,” as he drove into him, lust spiraling in his head, his stomach, his groin, out of his control.
Oscar’s head tipped forward suddenly, the last scraps of posture leaving him as he sagged over Carlos’s shoulder with a shaky exhale. Heat surged through him in relentless waves, too big for his body to contain neatly anymore. Every nerve felt bright and oversensitive beneath his skin.
He felt insane, helplessly consumed by wanting. Carlos slipped under his skin so thoroughly that Oscar stopped feeling like a coherent person and started feeling like one long exposed nerve ending reacting helplessly to every touch and breath and word. His pulse hammered hot and fast through his whole body.
He froze, tense and rigid in that way Carlos had to be familiar with by now, where Oscar’s whole body locked down because he could feel himself slipping too far too fast. His breathing stayed ragged against Carlos’s shoulder, but he stopped moving entirely, holding them both in place, hands gripping tightly at Carlos’s sides.
Oscar shook his head once against his neck, cheeks burning hot. “Don’t,” he muttered weakly. “Don’t move.”
Carlos exhaled a soft laugh. “You think I’m done with you already, guapo?”
Oscar made another small, overwhelmed sound at that, thighs trembling with the force of holding perfectly still.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Carlos soothed lightly, still teasing underneath it. “I know you want more.”
He started that—that bloody rocking again, pushing his hips back against Oscar, and Oscar squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see colour behind them. Carlos’s heartbeat pounded against his mouth, under his palms, through the heat of his back every time Carlos breathed. He could feel the pulse of it around his cock. His own face felt unbearably hot.
“Carlos, I can’t—fuck, no,” Oscar panted. “Stop—stop, seriously, or I’m gonna—”
Carlos moaned, an obscene noise given how dangerously close Oscar was to losing his ever-loving mind. Almost as if he wanted to snap the final thread himself, Carlos clenched around him deliciously tighter, making them gasp in unison at the sensation.
“Wanted this all night,” Carlos rumbled, voice gravely with lust. “Needed, ah—needed you so much…”
For a terrifying moment, Oscar felt like he was in free fall, unrestrained, only able to feel Carlos clenching tight around him, skin dragging slick together where Oscar pressed against him. His cock throbbed hot and thick, deep inside Carlos, filling up the thin layer of latex separating them with a broken, choked off sound.
Shame and embarrassment surged low and vicious through Oscar’s stomach as his body shuddered with release. He clung to Carlos almost desperately, trying to pull himself together fast enough to retreat before Carlos could say something, could do something—fuck, anything. He didn’t want Carlos to even look at him.
Oscar pushed himself back abruptly, breath uneven. “Fuck’s sake, Carlos,” he muttered, voice rough already. “I told you—”
He pulled out of Carlos jerkily, hands shaking, legs unsteady. His cock was already softening, condom partially pulling off, filled with milky white evidence of his own failure. Carlos groaned softly, clenching around nothing, reaching back with one hand.
“Oscar,” he grumbled. “Wait—”
Oscar refused to look at him. Heat still burned visibly up his neck and across his cheeks, made worse by how badly his body had betrayed him. He rolled halfway to the other side of the bed, propping up against the pillows. He tugged off the incriminating wrapper and tied it off before throwing it dejectedly at the bin.
Carlos rolled carefully onto one side to look at him properly then, expression softening almost immediately at the sight of Oscar glaring furiously at absolutely nothing.
“Hey,” Carlos murmured. “It’s okay. Don’t worry.”
Oscar huffed. “No, you—” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dunno what you want from me.”
The stupid part was that Carlos had never once made him feel ashamed about this, not the first time it happened, not any of the times afterward when Oscar came too soon, hips stuttering, fucking too deep, lost in the pleasure between Carlos’s thighs. Carlos had simply always been kind about it.
All their careful distance clearly meant absolutely nothing if Carlos could talk him into pieces until he was possessive and shaking against Carlos’s back, vulnerability clawing up his throat. With a quiet groan of frustration, Oscar slung an arm across his face to block out Carlos’s dark eyes, unwilling to deal with the way Carlos was probably looking at him now.
“Oscar,” Carlos murmured, prying lightly at his wrist, “quit hiding.”
Oscar tried tugging once against his grip. “Leave me alone,” he muttered. “‘m not exactly useful anymore.”
Carlos went quiet before the mattress shifted gently beneath them as he moved closer. “I think,” he murmured softly. “I want you exactly like this.”
Oscar kept his arm stubbornly over his eyes.
Carlos ignored the barricade entirely. One warm hand slid slowly up Oscar’s side instead, broad palm smoothing over his ribs with lazy affection while Carlos kissed against the line of his jaw.
“You think I am disappointed because you wanted me too much?” he asked, teasing.
Oscar’s throat tightened immediately.
Carlos kissed him again, not waiting for an answer, mouth brushing slowly along his jaw while his hand continued stroking lightly up and down Oscar’s side like he was calming something frightened.
“You think too much, pequeño,” he murmured against his skin, fond and a little exasperated all at once. “So much better when you feel instead.”
The bed shifted again, and suddenly Carlos was half over him, warm weight settling carefully between Oscar’s thighs while Oscar still hid behind his forearm like that was accomplishing anything now.
Carlos’s hair brushed softly against Oscar’s chest as he ducked lower, kissing slowly, open-mouthed along his sternum.
Oscar’s breathing hitched despite himself when Carlos kissed lower, his tongue tracing his happy trail, down the soft warmth of his stomach.
“You don’t know how hot it is,” Carlos murmured quietly against his skin. “Seeing you lose control a little…”
He kissed right where Oscar’s waistband would sit if he were wearing anything. His stubble prickled against Oscar’s stomach, and Oscar found it difficult to keep completely silent in response.
“You sounded so sweet for me, eh,” Carlos rumbled, his voice dropping lower, his strong forearms wrapping around his thighs, settling across them. One of Carlos’s hands slid absently along the outside of his leg, slow and grounding.
Oscar swallowed hard while Carlos stayed draped warmly over him, entirely unconcerned with whether Oscar was useful or composed or capable of anything besides lying there flushed and overwhelmed beneath his hands.
A warm mouth suddenly enveloped the head of his soft cock, and Oscar almost died.
What the fuck.
He was still soft, still covered in come and the lube of the condom, and—and, Jesus, Carlos was sucking him down like it was his job.
“Carlos,” Oscar breathed weakly behind his arm.
Carlos only hummed around his dick in response, the vibration dragging another helpless shiver from him. Oscar felt his tongue around his length, licking slowly like Oscar was worth tasting, and Oscar flushed deeper.
Heat flashed through him hard enough to make his stomach tense despite the embarrassment and sensitivity. His thighs twitched under the weight of Carlos’s arms, his dick filling in the hot suction all around him.
It was humiliating how much he loved the overwhelming too-muchness of Carlos’s wet mouth when he had lost his grip earlier, coming like an overexcited teenager. But Carlos’s head bobbing between his thighs, holding him down, taking what he wanted when Oscar was helpless to do more than moan and convulse under his tongue and lips and throat, was more than enough to make him throb painfully in the Spaniard’s mouth.
His free hand found its way into Carlos’s hair, holding on for dear life as the man sucked every last bit of sanity from his aching length.
“Christ, Carlos,” Oscar gasped when he felt the tip of his cock touch the entrance of his throat before pulling off with a wet pop.
Oscar’s arm finally slipped away from his eyes, and light flooded back in all at once.
Carlos looked up immediately from where he was sprawled between Oscar’s thighs, hair a mess, mouth pink and damp from sucking Oscar’s cock. Oscar could only see bottomless pools of want when his eyes met Carlos’s dark gaze. There was no smugness left in them now, no teasing.
Oscar felt another wave of heat climb straight into his face.
Carlos pushed off the mattress, climbing over him, straddling his lap, bracketing his thighs with thick muscle, strong from cycling. Oscar stared up at him for a second after they settled, chest still heaving unevenly from the sudden shift.
Carlos looked devastating. His hair was wrecked now, dark locks shoved messily out of place from Oscar’s hand, sticking up slightly at the crown. His mouth was flushed pink and swollen, lower lip still damp and shiny. Red marks bloomed across the golden skin beneath his jaw, half hidden by the angle of his body. And somehow, despite all that visible evidence of Oscar all over him, Carlos still looked like the one winning here.
Actually, no. He looked like he had conquered something, like he was deeply pleased with himself for making Oscar like this.
Carlos’s hand slid into place at his waist, lifting up on his knees while his other hand stroked Oscar firmly, positioning him—
Oscar jolted faintly and grabbed for him on instinct, something nervous and hot twisting through his stomach.
“Oi—” His voice cracked slightly. “What’re you doing?”
Carlos, entirely unbothered by the panic creeping into Oscar’s voice, merely continued torturing Oscar’s cockhead against his rim, letting it catch before swirling him around like a toy.
“What does it look like?” he murmured.
Oscar’s grip tightened around the man’s hips automatically. “Carlos,” he said weakly, almost pleading.
They were both clean. They had established that early on, both too practical to be stupid about this. But this—they had never fucked like this.
Carlos kissed him, one hand leaving his waist to cup his jaw. He left Oscar’s cockhead precariously just inside his rim, still slick with lube from before, bringing his hand to the other side of Oscar’s face. He licked into Oscar’s mouth slowly, hips rolling every so slightly, letting Oscar feel the pressure, the potential, if he just pushed, if he just wanted it enough—
Oscar’s hips twitched without his permission, bucking up against the tight heat teasing his tip as Carlos licked into his mouth. A groan punched out of his chest as wet warmth engulfed him. Even only halfway inside, Oscar couldn’t imagine anything worse had ever happened to him, anything more ruinous than feeling something so heavenly wrapped around the bare skin of his dick.
Carlos hummed softly into the kiss like he could feel it happening already, Oscar disintegrating into his hands, his mouth, the tight furl of him sucking him in, in, in.
Oscar’s hands gripped Carlos’s waist, and he tried to breathe before he did something stupid like thrust his entire throbbing cock into him in one go, as much as he wanted to. He moaned into Carlos’s mouth with every little twitch instead, slowly burying himself and his dignity a centimetre at a time.
Carlos gasped when he finally sat fully against his thighs, eyes fluttering shut, Oscar finally buried inside. Oscar’s ears were ringing, the whole of him dizzy and hot as he tried to remember what came next, blinking hazily at the beautiful expanse of bronze muscle in front of him.
Carlos’s fingers wound in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand firm on his shoulder. “Oscar,” he croaked. “Please.”
Oscar couldn’t think, but his hands lifted the man in his lap almost on instinct before lowering him once again, impaling him on his thick shaft. They moaned simultaneously when he bottomed out, Carlos’s fingers tightening in his hair.
Oscar tilted up, pressing fully against Carlos’s chest, trapping his erection between their slick stomachs. Slowly, they lifted Carlos’s hips together, Oscar meeting him on the thrust and forcing a broken sound out of him that made Oscar’s dick pulse threateningly.
They built up a rhythm, Carlos’s strong thighs picking him up enough to fuck down hard and deep, riding Oscar with tight strokes. They couldn’t keep their mouths off each other, sometimes kissing, licking, sometimes panting into each other’s skin.
Oscar clawed into his lower back when Carlos rolled his hips while yanking his hair hard, pain spreading across the back of his head in a way that made him mewl with pleasure.
Carlos lost his English when Oscar’s mouth wrapped around his nipple, sucking hard enough to leave a bright red hickey. He would’ve stopped there, but Oscar gave him a matching one on the other side just to hear Carlos swear in Spanish, totally wrecked.
Oscar pressed into the crease of his throat, groaning into the clammy skin as Carlos rode him faster. Before he knew what he was doing, Oscar’s teeth had latched low on his neck, biting the Spaniard hard, a broken cry slipping out of Carlos.
When he released his neck, deep red with faint indentations marked where he had bitten Carlos like a brand, Oscar groaned at the sight, fucking up into him faster but losing the rhythm of it quickly. “Carlos, ah—‘m not gonna last,” he gritted out.
Carlos was letting out little “ah, ah, ah”s with each thrust, eyes hazy with pleasure. “Come for me,” he pushed. “Want to feel you—inside.”
Oscar’s brain disconnected at the mere notion, and instinct said he needed to focus on his partner’s pleasure. His narrow fingers wrapped around Carlos’s weeping cock, slick with precome and sweat from their stomachs, and it only took a few strokes before Carlos was coming over his chest, painting him with white strokes, groaning and twitching in his hand.
“Fuck—madre mía, fuck,” Carlos groaned, hips stuttering with the force of his release.
Oscar followed almost immediately after, pumping Carlos full of his second orgasm, primal instincts filling his head with several single-syllable words. Pulsing deep inside without the barrier to which they had both been so accustomed made his brain melt out of his ears a little.
Carlos exhaled shakily against Oscar’s temple, still panting a little as he tucked his face there without embarrassment, arms wrapping tight around Oscar’s shoulders almost greedily. Oscar could feel the lingering tremor still running faintly through Carlos’s body every few breaths, could feel how warm and sweaty they both were where their skin stuck together.
“You’re heavy,” Oscar muttered automatically, though his own arms had already circled Carlos’s waist.
“Mm,” Carlos hummed, making absolutely no effort to move.
Oscar could feel Carlos’s heartbeat slowing gradually against his chest now, steady and familiar after all the earlier chaos. The room smelled like sweat and sex and Carlos again instead of airports and Italy and somebody else’s road trip.
Carlos kissed along Oscar’s jaw, then settled again with a soft sigh like he was finally somewhere he wanted to be.
Oscar peeked down at the flushed line of his neck, at the red marks that couldn’t be hidden from the public eye. He saw Carlos’s cheeks flushed deep from heat, mouth swollen pink from kissing.
Oscar tightened his hold slightly before he could think too hard about why. He had spent the entire night aching for Carlos’s hands on him. But judging by the way Carlos clung to him now, sweaty and boneless and reluctant to let go, perhaps he hadn’t been the only one.
Eventually, Oscar nudged Carlos upright with reluctant hands at his waist.
Carlos made an immediate wounded sound at the movement, face twisting as he climbed awkwardly off Oscar’s lap, shoving a hand between his legs to not leak come all down his thighs. “Ay,” he complained under his breath, voice roughened by exhaustion and kissing alike.
Oscar laughed breathlessly until Carlos glared at him.
“It was your idea!” he squeaked.
“Be nice to me,” Carlos muttered, shamelessly dramatic as he walked to the bathroom.
Oscar rolled his eyes and escaped to the bathroom long enough to grab paper towels for them both, cleaning himself of the frankly impressive spread of sweat and lube and come over his hips. Leaving Carlos to the en suite, he pulled on a pair of shorts and flopped sideways across the mattress. Eventually, Carlos joined him, sliding in half under the sheets.
Oscar found Carlos’s shorts tangled somewhere near the edge of the bed and tossed them over before climbing back onto the mattress. The second he settled, Carlos reached for him automatically, hooking an arm around Oscar’s waist to drag him close again without even looking first. Clingy bastard.
Oscar let himself be pulled down anyway, warm skin slotting against warm skin as Carlos tucked himself against Oscar’s chest with another quiet sigh. For a minute, neither of them said anything.
Then Oscar asked, “When d’you have to leave?”
Carlos looked up at him with sleepy eyes. “No meeting today,” he said, sounding smug again now that he’d found enough energy for it. “Perks of getting a podium.”
Oscar huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “Right,” he murmured.
Carlos had come here after a damn near sleepless night and could have gone home afterward. He could have showered and slept in his own bed and escaped Oscar’s miserable mood entirely. Instead, he was still here, warm and sleepy in Oscar’s arms, pressing lazy kisses into Oscar’s shoulder whenever silence stretched too long.
Carlos had kissed him despite the jealousy and embarrassment anyway. His arms had lain heavily across Oscar’s thighs while Oscar spiralled. Oscar remembered the softness in his voice making him come, wrapping up Oscar’s shame, swallowing every drop. He had held Oscar like there had never been anywhere else he wanted to be.
Oscar ducked his face into Carlos’s neck before he could think himself out of it, hiding there for a second in warm skin and the lingering smell of him.
“You can stay,” he murmured against his throat. “If y’want.”
Carlos sounded a little surprised around the edges somehow, “Yeah?”
Oscar tightened his arm around his waist and hummed against his skin. “Mhm.”
Carlos slotted their legs together, wiggling as if settling in further to stay. “Good,” he sighed contentedly. “Don’t want to be anywhere else.”
~~~
Thank you to @choneysuns for beta reading!!!
And to @dilawphy, hope you can now mark off one more step of your evil plan :) Thank you for all your love and support through writing this, it wouldn't exist without you <3
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