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vsyrworld · 3 days

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“𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞”

2.8K, explicit, post China Sprint

Read on AO3 or bellow the cut

He’s still fuming even when the roar of all engines has shut off. Absurd move, and for what? Fucking out of the podium and pole again. He yanks the balaclava as he seizes the ‘55’ of the garage, each step he’s taken has slowly made the anger subside but still sits in his gut like lava.

Everyone turns to him with their eyes wide and unblinking and Charles breathes. So, they’re waiting for a scene. A screaming match or maybe blows but it’s not the stuff he and Carlos are made of— apparently. He bites his tongue in his mouth when Carlos comes, eyes deep and gone.

“What the fuck was that?” Charles repeats himself, but his tone is far lighter than he intended it.

“Not right now, okay?”

And just like that, he flips the switch. Just like that, Charles’ fire dies and he thinks anyway. He thinks whatever. He thinks good riddance.

Because it’s always been like this with Carlos. Always half-measures and stolen glances and mixed messages and never enough. He should’ve known better than to hope their last year would’ve been different.

If anything, this might just prove to be the worst one yet.

By the time he’s done with the media circus, smiling in the absurdity of his frustrations, he’s ran out of fuel to keep him fired up, and when Carlos approaches him –fucking finally– he’s only greeted with a tired, heavy sigh. “I have to speak to the stewards because of the shit with Alonso, listen—if I was too aggressive—”

Charles taps his chest and through the layers of fabric, he can still feel the heat coming off Carlos, the steady pumping of his heart and the hard carcass that surrounds it. “It doesn't matter. I've been there, too, haven't I?” he relents and it's pathetic. He knows.

But Carlos squeezes his fingers and looks at him puzzled, as he's often done lately. Half-here, half-somewhere else. One foot out, Charles remembers.

And he doesn't say anything else before he disappears from his grip again, Charles also doesn't stick around to listen.

Instead, he replays the sprint idly in his mind after he's showered, revisiting all the missed twists and turns and convincing himself that his fight with Carlos didn't fuck up his chances for a podium. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. What counts is tomorrow, anyway.

But then a flash and he's pushed out of the track like nothing but a bug and his head is spinning and it's a hundred degrees but his gut is boiling with more than just that. His heart is racing for more than just racing. Fucking see me, I'm right here.

I'm yours to push and shove.

He doesn't have to open his eyes and look down to know what he knows already. His shaft's hardening as he lies and overthinks, great. It's not the first time he's gotten hard after a fight on track, it's not even the first time he's gotten hard after a fight on track with Carlos. But it'd been a while, and it'd been a while since the race, too.

He bites his lower lip and eyes his problem. His cock is nestled only somewhat uncomfortably inside his briefs. He could leave it there, he's only halfway into hardness. But then it's also just 10 p.m. in Shanghai so he's got a few more hours to kill before he's ready to rest. Social media seems like a good idea for a minute until he watches one too many videos of the race and his minor issue goes right to considerable.

It's starting to itch, the fabric. But when he moves his hips a little bit the constriction provides friction and Charles' interest is piqued, then. Fine, he'll stoop lower. It's one sprint video that leads to interviews with bullshit excuses that make Charles lose himself in brown eyes like he's done for the last three and some years that then lead him to a myriad of Sainz footage and he's gone.

And Charles could call him up, could get the whole actual show. But Charles was weak enough already to turn down his apologies when Charles very much deserved them, Charles was weak enough already to just let him fucking push him over, he'd been weak enough lately.

This was still weak, of course. But it was at least between him and God. Did he mention he was the bigger man earlier already?

He throws the phone to his side when Carlos' smile begins spinning in his head after three or so photos. It always took so much of his face, but Charles noted that it didn't matter because his laugh was contagious. A lot of aspects of Carlos were like that, could make you feel whatever he wanted in just a flick.

Charles palms himself, just a press of the heel of his hand to his bulge and he breathes heavily. Inhaling deep as his teeth trap his lower lip. He turns over and pushes a pillow between his legs, just to keep the pressure subsided.

Except that Carlos' fingers earlier linger on his, in his mind, and Charles eyes his hand like it's foreign to his body. He's washed off, it's been hours already; there's no trace of Carlos' smell or his heat at Charles' fingertips but it doesn't hurt to imagine. It doesn't hurt to rub himself softly, index finger moving from his clavicle to his chest to his navel until Charles breathes heavily again before he pushes down the briefs and ends the charade that he's wishing this away. He squeezes the pillow harder between his legs to keep his cock from flinching at the cold of the dead darkness of his room. The nearly dead emptiness of the life he carries. And his finger draws faint circles on his body again. Aimless, odd-shaped figures across his arm and his torso and his shoulder just like Carlos would. Touch and graze him like Charles was made of the most precious marble.

And kiss him. Carlos would kiss him breathless. Would kiss him like his life depended on it, would kiss him like he'd fight him on track. Like he did today.

This is all that I've got— can you take it?

Charles bucks into the messy lump he'd already made of the pillow as a yes echoes in his head, chanting, nearly. Yes, I can fucking take it. You want to fight me harder than the rest? I'll meet you halfway there. I'm no coward. Crash into me if that's how bad you want it. We'll give them a bloody show.

He grunts when his tip grazes the silky fabric of the pillow just slightly enough to sting and he comes to think that maybe he ought to just get on with it and use his hand, instead, but the rough friction is good. The rough friction reminds him of calloused, big hands, tanner than his. Musky smells and hairy wrists that always manage to twist right how Charles needs. It's unbearable, really. How perfectly they piece together.

And now Carlos wants to fight me.

All because they have left us in these ruins.

It's not my fault they didn't pick him.

He whimpers as his rhythm picks up, back arched as he's shifted to topple the pillow that's now under his belly. He no longer worries about the cold because his many efforts now got him glistening in sweat and panting, just like he was inside the car earlier.

Riled up because of Carlos fucking Sainz, albeit in two entirely different ways. Or were they? Wasn't their predicament the entire cornerstone of Charles' current frustrations?

They couldn't love each other, they could never love each other. They couldn't even have each other, because they didn't have a say in that.

And they couldn't hate each other, either. They couldn't go at each other's throats.

Well, at least that's what I thought. But he didn't give a shit about that, did he? Maybe that could mean…

“Merde,” he moans when he starts rocking his hips easier because he's started leaking. The moist spot he's made gets slicker with each roll of his hips and soon he just thrusting wantonly into the misshapen lump.

He supports himself a little on his elbows on the mattress, back arched just enough to make room for him to thrust back in, and so he repeats in a frenzy dance. He imagines himself squeezed into nothingness like the pillow, and bucks harder, relentless. Carlos wouldn't lose the pace, not at least until the very– very end. But he wasn't Carlos. He was only the mess Carlos had made of him, whimpering and moaning into his mattress and about to come untouched like a fucking teenager.

I bet he's smiling. I bet this is what he's wanted all along. To see me lose my damn mind like this.

He curses and he can nearly taste the bleach they used to clean the sheets; his tongue dries in the cotton as he lets go of the fabric, and adjusts himself a little. Legs a little spread, this time just pressing on his knees and he moves his hips in circles. Charles breathes at the slight change of pace but his mind provides more reasons to keep him going. Flashes of Carlos meaty lips dropping wet kisses all over his back before he claimed him, the way his bushy eyelashes would flicker before he came, mouth slacking in a soundless ‘o’ that Charles always needed to stick his tongue into.

Carlos' breathy laugh and silly jokes and big hands, crowding all of him both in public and private. Did he even know? How easily can I be undone under his fingers? He picked up his pace again as frustration started filling him once more.

“Charles?”

Yes, he'd fucking say. Sharl all soft like nothing's ever been wrong in the world. Like they're not caught up in the shittiest situation. Like Charles isn't absolutely dreading the end of the season. Like Charles doesn't lo–

He freezes when a hand wraps around his nape and Charles feels like an exposed wire, ready to electrocute. But the hand holding him knows him all too well, and it is as firm as it is tender. So Charles breathes and leans back into it.

“Vai avanti,” Carlos whispers in his ear and Charles wants to kick him out, kind of. He also wants to turn around and kiss the living daylights out of him.

It's always a bit complicated after a race, anyway. Carlos is the one he has to beat all the time, no matter what, but he also needs to have Carlos do good.

And they can't fight, so they don't fight. They make love instead, which is its own kind of fight, if you ask Charles.

He moves slowly — slower than he was a second ago— and the hand at his neck is so hot suddenly the pillow is too cold and rigid and Charles is no longer interested in it. He twists his face to see him, but the room is pitch black and the angle isn't right anyway.

“Carlos…” he whispers. It's not a plea, he wouldn't call it that. He's still got some dignity left in him.

But Carlos answers like he's made to answer, and Charles reflects on how bad he's been to him for the last two or so hours, until he reflects that he's in fact been soft. They both have.

“Shh, keep going. I got you,” Carlos says, and the hand around his neck rolls down his spine slowly to sneak under and wrap around him and Charles moans louder this time because it's what he's wanted the whole fucking day, since that stupid stunt he pulled.

Touch me the way it fucking matters.

“Venga, amore,” he prompts again, in the weird mix of Spanish and Italian he can muster, just towering over Charles somehow. Here and there and all around and Charles is dizzy in lust and something as intoxicating. He pushes himself up, pressed fleshed against Carlos, who's still gripping him loose and Charles knows this is what he'll give him this time. Just this, not more.

You get one piece of me this time. You'll never have me whole.

Charles loves a good challenge.

But he wasn't aiming to win this particular battle, so Charles just moves against the hand holding him firmly, Carlos rubbing his thumb on his tip so the precum would make the grip pleasant while Charles lost himself to the sensations and soon he was bucking erratically into Carlos' fist before spilling his release all over it.

Carlos supports him through the wakes of his climax, holding him to his chest as he stands just right near the edge of the bed, dropping soundful kisses on Charles' shoulders that make him shudder while he's still coming down from his high, Carlos still milking him through.

After the lights have stopped sparkling, Charles finally looks up at him. “I’ve been texting you,” Carlos says at the side of his face, but he sounds amused.

Charles half shrugs, before turning around fully, arms thrown over Carlos' shoulders. “I've been busy.”

“Clearly.” Carlos' right hand is sticky on his hip.

“How did you get in here?” Charles inquires, after he finally gains some clarity.

“Asked Nicolas for a spare key. Told him that if he's gonna tell the media you and I kiss then he might as well help me give it a shot,” Carlos says but there's a trace of amusement in his tone.

Charles still frowns. “Seriously?”

“‘Seriously’ did I ask him for the key or ‘seriously’ did he tell the press we kiss on the mouth?”

Charles rolls his eyes because he didn't really care that much about the answer. The world wasn't burning, so, who cared if his manager joked on international TV about something that may not be a joke? Who cared if Carlos outed them to his manager in response?

He leans forward slowly and drops a kiss on Carlos' lips only to realize he still smells like gas and sweat and tastes like their energy drinks. “Are you still dirty from the race?” Charles blurts, almost absentmindedly.

Carlos slaps his cheek in response and it makes a slick sound cause it's still covered in cum. “You're one to talk about being dirty.”

He chuckles, head falling on Carlos shoulder and trying not to giggle too much but the embarrassment is slowly getting to him. When he stretches his neck again, big brown eyes are looking up to him like he hangs the moon every night.

It's hard to imagine this is the same Carlos that would force him out of the track. The same Carlos that will fight tooth and nails this year to prove Ferrari that they should've chosen him instead of Charles. But, then again, they were all different people once the lights went off.

Charles could never begrudge him.

“Wanna take a bath with me?” he offers. “You can do your hair routine on me so I can have amazing hair after a race like you do,” Charles adds, playfully.

“Anything for Lord Perceval,” Carlos jokes in the same nature.

“You know it isn't personal, right?” Carlos asks after they sit in the tub for a while. His fingertips are drawing circles on his scalp and Charles lives, however long this moment lasts, in a world where none of that matters.

For this fleeting, miniscule moment, he's just having a bubble bath with the most beautiful man he's ever been near.

“I know.” Does he wish it was? Does he wish Carlos wasn't lying?

“It's not easy, though. It's not what you and I are used to,” Charles says, honest, too. Carlos is the longest teammate he's ever had so comparisons are dull. But, still…

Carlos stares at him unblinking as he does, and his eyes sparkle with sadness and wonder alike. It's a weird mixture that only Carlos can pull off, Charles reckons. “I'm afraid we're heading into territory that's gonna have us outside of what we're used to, amor.”

Was it a threat or just a bad omen?

“I can't say I won't be aggressive again for the rest of the season. You know why this one is more important than most to me, Charles— but… but I can promise that I'll come back to you still after. And we'll sort it out.”

The corner of Charles' mouth draws up as he looks at him. Yes, he knows. Ever since Carlos joined him, three years and so ago, Charles has known.

The only place Carlos would ever serve him is the bedroom and the only way Carlos would ever be gentle with him is like this.

#charlos #the bath scene is amazing!

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