Chapter Text
The door clicks shut behind me with a sound that's way too loud for the soft lighting of the hotel room.
Charles is already sprawled across the bed like he owns the place — and to be fair, he sort of does. At least in the way that someone completely comfortable in their skin tends to own any space they’re in. There’s only a white towel lazily knotted around his hips, the ends hanging loose over the side of his thigh like he couldn’t be bothered to care.
The room smells faintly of the stupidly expensive citrus soap he insists on bringing everywhere, and something sharper — nerves, maybe. Mine.
"So, hello to you too, loupin," Charles remarks, not even looking up from his phone.
It takes me an embarrassingly long second to realize I hadn't even said anything when I walked in — just started pacing circles into the carpet like some kind of over-caffeinated lab rat.
I stop mid-step, awkwardly. "Right. Hi."
Charles hums, low and amused, but doesn't press it. He knows when I'm two steps away from imploding.
I drag a hand through my hair, pulling at the damp roots. “He is going to kill me.”
Charles finally looks up. His expression is absurdly calm, like I’ve just told him I forgot to order dessert, not that I’ve just cost our boyfriend a Grand Prix victory — and the small matter of him taking back the championship lead.
“He’s not going to kill you,” Charles assures, setting his phone down with a gentle clack on the nightstand. “He’s not even angry.”
I snort, because sure. “Were you in the cool down room? At the podium? If that wasn’t Max angry, I don’t want to meet the real thing.”
Charles shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, towel dangerously close to losing the battle against gravity. He doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“He’s annoyed at the situation,” Charles explains, slow and deliberate, like he’s explaining tyre degradation to a six-year-old. “Not at you.”
Easy for him to say. He’s had a decade of Verstappen experience, and I’ve had — what — a year and a half of figuring out how not to get bulldozed by Max's moods?
“It’s different,” I argue, voice tighter than I want it to be. “It’s different when it's... me.”
Charles’s eyes soften slightly, that old, impossibly patient look he sometimes gives Max when he’s on one of his self-destructive spirals. Now it’s aimed at me, and I don’t know if I hate it or need it.
“Oscar.” He says my name like it’s something sturdy to hold onto. “He knows how to separate things. We all do. Racing is racing. Us...” His fingers twitch on the sheet, like he’s about to reach out but thinks better of it. “Us is different.”
The bed creaks softly when I sit on the edge, not quite touching him. The air is thick with all the things we’re not saying.
Charles and Max have been an us since they were fourteen, which is frankly ridiculous, because what the hell do you even know about love when you're fourteen? Apparently, in their case, enough to survive puberty, trying to kill each other in karting, and whatever twisted, beautiful mess they built between themselves before finally stabilizing somewhere around 2017.
Me? I stumbled into it sideways. Right after I'd signed the contract that was supposed to change my career forever — and ended up changing a few other things too. It started casually enough: a few stolen blowjobs, a handful of chaotic threesomes after races — and then somehow, against all odds and better judgment, something serious around the start of last season.
I still don’t know how I fit into their mythology. Some days it feels like I’m trying to learn a language they invented before I was even around.
Charles nudges me with his knee, a deliberate, grounding touch. “He loves you, Oscar.”
I shake my head, stubborn. “He’s going to think I took it from him. On purpose.”
Charles lets out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “You think Max Verstappen would still be in this bed if he thought you were that petty?”
The image flashes in my mind unbidden: Max, curled into Charles’s side like he does when he’s too tired to pretend he’s not human, grumbling but secretly content. Then me, somewhere on the edges, trying to find a space that doesn't feel like intruding.
I rub at the back of my neck, the pressure not doing much to ease the tight knot sitting between my shoulders. “I just... wish we’d had a second. After the race.”
Charles’s gaze sharpens slightly, reading between the lines with infuriating ease. “You mean before the podium. Before all the cameras.”
I shrug. It’s easier than admitting how badly I wanted just one look, one nod, one tiny reassurance that things were still okay between us.
“He needed a minute,” Charles says simply. “And you needed one too.”
Silence pools between us, heavy but not hostile.
Outside, the distant hum of Jeddah nightlife presses against the windows — cars passing, laughter, the faint pulse of music. Life going on, oblivious to my small personal apocalypse.
Charles shifts again, moving closer, until his knee brushes mine.
“You’re not him, you know,” he tells me softly. “You don’t have to handle things the way he would.”
The words land harder than I expect.
Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it? That I’ll never be able to meet them on their level. That I'm just a temporary distraction, a bright, fleeting thing they’ll one day outgrow.
Charles must see the panic flicker across my face, because he moves without hesitation, sitting up fully and catching my hand where it grips the sheets like a lifeline. His palm is warm, steady, the way it always is when the world inside my chest feels like it's caving in.
“You have to stop doing this,” he urges, voice low but unshakable, cutting through the noise in my head like it’s the easiest thing in the world. "Every time there’s a small crack on track — every time Max or I look tired, frustrated, or distant — you start convincing yourself you don’t belong here."
I want to look away, but Charles tightens his grip slightly, anchoring me.
“You do,” he states, unflinching . “You belong with us, Oscar. Not because it’s fun. Not because we like fucking you. Because we chose you. We keep choosing you.”
The words hit harder than anything that happened on track today.
Charles leans closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in the towel still knotted around his hips, the surety radiating off him like something tangible.
“You are not a guest in our life,” he murmurs, forehead almost brushing mine. “You are part of it. Part of us. You have been for longer than you let yourself believe.”
Something in my chest twists sharply — fear or relief, I can’t tell — but Charles doesn’t give me a chance to spiral.
“We fight. We screw up. We hurt each other sometimes,” he continues, his voice roughening at the edges. “And we stay. That’s how it works.”
I close my eyes against the sudden sting building behind them, too much emotion crammed into too small a space.
Charles shifts again, softer now, pressing a kiss to the back of my knuckles where his thumb still strokes absently over my hand.
“You’re not a distraction,” he vows against my skin. “You’re not a mistake. You are ours.”
He says it like it’s a simple truth, like gravity or breathing.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, shaky and uneven.
“I’m scared,” I admit, so quietly I’m not sure he hears it.
Charles smiles — not the polished, press-room smile, but the private one he saves for when it’s just us, when the whole world falls away and it’s only this. Only real things.
“Good,” he breathes. “It means it matters.”
Before I can answer, Charles leans in and kisses me. It’s not the reassuring brush of lips like I expect — it’s deeper, slower, a kiss that presses all the air out of my lungs and replaces it with something molten and dizzying. His mouth moves with that frustrating certainty he always has when he really means something, like he’s spelling it out for me in a language I’m still learning.
By the time he pulls back, my brain feels like it’s been unplugged and left to reboot somewhere under the bed.
I blink up at him, probably looking half-drunk on oxygen deprivation, and Charles has the audacity to smile like he doesn’t know exactly what he just did.
"Go shower, loupin," he says, voice low and amused. His hand traces a lazy circle over the back of my knuckles, an afterthought of affection. "We’ll wait for Max in bed."
I open my mouth to argue — about what, I don’t even know — but nothing coherent comes out.
Charles just grins wider, impossibly pleased with himself, and flops backward onto the pillows, arms spread like a prince waiting for his kingdom to come to him.
Somewhere in the reasonable part of my mind, I know I should move. Shower. Reset my brain.
Instead, I sit there for a second longer, memorizing the way he looks right now — towel loose, hair messy, eyes warm with something so stupidly soft it makes my chest ache.
Real things.
Finally, I shove myself up with a theatrical sigh that only makes Charles laugh under his breath.
If he’s gravity, I guess I’m still learning how to fall.
❤️💙🧡
The hotel door slams harder than I mean it to. The handle rattles under my hand. Whatever. It’s late, I’m wired, and the fucking elevator took a year to get here.
Inside, the lights are low. The room smells like soap, something citrusy clinging to the air. Familiar. Comforting. I blink once, twice. My pulse eases out of fight mode the second my eyes land on him.
Charles sprawled across the bed like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Towel low on his hips. Arms thrown wide. Legs spread just enough that it feels like an invitation.
I hum low in my throat, already moving. Drop my bag with a thud. Cross the carpet without looking away.
Charles doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance up from where he's scrolling through something on his phone. He knows me. Knows the way my hands twitch when I’m holding back.
I plant a knee on the mattress and let myself fall onto him, full weight. He grunts, amused, not surprised, one arm coming up automatically to catch me as I press in. My nose scrapes his throat. I inhale him. His skin's dry, warm, tastes faintly of salt and smugness.
“Mmm,” I hum against his neck, already grinding my hips against his, towel or no towel. “Best thing I’ve seen all night.”
Charles huffs a laugh, shifts under me. His thigh muscles tense and relax, welcoming the weight.
I mouth along his jaw, catch the corner of his pulse with my teeth. He lets me. Tips his chin up in offering. I can feel his smile even without seeing it.
“Where’s Oscar?” My voice is rough, dragging straight out of my chest.
Charles taps the phone against my shoulder, points lazily toward the corner of the room. I lift my head, annoyed at the idea of stopping, but curious.
There. Oscar. Standing stiff, awkward as hell, fidgeting with the hem of an oversized black T-shirt. Mine, obviously. His hair’s still damp, curling a little over his ears. Showered. Trying not to look at us.
I squint at him. “What the fuck are you doing over there while he’s—” I flick my hand at Charles, sprawled out like a goddamn feast, “—presented like this?”
Oscar looks like he’s been caught robbing a bank. Opens his mouth. Closes it again.
Charles snorts under me, all lazy affection.
I narrow my eyes, glance at Charles, and I get it. Instantly.
Oscar is worried. About the race. About me.
“Oz.” I stretch a hand toward him, palm open. “Come here.”
He doesn't move.
I push off Charles with a groan, rocking back on my knees. “Now I’m actually annoyed.”
Charles just grins, no help at all, stretching his arms behind his head so the towel slips even lower. Fucking tease.
I crawl across the bed on all fours, giving Oscar no chance to escape. He freezes, wide-eyed. The second I’m close enough, I grab him by the wrist and yank.
He doesn’t fight, just lets out this tiny sound — half laugh, half panic — as I haul him onto the bed, flat on his back between us.
Charles shifts to make space, but barely. His thigh stays pressed against Oscar’s, grounding him.
I straddle Oscar’s hips, pinning him lightly with my weight. His breathing stutters. His fingers dig into the sheets.
I don’t touch him yet. Just look. Take him in. His skin flushed from the shower, from nerves. The T-shirt riding high on his thighs, legs bare, lean and twitchy.
“What’s going on in that head, Oz?” My voice drops, steady now, focused.
Oscar swallows. His throat bobs. “I—” He falters. Licks his lips. His eyes flick toward Charles, pleading.
Charles just raises an eyebrow. Your mess to clean up, that look says.
Good. I lean down, close enough that Oscar can feel the heat rolling off me. My nose brushes his. His lashes flutter.
“Talk to me,” I mutter, the words rumbling low between us.
Oscar’s hands fist in the sheets again. He bites the inside of his cheek, like he's trying to swallow the words, like it physically hurts to say them.
“I ruined your race.”
There it is. Soft. Broken. Like he's admitting to murder.
I exhale hard through my nose. Feel my shoulders loosen.
“That’s it?” I ask, incredulous.
Oscar flinches. His whole body tightens under me, like he’s bracing for a hit.
Charles tuts softly from beside us, shifting so he can trace a lazy hand over Oscar’s shin.
I shake my head. Press my forehead to Oscar’s, quick and fierce. "You didn’t ruin anything."
Oscar’s breath hitches. I can feel it under my palms, where they’ve settled low on his ribs.
“You really think I’m mad ‘cause you got one over me?” I rasp, hands dragging slow over his waist, thumbs scraping bare skin under the hem of his shirt.
Oscar trembles. Doesn’t move away.
I lean in closer, nose brushing his cheek. “I’m pissed about the situation. Not you.”
He swallows again. I can hear it, the click of it in the quiet room.
Charles’s fingers keep moving, slow and steady, over Oscar’s leg. Reassuring.
“We race hard,” I continue, voice low and relentless. “We fight for every corner. Every tenth. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”
Oscar’s hands loosen slightly, sheet slipping from his fingers.
“You didn’t fuck me over. You raced me.” I bite down lightly on the curve of his jaw, just to make him feel it. Make it real. “If I can’t handle losing to you, then what the fuck am I even doing?”
He exhales, long and shaky.
I lift my head enough to meet his eyes properly. They’re wide, wet around the edges, but he’s trying to hold it together.
“Stop doing this to yourself, Oscar,” I say, the words coming harsher than I intend but not wrong. “Stop thinking we’re looking for reasons to push you out.”
His breath catches again. I press down a little more with my hips, grounding him, keeping him here.
“You’re part of this,” I say, digging it into him like a goddamn truth carved into stone. “You’re not some fucking guest.”
Oscar stares up at me, blinking fast.
Charles shifts closer, pressing his forehead briefly to Oscar’s temple. His hand settles on Oscar’s thigh, warm and steady.
“We chose you,” Charles murmurs, low and certain.
I nod once, sharp. “We keep choosing you.”
Oscar makes a small, broken sound. His hands lift, hesitant, and finally—finally—he touches me. Fingers brushing up my arms, finding my shoulders. Gripping.
I let him. Let him take. Let him anchor.
His chest rises and falls under me, shallow and fast. His eyes search mine like he’s looking for a trap, an edge, some place this breaks.
There isn’t one.
“You’re ours,” I tell him, plain and brutal.
Oscar’s hands tighten on me, pulling me closer. His mouth parts, desperate for something he can’t name.
I duck down and kiss him. Not soft. Not polite. I kiss him like he’s the win I actually wanted tonight.
Oscar gasps against me, opening up. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer still.
Charles laughs low under his breath, pleased, content, shifting to press against Oscar’s side.
Oscar melts between us. I can feel the moment he gives in. The tension drains out of him like someone cut the wire holding him up.
I pull back just enough to look at him. His face is flushed, mouth bruised from the kiss, eyes glassy with relief and want.
“You hear me?” I breathe, thumb dragging slow across his jaw.
Oscar nods, shaky but real.
Words are too much for him right now, and that’s fine. I don't need them. His body says everything.
I lift my head. Catch the way Charles is looking at me — all open, all heat, a challenge and an offer at once.
My mouth curves, instinct kicking in hard now. I move without thinking, hands braced on either side of Oscar’s head as I lean in to kiss Charles over him — a rough meeting of mouths, desperate, teeth scraping.
Charles groans into it, low and pleased, tilting his chin up to give me more.
Oscar shivers underneath us, hands sliding hesitantly up my ribs, like he’s clawing his way back into his own skin — still searching for something solid after all the doubts inside him.
Good. Let him find his way back.
I break the kiss, just barely, and feel Charles’s breath puff hot against my lips.
“Towel’s in my way,” I mutter, voice rough and wrecked.
Charles smirks, all sin and satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for me to notice.
I hook my fingers into the loose knot of terrycloth at his hip and tug — slow, deliberate, dragging it off him with no ceremony. The towel flutters to the floor, forgotten.
Charles doesn’t move to cover himself. Doesn't flinch or hide. He just lies there, naked and golden in the low light, like he was built for this.
For me.
For us.
I sit back on my heels, drinking him in for one long, heavy moment, then lean down and mouth along the line of his hipbone. His skin is hot under my tongue, taut with tension he doesn’t bother disguising.
Oscar makes a soft, broken sound beneath me — watching, wanting.
I tilt my head, let my mouth drift lower, brushing my lips over the base of Charles’s cock. He twitches under the touch, breath catching hard in his throat.
I hum, satisfied, and kiss the tip, slow and deliberate, just to hear Charles curse under his breath in that shredded French of his.
Oscar shifts beneath me again, no hesitation this time. His thighs press hard against mine, body sparking hot and sure between us.
Charles’s hand finds his hair, threading through it with a rough kind of tenderness — but Oscar doesn’t need guiding. He surges up, closing the last few inches, and catches Charles’s mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and heat and want.
And just like that, the anger, the frustration, the shitty podium, the cameras—it all falls away. None of it matters.
This. This is what matters.
❤️💙🧡
The moment Oscar kisses me over Max’s body, everything inside me tightens and softens at once. His mouth is soft but demanding, a low, desperate sound rumbling between us. It's the kind of kiss that drags me under, leaves no room for anything but them.
His hands clutch at my shoulders, grounding me, but my attention burns downward — to where Max is already between my legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the head of my cock, slow enough to make my whole body jolt.
I moan into Oscar’s mouth, hips jerking up before I can stop them, chasing the pleasure I know Max’s sinful mouth can give.
Max hums low in his throat, almost approving, before wrapping his lips around me — slow, ruthless, teasing with the slick flick of his tongue.
Oscar swallows my next gasp with another kiss, deeper this time, need bleeding into every sharp edge between us.
I thread one hand into Oscar’s hair blindly, the other sliding down to Max’s shoulder, anchoring myself between them, heart pounding loud in my ears.
Max releases me with a wet sound, breath hot against my skin. His hand slides up without hesitation, wrapping around the back of Oscar’s neck and tugging him away from my mouth — not harsh, but with the kind of easy ownership that makes my whole body ache.
Oscar laughs against my jaw, breathless and wrecked, and lets Max pull his T-shirt up and off, baring flushed skin and the lean, hungry lines of his body.
Clothes fall away fast after that. Max makes quick work of his own, shoving jeans and briefs down with little patience, kicking them off somewhere behind him. Oscar follows, stripping down with a wicked grin, not even trying to be coy.
The air goes thick with heat, sweat already starting to bead along my spine. The low lighting paints their skin gold, slick, unbearably beautiful.
Above me, Max and Oscar share a look — a silent conversation made of heat and certainty. I watch it unfold from below, pinned by it, helpless to do anything but feel it ripple through my chest like a second heartbeat.
Max’s mouth curves into something sharp and sure. Oscar flashes a grin, cocky and flushed, completely recovered from his earlier spiral and now riding a high so pure it’s almost dizzying to look at.
"He dragged that piece-of-shit car onto the podium," Max rumbles, voice low and rough with pride. "He deserves a real reward for it."
Oscar’s grin sharpens, wicked and knowing. He slides a hand down my stomach in a slow, teasing stroke, fingertips barely grazing my skin.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice rough with heat. "He deserves all of it."
Then, without hesitation, Oscar leans closer, his breath warm against Max’s jaw — like he’s offering a secret too good to keep.
"He fucks me," Oscar murmurs, slow and deliberate, each word sinking into the heavy air between us, "and you fuck him at the same time."
For half a second, there’s silence. Just the thud of my heart pounding in my ears.
Max doesn’t even pretend to think twice. His grin goes sharp, feral, a flash of white teeth and hunger.
“Perfect. Get to work.”
Oscar moves instantly, slipping off my hips with a fluid, almost greedy motion. He reaches for the nightstand, knocking over a bottle of water in his rush. His fingers close around the lube, and he flashes me a wicked, flushed smile — as if he’s already picturing exactly how this is going to end.
I stay where I am, flat on my back, muscles tense under my skin, heart hammering. I want this. I want them .
Oscar slicks his fingers quickly, spreading the lube thick between them. Then he kneels between my legs, pushing them apart with confident, gentle hands. I let him, opening for him without hesitation, feeling the air kiss over my exposed skin.
His touch starts soft — the first slick press of two fingers against my hole makes my breath catch — but there’s nothing hesitant about the way he pushes in.
I groan, hips rolling helplessly as he sinks deep, curling his fingers in a way that has me clenching around him instinctively.
"Putain," I mutter under my breath, the word ripped out of me.
Oscar laughs, low and pleased, shifting closer, his fingers move slow at first — scissoring gently, opening me up — but he doesn’t stay gentle for long. He presses deeper, working a third finger in with careful force, stretching me in a way that sends a sharp, sweet burn up my spine.
I grit my teeth against a broken moan, my body trembling under the push-pull of pleasure and aching stretch.
He crooks his fingers again, hitting the spot inside me that makes my vision pulse at the edges. My hips jerk up without permission, chasing the sensation, chasing him.
"You’re doing so good," Oscar murmurs, thumb stroking soothingly over my thigh even as he drives his fingers deeper. "Fucking perfect, Charles."
And before I can catch my breath, Max moves behind him.
I push up onto my elbows, right on time to see Max’s broad hands gripping Oscar’s ass and spreading him open like he owns him. Oscar shudders above me, still working his fingers inside me, but his body goes pliant the second Max touches him — like he’s been waiting for it.
Max doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t ask, doesn’t hesitate. He leans in, mouth hot and open against Oscar’s exposed skin, licking a long, filthy stripe up between his cheeks.
Oscar gasps, his whole body jerking above me. His fingers stutter inside me, just for a second, before he regains focus, groaning low and wrecked.
Max hums against him, the sound almost pleased, and then starts working in earnest — slow at first, tongue tracing lazy, wet circles around Oscar’s hole, then sharper, more demanding.
The wet sounds of it fill the room, obscene and perfect.
Oscar’s thighs tremble where he kneels between mine, muscles twitching with every slow, filthy lap of Max’s tongue. His head bows low, forehead brushing my stomach, breath ragged and hot against my skin.
"Fuck," Oscar pants, still moving his fingers inside me, still trying to focus through the way Max is ruining him with nothing but his mouth.
I reach forward blindly, threading my fingers through Oscar’s hair, grounding both of us as the pleasure climbs higher, hotter, harder to control.
Max presses his tongue deeper, relentless, fucking Oscar open with slick, filthy precision. Every time Max’s tongue thrusts inside him, Oscar’s fingers drive deeper into me — a shared rhythm that leaves me gasping, squirming, desperate.
The scent of sex fills the air — lube, sweat, the raw salt of skin — thick enough to taste.
Oscar whimpers against my stomach, hips rolling back into Max's mouth, forward into the hand I still have tangled in his hair, caught between two hungers and giving in to both.
"Jesus, Max," he gasps, wrecked and shaking. "You’re—fuck—"
Max cuts him off with a rough, possessive growl against his skin, tongue fucking harder, sharper, leaving Oscar babbling helpless nonsense against my stomach.
And through it all, Oscar keeps working me open — merciless and tender all at once. His fingers stretch and scissor inside me, curling at just the right angle to make me grind up against him, my cock leaking against my stomach, near his face, untouched and throbbing.
I can feel it building already — the tension coiling tighter with every obscene, slick sound, every desperate shudder of Oscar’s body against mine.
Max finally pulls back with a wet, satisfied sound, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blown wide and wild.
"That's enough," Max mutters, voice low and rough with authority. "Get on your back, Oz."
Oscar whines again, still trembling, still breathing hard, but he obeys instantly.
He pulls his fingers from me with a wet, filthy squelch that leaves me gasping and aching for more. My body clenches around the sudden emptiness, a broken sound escaping my throat.
Oscar drops back against the mattress, legs falling open without shame, without hesitation, exposing himself for us, flushed and wrecked and perfect. He grabs a pillow blindly, shoving it under his hips to tilt himself up, offering even more, like he can’t wait to be taken apart.
Max hand wraps firm around my bicep, hauling me upright with rough, possessive strength. I stumble onto my knees between Oscar’s thighs, dizzy with the loss of contact and the way my cock aches, slick and weeping against my stomach.
"Come on," Max mutters, almost under his breath — not impatient, but demanding, focused.
He slicks his hand with more lube, reaching between us. His fingers wrap around my cock, stroking quick and sure, smearing lube thickly over the flushed, desperate length of me.
I shudder under the touch, breath catching in my chest.
Oscar watches me through heavy-lidded eyes, chest heaving, arms sprawled loose above his head. His legs shift wider, heels digging into the sheets like he’s bracing himself.
Max steadies me with one broad hand at my hip, the other guiding the head of my cock to Oscar’s entrance.
"Go on," Max murmurs, voice low and rough in my ear. "Take him, Lo."
The words hit harder than anything else tonight.
I brace my hands on either side of Oscar’s hips, heart hammering, muscles tight with the effort not to just plunge into him all at once.
I press forward slowly, carefully, the thick head of my cock catching against him for a heartbeat — and then giving way.
Oscar gasps, his whole body flinching and then relaxing in a slow, broken wave.
I slide in a few centimeters at a time, hips trembling with restraint, feeling every relentless inch as he stretches around me, tight and perfect and so fucking good it scrapes a groan straight from my throat.
Oscar’s hands find my shoulders, gripping hard, nails biting into my skin. His head tips back against the mattress, throat bared, breath shuddering out of him in helpless little whines.
Max's hand never leaves my hip — a steady pressure, anchoring me, reminding me he's there, watching, waiting.
I push deeper, burying myself inside Oscar inch by inch, until I’m fully seated, hips flush against his ass, our bodies locked together in the thick, heady heat of it.
I don’t move yet.
I just stay there, trembling, overwhelmed, feeling Oscar pulse and clench around me, feeling Max’s steady, possessive grip keeping me grounded.
The sensation is almost too much — the tight, slick pull of Oscar’s body around mine, the heat of Max’s body crowding behind me, the weight of it, the way we all fit together like something inevitable.
I drop my forehead against Oscar’s collarbone, breathing hard, barely holding on.
This — this slow, burning stretch, this overwhelming fullness, this impossible closeness — it’s everything.
❤️💙🧡
Oscar shifts under Charles like he’s inviting more, wrapping both legs tight around his waist, pulling him deeper, locking him in.
Charles groans low, his spine bowing slightly with the new angle, the movement pressing him even harder inside Oscar. The sound Oscar makes — not a full moan, more a desperate little gasp — sparks something mean and proud in my chest.
Perfect. Exactly where I want them.
I move closer, my knees bracketing Charles’s thighs, hand sliding down to guide myself, cock slick and aching. I line up, take a second to breathe them both in — the sight, the sounds, the heat.
Charles leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of Oscar’s head. His back curves into a long, clean line, muscles tight and trembling. His ass tips back toward me, open and ready.
I press forward, slow but firm, feeling the resistance of him — the give, the tension — until the blunt head of my cock catches against his hole. Charles lets out a slow, shaky breath, weight sinking a little lower over Oscar, inviting me in without a word.
I push in one smooth thrust, steady and deep, hips rolling forward until I’m buried inside him, the heat of him clutching tight around me.
Charles shudders under the pressure, head dropping low against Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar’s arms wrap around him instantly, hands dragging over Charles’s back, his hair, grounding him.
I pause there for a beat, just breathing, feeling everything at once — the squeeze of Charles around me, the slick heat of Oscar under him, the way the whole bed shudders with each ragged breath they pull in.
Then I pull back, just an inch, and thrust forward again, a little harder.
Charles jolts, hips punching deeper into Oscar, driving another raw noise out of him.
Oscar’s fingers claw into Charles’s shoulders, his thighs tightening around Charles’s waist, locking him in place as Charles rocks into him, forced to take the rhythm I set from behind.
I grip Charles’s hips hard enough to bruise, anchoring him between us, and start to move — steady, deliberate thrusts that ripple through his whole body and into Oscar’s.
It’s filthy. It’s perfect.
Every time I drive forward into Charles, he’s pushed deeper into Oscar. Every sound they make — every helpless groan, every stuttering gasp — is a direct reaction to my body hammering into them.
Oscar’s mouth falls open on a choked-off cry, his hands scrabbling against Charles’s back, hips bucking up to meet the thrusts as best he can pinned under both of us.
“Fuck, Charles—” Oscar gasps, voice breaking around the edges, “—don’t stop.”
Charles shivers, his whole body vibrating between us, every inch of him caught between needing to move and needing to surrender.
I lean forward, chest slick against Charles’s back, breath hot against the curve of his neck.
“Keep him open for me,” I mutter into his skin, biting down lightly just below his ear. “Want to see him take it all.”
Charles groans, wrecked, hips grinding harder against Oscar, working him open with desperate, messy thrusts.
Oscar whines, thighs trembling where they’re locked around Charles, his whole body straining toward every filthy, relentless movement.
I snap my hips forward again, sharper this time, forcing Charles to bottom out inside Oscar with a rough, brutal slide.
Oscar cries out, not in pain — in pure, shuddering pleasure — his back arching off the bed, eyes squeezed tight, mouth open and wrecked.
I grin against Charles’s neck, teeth scraping over sweat-slick skin.
“Good boy,” I growl, low and rough, feeling Charles clench around me at the praise, feeling Oscar’s thighs clamp tighter around Charles’s waist.
The bed creaks under us, headboard rattling lightly against the wall, the room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of bodies slamming together — skin on skin, breath against breath, the lube-slick friction of cock and heat and muscle.
Charles tries to set his own pace, hips jerking forward in short, frantic thrusts, but I keep control — every push from me dragging a matching thrust out of him, making him fuck Oscar harder, deeper.
Oscar’s hands are everywhere — on Charles’s back, clutching at his hair, sliding down to dig into my arms where I wrap around them both, needing contact, needing to be tethered while he’s wrecked open from both ends.
His cock leaks against his stomach, untouched but twitching with every brutal grind of Charles inside him.
"Fuck—" Oscar gasps again, voice shredded thin, "—fuck, fuck, I’m—"
I reach down between them without thinking, curling my fingers around Oscar’s cock, slick and desperate.
He almost comes right there, his whole body jerking like I lit him up from the inside, a raw, broken moan tearing out of his throat.
“Not yet,” I snap, tightening my grip just enough to hold him on the edge. “Take it.”
Oscar whimpers, shuddering, his body spasming between us.
Charles presses his forehead to Oscar’s, murmuring something too soft for me to hear, but whatever it is, it steadies Oscar — or at least holds him together for another few thrusts.
I bite down harder on Charles’s shoulder, hips slamming forward with more force, fucking into him, through him, using his body to wreck Oscar over and over.
Sweat drips down my temple, my back, my thighs trembling from the effort of holding everything together.
But I can feel it — the way Charles’s body clamps around me, the way Oscar tightens around Charles — we’re all fucking close, riding the edge like it's the only thing keeping us alive.
I slide my hand faster over Oscar’s cock, twisting my wrist just enough to make him thrash under us, hips grinding up into Charles’s desperate, relentless thrusts.
"Max—" Charles chokes out, voice rough, desperate.
I slam forward again, snapping his hips into Oscar’s with bruising force.
Oscar breaks apart first — a guttural cry ripped out of him as he comes hard between us, his whole body convulsing, muscles clamping down around Charles’s cock so tight that Charles shudders violently, throwing his head back with a raw, helpless groan.
He follows seconds later, spilling into Oscar, hips jerking, grinding helplessly as he rides out the aftershocks, body shaking against both of us.
The way Charles tightens around me, the feel of him coming undone while still stretched tight around my cock, is enough to rip the orgasm out of me too — brutal, overwhelming, snapping through my spine like a live wire.
I drive forward once, twice, then bury myself as deep as I can go and come with a guttural, wrecked noise against Charles’s neck, spilling inside him, body locked tight with the force of it.
We collapse in a tangled heap, breathing hard, skin sticky and slick, hearts hammering against each other like fists against locked doors.
Charles slumps forward onto Oscar, boneless and trembling. I half-slide down with him, arms still wrapped around both of them, not willing to let go yet.
Oscar's body shudders under us, still shaking. When I glance down past Charles’s shoulder, he’s looking right at me — flushed, sweaty, smiling like he just survived something bigger than he knows how to name.
He licks his lips, breath still coming short, and tilts his head up, just enough to catch my eye properly. His voice is rough, barely a whisper.
"Kiss me."
The words crack something open inside my chest, clean and brutal.
I don't hesitate. I shift my weight forward, dragging Charles tighter between us, and lean down until I can catch Oscar’s mouth properly.
I press my lips to his — rough at first, breath still ragged in my chest — and Oscar opens for me like he’s been waiting.
His mouth is hot and slick, tasting of sweat, salt, something raw and real that punches straight through me. I lick into him, slow and deep, pushing past the shudder that racks his body when I take control of the kiss.
Oscar moans low in his throat, hips shifting uselessly under Charles’s weight, like he doesn’t know what to do with the way he’s still pinned and kissed at once.
I bite lightly at his bottom lip, catching it between my teeth until he gasps, then chase the sound back into his mouth, kissing him harder.
His fingers claw weakly at my hair, grounding himself, pulling me closer.
I don’t let him pull me too far. I keep the kiss slow, grinding, possessive — make him feel every second of it, make him feel exactly who he belongs to.
By the time I finally pull back, Oscar’s eyes are glassy and wrecked, his mouth red and swollen, chest heaving like I just dragged the air out of him along with everything else.
❤️💙🧡
Max keeps kissing me like he’s trying to pry open every locked door inside my body. It’s a lot. Good — but a lot.
I squirm a little under Charles, not exactly protesting but starting to feel the unavoidable consequences of being flattened under a sex pile. There’s heat everywhere — Max’s mouth, Charles’s weight, the heavy pulse still dragging through my body.
Charles is completely dead to the world, breathing slow and damp against my collarbone.
I shift my head back a little, trying to catch a decent breath without jolting him. Max must feel it, or maybe he just reads minds now, because the next kiss he gives me is slower — almost chaste — like he’s giving me a minute to resurface.
His arms brace on either side of me as he pulls out of Charles, careful but not slow enough to be cruel. Charles lets out this tiny, wrecked moan against my skin, more reflex than anything. I feel the sound vibrate through both our chests.
The second Max’s cock slips free, he doesn’t move away. Of course he doesn’t.
I watch, dazed, shifting my head just enough to get a better view as he leans down — no hesitation — and licks into the mess leaking out of Charles, filthy and possessive and completely unbothered by how obscene it is.
My dick twitches pathetically under Charles.
Max drags his tongue along the sensitive, slicked seam of Charles’s hole, licking him clean with slow, thorough sweeps. His hands are firm on Charles’s hips, holding him open. His lips glisten when he lifts his head, satisfaction stamped all over his face.
I can’t stop the moan that rips out of me. Loud. Shameless.
Max’s eyes flick to mine, dark and pleased.
"Come here," I rasp, because subtlety died about three orgasms ago.
He crawls up without argument, mouth still sticky and gleaming. I lift my chin and he catches my mouth in a kiss that tastes like salt and heat and us. It should be too much, but it’s not. It’s perfect.
When Max finally pulls back, he drops sideways onto the bed with a grunt, rolling onto his back like someone unplugged him. Charles doesn’t even twitch, still melted over my chest like he’s part of me.
Max turns his head, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
"You alive?" he mutters, knuckles brushing my cheek.
I blink at him, brain slow to catch up. "Barely. Can’t feel my legs."
Max laughs, low and satisfied, before leaning up slightly. Carefully, with way more tenderness than his filthy mouth ever suggests, he reaches down and gently — very gently — slips Charles’s soft cock out of me.
I groan under my breath at the feeling, a weird, empty ache, and Charles murmurs something incoherent into my skin.
Max shifts Charles off me without asking, pulling him against his own chest instead. The sudden loss of Charles’s weight leaves a cold patch on my skin, but it fades fast when I see the way he melts into Max — easy, trusting, like he’s right where he’s supposed to be.
I stretch my legs out finally, wincing a little as my muscles try to remember what basic function is. I tug the pillow out from under my hips and toss it aside. That’s when Max sees it — the slow, sticky drip of come leaking out of me, thick and messy, slipping free in a slow, obscene trickle.
Max groans low in his throat, like it physically pains him how much he likes the sight.
I don’t even think about it. I reach down, dip two fingers into the mess, and offer them to him.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t blink. He leans in and licks my fingers clean, slow and thorough, tongue dragging over my knuckles like he’s starved.
I shake my head, dry amusement threading through the lazy afterglow.
"One day," I mutter, letting my hand fall back to the bed, "they’re gonna have to do a clinical study on your obsession with eating our come."
Max just shrugs, completely unbothered, still licking the last of it from the corner of his mouth.
"Don’t need a study," he says, settling back against the pillows. "Tastes like winning."
I snort and roll onto my side, inching closer until I can wedge myself against the warm line of his body. Max lifts his arm automatically, making space for me.
Charles is a heavy, boneless weight between us, one arm slung across my stomach like he forgot how to have personal boundaries — not that I’m complaining.
We lie there like that for a while, the room humming with the sound of our breathing, the quiet aftermath sinking into the sheets.
The kind of silence that isn’t empty.
I trace random patterns over Charles’s back, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his breaths.
The guilt slips in quietly, the way it always does.
"I'm sorry," I mumble into the space between us.
Max's fingers tighten briefly around my shoulder, not painful but sharp enough to get my attention.
"For what?"
I swallow, heat prickling up the back of my neck.
"For earlier. For—" I break off, frustrated with myself. "For being a headcase when it's about racing. About you. About... this."
Max is quiet for a second. Then he shifts, angling his head down to meet my eyes properly. His gaze is steady. Sharp. But not unkind.
"It’s not nothing," he says, voice low but certain. "But I get it."
I blink at him, something tight and stupid catching low in my throat.
Max exhales through his nose, like the words cost him something, but he doesn’t stop.
"You walked into something that already had roots. Deep ones. Me and Charles—" he hitches his chin toward Charles, "—we had years. You had to jump into the middle of it and find space."
He pauses, scanning my face like he’s checking if I’m still breathing.
"And we tried. We made space. Every way we knew how. You know that, yeah?"
I nod, throat thick.
"But you..." Max trails off, then shrugs. "You keep forgetting you're not an outsider. You never were. You’re part of it. You have been since the first night."
He pauses, then flicks a finger lightly against my forehead — a mock-annoyed tap, his touch stupidly careful in a way he probably doesn’t even notice.
"At this point," he mutters, low and rough, "you’re just making a fool of yourself, Aussie. When you doubt us. When you doubt your place."
I let out a shaky laugh that feels too close to a sob, dropping my forehead against Charles’s shoulder.
"Yeah," I murmur. "I know."
Charles stirs against us, lifting his head just enough to squint at Max through heavy-lidded eyes.
"Be nice, mon petit lion," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and affection.
Max snorts. "I am nice. This is me being nice."
Charles hums, unconvinced, and burrows his face back against Max’s throat.
I glance up, catch Max's expression — this stupid, helpless tenderness he's not even trying to hide.
And somehow, right there, pinned between their bodies, all the stupid fear I've been dragging around clicks into something quieter. Something that fits.
Something that feels like home.
I sigh, a soft, content thing, and let myself go heavy against them both, closing my eyes.
The night hums on outside the windows. Life keeps moving. But here, for once, everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.
And maybe I’m exactly who I’m supposed to be, too.