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Kimi can’t stop thinking about it.
It’s just so dumb. So categorically stupid, completely fucking inane. But the thought keeps rattling around his head anyway, bouncing off the walls of his skull, driving him crazy while he’s strapped into the sim trying not to crash in Turn 1.
He stays up late to mull over it, tossing and turning. Pretends to nap all through his flight so he can ruminate some more. Fakes a bad case of jetlag when they arrive, yawning loudly and exaggeratedly as he heads straight for his hotel suite. Ignores George’s teasing about how it’s a one hour time difference and kids these days and is he sure there’s not somebody waiting for him in his room?
In fact, Kimi’s so distracted that he forgets entirely about the media meeting until he’s already supposed to be in it, and ends up having to sprint halfway across the paddock towards Mercedes hospitality. He skitters through the door five minutes late, panting, breathless and scarlet in the face.
His press officer fusses. Sergi claps him on the shoulder, looking concerned. George laughs at him. And Kimi tells himself, that’s it.
After free practice, he stops by Haas.
It’s not, like, weird. Kimi visits the Haas motorhome all the time. Because, you know, he enjoys talking to Esteban. Practicing his French.
The staff have started waving when they see him, letting him in without even questioning his presence. Kimi slips through the front door easily, waving back, before he turns and heads deeper into the ground floor.
He knows the driver rooms are near the back, hidden around the corner from the pantry. In case of rabid fans, maybe. Esteban’s door is closed, the faint beat of an old Avicii song filtering through the thin walls.
Ollie’s is ajar, which usually means he isn’t in. But today the gap is just wide enough for Kimi to spot a socked foot hanging off the couch arm.
Before he can second guess himself, he reaches out and pushes the door open.
“What the fuck did you mean?”
Ollie glances up. He’s sprawled languidly across the couch, long limbs draped over the cushions. Earbuds tucked in, his head pillowed comfortably against the other end of the couch, the hem of his Haas shirt nudged up to reveal a sliver of smooth tanned muscle.
His hair’s still damp from his post practice shower, dangling loosely over his forehead. Dark chocolate eyes round and glimmering. His cool citrus scent practically dripping off his skin, like chilled chinotto on a warm summer’s day.
He looks annoyingly good.
And not in the least bit surprised to see Kimi.
Kimi’s never hated him more.
“Should I ask how you got in?” Ollie says, amused.
“Your team loves me,” Kimi answers haughtily. “It is not my fault. Now answer my question.”
Ollie sits up, tossing his earbuds onto the little side table he’s got tucked up against the wall. Regrettably, the fabric of his shirt slips down to cover his stomach. Kimi huffs, weirdly petulant about it.
“Would help if you asked it properly,” Ollie points out cheerfully. He swings his ridiculously long legs onto the ground and pats the seat beside him. “What the fuck did I mean when?”
“You know when,” Kimi hisses, plopping down onto the couch somewhat begrudgingly.
Ollie merely blinks at him. All cute and innocent, like a dewy-eyed puppy trying to pretend he hasn’t just chewed multiple holes into his owner’s Air Jordans. “Remind me again?”
Kimi grits his teeth so hard he swears he hears a crack in his jaw.
It’d been a week ago. Maybe two. They were celebrating George’s podium in Singapore, Kimi’s P5, Ollie’s points. Lando had started pouring tequila down everybody’s throats, which mostly seemed like an excuse for him to crawl into Oscar’s lap and act drunker than he actually was. Gabi and Nico were making out in a corner by midnight. Isack was passed out across a table by early morning.
The whole thing had been a borderline fever dream. It was unbearably hot, he was inconceivably sweaty and beginning to wonder how much of the country’s GDP was spent on airconditioning, and at some point in the night Ollie had been completely sloshed off his gourd and he’d turned to Kimi and asked, “What does slicking up feel like?”
Kimi had squinted at him. Considered the question carefully, his brain all slow and foggy.
“Well, like you’re taking a shower, but upside down,” he’d answered, and Ollie had nodded seriously, as though Kimi had just imparted some erudite, sagely kernel of wisdom he would henceforth treasure forevermore.
Chewing on his lower lip, Kimi had looked at him and realized, perhaps for the first time in his young life, that Ollie was an alpha. And therefore, moderately capable of providing some closure to the relentless inquiry Kimi had been secretly nursing since he’d presented back in Prema.
It was just morbid curiosity. Perhaps a consequence of the tequila. Or a sudden bout of temporary insanity.
“So what does popping a knot inside someone feel like?”
Ollie had frowned at that. “I don’t know,” he’d admitted, his voice hushed. “I’ve never done it.”
And Kimi had scoffed back, righteously doubtful. “There’s no way you’ve never knotted anyone. You’ve had, like, a thousand rut partners. And two exes.”
Both of whom had been omegas. It simply didn’t make sense, Kimi had reasoned. Ollie was tall and well-built and handsome and kind and respectful and sweet and it just didn’t make sense, that nobody ever asked him to, that nobody would have begged him to knot them.
“It’s true,” Ollie had protested, but Kimi wouldn’t believe it. He’d been stubborn, he’d kept pushing. Refusing to quit until he got his answer.
More fool him.
No one’s ever, like, taken it all, Ollie had told him awkwardly, and there it was. That twisted, mildly insane part of Kimi; the ruthless devil on his shoulder whispering in his ear that he doesn’t have to pit, just one more lap, his tyres will hold out, just one more—
He’d thought, challenge accepted.
“You said,” Kimi says, determinedly. “That no one’s ever taken it all before.”
“Yes.” Ollie drags the single syllable out, arching his eyebrows so high they’re starting to vanish behind his stupid perfect boy band bangs. He’s smirking a little. “Are you really still thinking about it?”
Kimi glares at him. Viciously. “It just seems,” he begins, then has to pause and sift through his mental vocabulary. “What is the word for it in English… not that likely?”
“Improbable,” Ollie supplies helpfully. “Absurd. Preposterous.”
“Unlikely,” Kimi snaps.
He isn’t sure why he’s so tense, his body fraught with the stress of it all. It’s possible that he really has been thinking about this too much. Perhaps he should see a shrink. Or an exorcist.
“Why?” Ollie sounds genuinely curious about it. He cocks his head, watching Kimi intently.
“You can’t be.” Kimi clears his throat. Fights to force the words out. “That. Big.”
Ollie bursts into laughter, because he’s an actual fucking psychopath. At least he has the good sense to quieten under the force of Kimi’s scowl, though his eyes still glitter with that irritating sheen of amusement.
“And you would know?”
“Yes,” Kimi responds archly. “Because I have actually been knotted before. And nobody has ever been too big.”
Instantly, Ollie’s eyes go flat like a soda that’s been left out for too long, his lips thinning into a tight line. He doesn’t look quite so entertained anymore. Kimi tries not to feel too triumphant about it.
“Fine,” Ollie concedes, voice slightly strained around the edges. “Then maybe all the omegas were just too small.”
Then, a little cattily, “Like you.”
Oh, he did not just.
Kimi’s jaw drops nearly all the way to the carpeted floor. To his credit, Ollie seems to realize his mistake not three seconds after he makes it, wincing as he eyes Kimi warily.
“Okay, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Show me,” Kimi insists, and watches Ollie’s entire face go slack, his features softening in surprise. “I refuse to believe it. You are just, you alphas and your egos. Thinking I am too small to take you, show me, then. Prove it.”
“Kimi,” Ollie says carefully, like he’s half expecting a nuclear bomb to fall on his head every time he makes any sort of sound. “Look. I’m not kidding. You are too small to take me. Everyone I’ve been with says that I’m too much, it hurts them—”
Kimi slides off the couch and onto his knees. Abruptly, Ollie shuts his mouth so quickly Kimi’s shocked he doesn’t wind up biting himself through his stupid tongue.
“You’re doing a lot of talking and not enough showing,” Kimi huffs, resting his palms on either side of Ollie’s thighs. “I said let me see, Oliver.”
Ollie releases a sharp breath, his bangs fluttering gently from the rush of air. He still looks vaguely shell-shocked, his eyes blown wide, gaze nearly superglued to Kimi’s face.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even inhale, and Kimi idly wonders how he’s going to explain to Haas that their star rookie has apparently malfunctioned himself into asphyxiation a mere day before quali.
“Fuck, fine,” Ollie mutters, finally. His voice is low, rough and gravelly, as though he’s swallowed a mouthful of sand. “You win.”
And it’s insane. The instantaneous effect those two simple words have on Kimi, the shiver that coils up his spine, the lava-like heat pooling the pit of his stomach.
He loves winning, loves feeling the thrill and the adrenaline of victory, bloodwarm in his veins. Everyone does, none of them would be here in Formula 1 if they didn’t, but.
Winning over Ollie tastes inordinately sweet. Like stracciatella gelato dripping down his wrists. Surrender in a waffle cone.
It’s a bit like he’s reliving that fever dream, that hellscape in Singapore. Reaching for the fly of Ollie’s jeans, undoing the button quickly, slipping his fingers beneath the fabric. Overwhelmed by the sudden need to touch, to feel, to find out exactly why Ollie had looked so abashed when he’d told Kimi that no one had ever taken it all.
Ollie’s half hard already when Kimi brushes against the material of his briefs, and it sends a flush of warmth spiraling through Kimi’s ribcage, that faint sensation of pride buzzing under his skin.
“Doesn’t seem that big,” Kimi murmurs, just to tease, and Ollie makes a sound like a choked off laugh, his hands twitching where they’re pressed flat into the couch cushions.
Then Kimi tugs the cotton down, and.
Oh.
It’s.
“Are you knotting?” Kimi demands, because there’s simply no way. There’s no way on this entire godforsaken Earth.
And if there were, how the fuck could it be with Ollie fucking Bearman? As if he needed it. Like he wasn’t perfect enough to begin with.
“Uh, no?” Ollie answers, awkwardly. “That’s just. The way it normally is.”
Briefly, Kimi contemplates getting up, walking out of Haas hospitality, and locating a suitable solid surface nearby on which he might sprint headfirst into hard enough to give himself amnesia.
“How does it,” Kimi says, trying not to sound like he’s being bodily throttled by his own ambition. “Go in?”
“With an hour of prep and like three orgasms first, Jesus fuck, Kimi, would you please stop staring?”
Ollie’s cheeks are flushed pink, his scent shifting faintly sour and tangy, belying his emotions despite his steady tone. Embarrassment. Fear. Something strangely close to shame.
Kimi frowns, finding himself mildly irritated about it. Sure, it’d caught him off guard. But that’s hardly Ollie’s fault?
So he has a big dick. So his knot is nearly the same size as two of Kimi’s knuckles and it hasn’t even swelled up yet. He shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.
Especially when everybody else had clearly been quitters. Kimi’s not a damn quitter.
“No,” he says, stubbornly, and then he wraps his hand around Ollie’s cock.
Well, half of it. His fingers are so far apart that Kimi has to stop and stare at the visible gap between his index and thumb. Slowly brings his other hand up to cover the distance. Feels the way Ollie pulses under his touch.
It’s, like. Kind of hot.
Just the fact that—it’s huge. Bigger than Kimi’s, bigger than any of the toys he’s used during his heats. Thick and long and leaking shiny liquid at the tip, silky smooth, now fully hard as Kimi tugs experimentally at it. The friction makes Ollie hiss, that insane knot at the base starting to puff up, the entire length of him tinged a dark angry red.
Okay, so it’s actually very hot.
Kimi’s hardly a stranger to hooking up with alphas. But none of them had ever tilted their head back like Ollie is, baring the delicate arch of his throat. None of them kept their hands wound so tight into their shirt that the fabric’s on the verge of ripping. None of them had looked so fucking wrecked, just from Kimi touching them.
“Has anyone ever taken you all here?” Kimi taps his own lips, and Ollie’s pupils are so dark, so dilated they’re coloring in the circumference of his irises.
“No. Gag reflex kicks in,” Ollie murmurs, sounding strangled. “Kimi, you don’t have to—“
Kimi leans forward and licks tentatively at the tip of Ollie’s dick, tasting the salt on his tongue.
Ollie’s voice cuts itself off into a low groan, cock jerking in Kimi’s grip. Emboldened, Kimi laves a wet stripe up the thick vein along the underside before closing his fist tight around the base and taking Ollie into his mouth.
He doesn’t get very far, throat closing up only halfway down the length of it, but Ollie’s already groaning into his fist, thighs practically trembling from the effort of keeping still. Cute.
Briefly, Kimi imagines him giving in. His fingers sliding into Kimi’s curls, hips helplessly canting upwards. He wouldn’t be rough, Kimi thinks, even at the very limits of his self-restraint. Ollie’s not like that.
No, he’d fuck Kimi’s throat smooth and slow, thumb stroking his temple, guiding his head down. Coaxing Kimi to take it. He would feed Kimi his cock, watching through half-lidded eyes, the faintest hint of a smug smile on the corners of his lips. His knot swelling up, snagging tight inside Kimi’s mouth on every downstroke.
Suddenly galvanized, Kimi hollows his cheeks and sucks, letting another few inches slip deeper in until the pressure at the back of his throat forces him to pull off, coughing a little. “Shit,” he mutters, hoarse, jaw aching. “Almost got it.”
“You really, really,” Ollie manages. He’s not quite as suave as he is in Kimi’s misbegotten daydreams, but there’s something oddly attractive about the way he’s staring at Kimi, stunned, veritably dumbfounded, chocolate brown eyes glassy and dazed.
He looks pretty, Kimi decides. That’s it. He wears his blush so well, fair skin tinted rosy pink all the way up to his ears. The strong muscles in his neck straining taut, his lower lip raw and red from how hard he’s been biting into it.
“Really don’t have to do this,” Ollie completes the sentence finally, something vaguely Sisyphean about it, and Kimi scowls up at him.
“Merda, Oliver, it’s like you don’t even want a blowjob?”
“Didn’t say that,” Ollie says, too quickly, flushing even darker when Kimi raises a mocking brow at him. “I just—it’s quali tomorrow, you’re gonna fuck up your throat and you’ll sound weird on the radio—”
“Let me try again,” Kimi interrupts, and then he puts Ollie’s cock back into his mouth.
He’s far less careful about it, this time. Forces his jaw to relax, his mouth to open wider, pushing down and down and down until he can feel Ollie nudging up against the back of his throat again.
But it’s not enough. Kimi’s entire fist is still wrapped around the base of his dick, the knot warm and throbbing against his palm. It’s frankly ridiculous.
Inordinately irritated about it, Kimi bobs his head once—and immediately chokes, his traitorous gag reflex flaring up so fast he barely has time to pull off, tears pricking at his eyes. Panting, practically heaving, nails digging into the rough material of Ollie’s jeans.
“Fuck, Kimi,” Ollie hisses, flustered. He’s reaching down instantly, warm palms cradling Kimi’s face, static skittering between their skin. Oh. That feels nice. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Kimi grits out. He rests his forehead against Ollie’s knee, fighting down the nausea swirling in his chest. “Just give me a minute.”
“What? No, come up here.” Ollie’s fingers circle gently around his wrist. “You’ve made your point, alright mate? Please stop trying to smother yourself to death with my cock.”
Kimi attempts a scoff. It comes out more like the dying wheeze of a ventriloquist being garroted.
“You think very highly of yourself.”
“Yeah, well, so do you,” Ollie retorts, then yelps when Kimi reaches up and pinches his forearm. “This is stupid, Kimi. You know you can do it, isn’t that enough?”
But it isn’t. Kimi’s always known his unhealthily hypercompetitive tendencies would prove detrimental to his general wellbeing at some point in his life. He’s abnormal, okay? He’s got to be; just a little bit warped, a little bit deviant. That’s how he’s going to win seven championships in seven years.
And he won’t settle for anything less. Not in racing, not in any other task he sets out to accomplish. He especially won’t settle for a fucking DNF.
“I’ll be careful,” he promises, voice gritty. “Won’t push myself. Let me try one more time? Please?”
“Oh my god,” Ollie mutters, his head lolling back, gaze turned to the ceiling. “Don’t beg me like—fuck. Fuck. Okay, Antonelli. Last time. And I mean it, I’ll voice you.”
Kimi’s mouth falls open in betrayal. Ollie’s never voiced him. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed Ollie using his alpha voice. Does he even have one of those? Does he know how to use it? He’s always so calm. So placid.
“You alphas are all horrible.”
“Then don’t suck our dicks?” Ollie suggests, only to subside when Kimi shoots him a quelling glare. “Fine. Permission to voice you if you’re too stubborn to stop yourself from dying?”
“Yes,” Kimi answers, primly. “But you will not need to. Now sit still.”
Obediently, Ollie’s hands retreat to the couch cushions, spreading his legs to give Kimi more room. Kimi settles back onto his haunches, letting his eyes trail down the length of Ollie’s dick. It really is very… pretty. Slightly curved at the tip, plush red skin glossy with Kimi’s spit.
With a startle, Kimi realizes that he’s hard, too. It’s mortifyingly obvious in his grey sweatpants, the cotton tented and bulging.
And worse still, he’s started slicking up, practically swimming in the damning evidence. Squirming in it.
As though his body’s already prepping itself before he’s even gotten a chance to process the thought—Ollie bending him over the massage table and stuffing him full and knotting him until he’s sobbing, desperate, whining for it. Then making him walk across the paddock back to Mercedes, coated in Ollie’s citrusy scent, dripping between his thighs the entire way.
Kimi blinks. Not entirely sure where that had come from. When did it happen? When Ollie was talking about voicing him? There must be something seriously twisted in Kimi’s head.
“I’m going to try and get your knot in,” Kimi says, keeping his tone clinical in lieu of letting any more terrible dangerous thoughts linger around the edges of his mind’s eye. “If you want to come, you can do it in my throat.”
Ollie stares down at him like he’s never seen a short Italian before in his life. “Ave o Maria,” he mumbles, and Kimi’s so shocked that he lets a giggle burst out from his lips before managing to collect himself.
“Ollie!” he scolds, slapping Ollie’s thigh.
He’s laughing too, little chuckles slipping through his teeth. “Sorry, I thought I was dreaming. Figured I’d get smited and wake up fast.”
“You are a dumbass,” Kimi proclaims, his mouth twitching. “Shut up and let me focus.”
To his credit, Ollie behaves. He remains perfectly still, a stone statue, as Kimi works his way back down, struggling to contain his gag reflex. He has to keep pulling up slightly every time he feels his throat clench up, breathing in deeply through his nose, his lips dragging wetly against Ollie’s cock.
But Ollie doesn’t move. Not even when Kimi’s mouth starts watering, drool dribbling down the sides of Ollie’s dick onto his briefs. Not even when Kimi closes his eyes and presses the final inch inside, straining around Ollie’s knot, jaw protesting at the intrusion.
Fuck, it’s big. Kimi thinks, dizzily, that it would split him in half. Fill him up so well, pleasure spliced with a hint of pain. Just the way he likes. Make his brain go all gossamer and fuzzy, his head emptying itself out.
He’d only know how to take it, how to feel Ollie nudged up perfectly inside him, how to whimper and keen and beg for his alpha’s knot.
His slick is pouring freely now, drenching his boxers, stinking up the entire room with his sticky sweet scent. He wonders if Ollie can smell it. Wonders what he’s thinking. Whether he likes it.
Kimi stretches his lips wide, and the knot slips inside.
Ollie’s swearing above him, some convoluted mix of English and Italian and Mongolian or something, an amalgamation of sounds Kimi’s certainly never heard before. Kimi relaxes, getting used to the ache, the buzzing in his eardrums fading to a gentle hum.
“Kimi, Kimi, Kimi,” Ollie’s saying. Voice cracking, dissonant, coarse like sandpaper. Panicky and in awe and flabbergasted all at once. “You—fuck, what the fuck. You’re fucking insane, oh my god.”
He’s babbling. It’s so cute, fuck. Kimi can’t quite see his face from this angle, so he lets his nose settle into the smattering of curls at the base of Ollie’s cock, resting his cheek against Ollie’s thigh to listen.
“You look so good,” Ollie rambles, his fingers ghosting over the nape of Kimi’s neck. “Smell so good, so full of me, baby. Want you like this all the time. Hanging off my knot. Such a perfect omega.”
God. Kimi inhales sharply through his nose, his vision blurring at the edges. He never would’ve clocked it. Never thought Ollie could be capable of running his damn mouth like this.
But the momentary taste of victory is short-lived. Now that Kimi’s finished his Herculean task, now that he has all of Ollie inside, he can’t help but want more. Wants to hear the sounds Ollie makes, wants to feel the way his careful self-control slips.
He grabs Ollie’s hand. Pulls it from his neck up into his hair, palm spread out across the back of Kimi’s head. Glances up to find Ollie already looking down at him.
“Kimi,” Ollie breathes reverently, as though he can’t quite believe it.
Kimi gives a little hum in response. Rolls his eyes pointedly when he sees Ollie hesitating. Taps at Ollie’s knuckles, once. Hopes it conveys his meaning well enough.
Ollie groans, low and deep in his throat, tightening his grip on Kimi’s curls. “Just pinch me if,” he manages, voice wobbling. “If. Fuck.”
He tugs Kimi’s head lightly, and Kimi lets himself go. Follows Ollie’s grip, guiding him up until his lips are sliding around the tip of Ollie’s dick, and then Ollie pushes him down and it’s.
Disconcerting. Kind of. There’s something alarmingly hot about Ollie fucking his mouth like this, like he’s using Kimi to get off. Kimi had been right; he isn’t too rough or aggressive about it. The pressure of his hand is light. More a suggestion than a command.
As though he’s reminding Kimi. You wanted this. You can take it.
And Kimi does. Bobs his head to the pace Ollie sets for him. Lays his tongue flat against the thick vein on the underside. Keeps the seal of his mouth tight and wet, dragging himself up and down from the tip to the base and back again. Licking kittenishly at Ollie’s knot whenever he passes it. Relinquishes himself to Ollie’s wants.
He feels overheated, sweaty and sticky all over. Fairly sure he’s ruined this pair of boxers for good. Too warm, too heady, nearly drunk on the feeling, the intoxicating heat of Ollie sliding in and out of his mouth.
It’s only compounded by the way Ollie looks at him. The molten heat in his eyes, the clear edge of desire trickling through his scent, the shock in his expression slowly melting away to reveal a faint hint of smugness. The tilt to his mouth as he watches Kimi, runs his gaze lazily over Kimi’s body, his lower lip caught between his pearly white teeth.
“You like it,” Ollie says suddenly, and he’s smirking just so, and Kimi can’t help himself—he whines, loud as fuck, muffled around Ollie’s dick.
He does. He does. He’s straining in his sweatpants, so embarrassingly close to the edge that even the slightest touch could send him careening over it.
So wet it’s almost disgusting, slicker than he ever remembers being before, leaking down his thighs and god, he feels so empty, like he’s in heat and all he can think about is being knotted, being turned over onto his stomach and stuffed full of cock, crying for it, Ollie’s teeth scraping his neck, nestled deep into his scent gland—
Wait. Fuck. That… had better not awaken anything in him.
Ollie’s groaning again; Kimi’s name, gravelly English, stuttering Italian. Kimi hollows his cheeks harder.
“Gonna come, Kimi,” Ollie pants, thighs tensing up under Kimi’s palms. He lets go of Kimi’s hair, his movements urgent, anxious. “My knot—”
Kimi shoves his head forward. Swallows right down to the base of Ollie’s cock, gets his lips over the knot right as it pops, fattening up, ballooning into the side of his mouth. Locking him in place when Ollie comes, with a low, bitten off snarl.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Just some base instinct, this strange all-encompassing urge to make it good. Wanting to be so good for him. Wants Ollie to think of him the next time anyone else sucks his dick. Wants Ollie to remember how well Kimi takes it all.
“Fucking Christ,” Ollie says. He sounds breathless, mildly frantic, his voice half a growl. Kimi’s never heard him like this, so messy, so erratic and out of control. “Kimi, baby, you’re so—it won’t go down, are you crazy? It’ll be ten minutes and you’ll be stuck here and your jaw will be sore and George is going to kill me, oh my god—”
Kimi hums around his cock, and Ollie curses, merda cazzo porca miseria, spilling more warmth down Kimi’s throat. It’s a little weird, but not altogether unpleasant.
He kind of likes just sitting here, nice and full. Hoping Ollie gives him more. Warm, delicious waves. He feels insane. Greedy for it.
Ollie strokes his forehead, smoothing a strand of Kimi’s hair away from his eyes. “Oh my god,” he repeats. Softer, this time. Gentler. “You’re so good, baby. You did it.”
He also likes baby. But that’s a different problem, for a different day, when he isn’t feeling quite so floaty, the praise sinking deep into his skin.
Kimi closes his eyes. Lets himself revel in his aching neck, the twinge in his jaw, the soreness in his knees. He’s going to feel it all tomorrow in the car. Won’t regret it. Can’t bring himself to, when he’s so buoyant on his success, victory fizzling in his bloodstream.
He wants to scream it out to the world. Post an Instagram story of Ollie like this—spread out beneath Kimi, loose-limbed and satiated. Satisfied. The way no one’s ever seen him before. Except for Kimi.
And Ollie keeps touching him. Fingers in Kimi’s hair, sliding sweetly across his jawline, thumb tracing the corner of his mouth where he’s stretched taut around Ollie’s knot. Eventually it softens enough for Kimi to pull his head back, wincing slightly at the dried saliva crusted across his chin.
But before he can do anything, Ollie’s hauling him up, dragging Kimi onto his lap, and kissing him.
Immediately, Kimi yelps, paws uselessly at Ollie’s broad shoulders. “‘m gross,” he protests, but Ollie’s licking into his mouth impatiently, hands pushing at the hem of Kimi’s shirt.
“So good for me, fuck, drives me fucking crazy,” Ollie’s muttering, eyes all glazed and filmy, and Kimi just barely has enough bandwidth to wonder if he’s going into pre-rut. Which would be bad, because quali is tomorrow. But fun. For many other reasons.
Ollie starts tugging Kimi’s shirt up, nosing fervently at his neck. “Took me so well, and you liked it so much, can smell you dripping for me, aren’t you? I’ll help you, baby, just tell me what you want.”
Kimi sucks in a breath. A bolt of heat is coiling its way up his spine, sharp and serrated. He’s so aware of every point of contact between their skin. So cognizant of his own heartbeat thudding in his eardrums.
“Yes,” he manages, dumbly, helplessly. Wants so much he’s almost paralyzed by the indecision. Ollie’s mouthing at his neck, sucking little bites into his skin, citrus scent thick and viscous, and that damned massage table definitely isn’t sturdy enough to hold both their weight but God Kimi’s so distracted and Ollie isn’t helping in the slightest and he wants and wants and—
“Ollie?”
Kimi freezes. Ollie doesn’t; he turns his head towards the door and snarls, more irritated than Kimi’s ever heard him before.
Fuck, is that hot? Why is that so hot?
“What, Esteban?” Ollie yells back.
Esteban’s voice is cool and placating and just a little amused when he responds, “We have a meeting now. Are you coming?”
Ollie takes a second to respond. He looks almost agonized, his nose still pressed to Kimi’s clavicle. Breathing Kimi’s scent in and holding it close.
“Yes,” he huffs, finally. “I’ll be there in a second.”
“Okay,” Esteban answers absentmindedly. Then. “Hi, Kimi. I have scent blockers if you need them.”
A brief pause.
”And you really do.”
He laughs all the way back to his own room. Kimi cringes, hearing the Avicii playlist start back up. Maybe these walls were not quite as soundproof, or anything else proof, as he’d thought they were.
“Vaffanculo,” Ollie mutters, and Kimi jabs him on instinct. “Ow. Sorry, baby.”
“It’s okay,” Kimi sighs back, already resigning himself to a lonely trudge across the paddock and an ice cold shower in the safety of his own driver room. If he’s lucky, George will take pity and only make fun of him for five minutes, at maximum.
He gets up on shaky legs, puts himself to rights while Ollie yanks his jeans back on. Grabs a hoodie from the clothes rack where his race suit hangs, offers it to Kimi tentatively.
“Keep it. Might help explain the smell,” Ollie explains, voice quiet, a little awkward. He’s blushing. Kimi might be, too.
He feels kind of weird pulling the hoodie on. It shouldn’t mean anything, because they’re friends and have been since well before either of them presented. It’s just.
Clothes are a courting gift.
“Okay,” he agrees. Keeping it casual, because that’s easier than the alternative. “See you later.”
“Wait.”
Ollie shifts on his feet. He’s practically vibrating where he stands, nervous energy flowing off him in invisible waves. Kimi frowns at him, concerned. He sincerely hopes Ollie’s not broken. Or in rut.
Less so, about the latter.
“There’s a keycard in the pocket,” Ollie blurts out. His ears are flushed rosso corsa. It’s really, like. Fucking adorable. “Same hotel as yours. 712. Come after the race, okay?”
Then he leans down and pecks Kimi on the lips, only for a millisecond, before retreating quickly like he’s shy about it. Like he didn’t have his knot in Kimi’s mouth two minutes ago.
Kimi shakes his head, runs a hand through his curls just for something to do. To hide his expression. So endeared it’s genuinely painful.
“Sure,” he responds, tone teasing. “An hour of prep and three orgasms, yes? You promised.”
Instantly, Ollie starts spluttering. Kimi grins and heads for the door. He’s looking forward to Sunday night.