Chapter Text
Muffled, thumping music vibrates at his back through the walls and his own heart beat gets lost in it. A large hand palms his hip and Charles tilts his head to give a deeper kiss, opening up. The tongue in his mouth tastes like alcohol and sugar and little else. It’s not bad, necessarily, but he wasn’t aware this guy was drinking so much.
He didn’t think he’d be drawn to this man, this alpha who is a friend of a friend of a friend of someone in Pierre’s circle, but there’s something to the color of his blue eyes maybe. Or perhaps Charles is just this pathetic to let himself be taken to a private room in this club if it means he’ll get some sort of contact out of it. He doesn’t do this much and almost never with an alpha. Especially a male alpha. But it’s the off season and honestly? He’s a tiny bit lonely and there’s an empty disappointment from the previous season that he wouldn’t mind filling with something else. Even a temporary, ill-advised something.
That warm hand at his hip slides back to grip him through his pants without preamble and he inhales fully, making a soft, surprised sound.
“This ass,” the alpha groans into his mouth and gives a rough squeeze. “Fuck, turn around.” It’s not a request because he gets manhandled into the position a second later, cheek suddenly pressed to the cool, dark painted wall.
A moan escapes and his pulse is racing, it’s been a very long time since he’s let someone touch him this way. He’s nervous, that’s all. It’s the impulsivity rushing through him. It’s the position. It’s—
Hips press against him and the firm, recognizable shape of this alpha’s cock has him gasping.
“Yes, little omega, that’s what you want isn’t it?” The weight behind him gets heavier when he receives a thorough, intense grind to his backside. “You need it, don’t you?”
Yes, I need—His nails try to grip against the wall for anything to hold on to. He’s hard and turned on, but there’s a swirling sensation in his stomach that he doesn’t understand.
A hot mouth kisses at the line of his neck and a shiver skitters down his spine, a trickle of unease. “Just need to be fucked.” The man at his back thrusts forward, gripping his waist tight so he can’t go far. “F-fuck, that’s it,” gets growled to his skin and it makes him twitch.
Charles tries to rock back, but there’s not a lot of room for him to. His pants are tight and uncomfortable.
“Good omega,” the man mumbles near his ear, spans a hold over the front of his thigh so he can pull him back into his thrusts.
The praise feels like a cool glass of water down his throat and he moans from it, arches his hips up into the next series of humping grinds.
It quickly becomes not enough and then there are hands working his pants open, getting his clothes pulled down and he hears the clink of a belt before a damp, hard dick taps against one of his cheeks.
At first, he’s relieved because there’s less confining pressure around him and his cock is more than ready to be touched, but those wandering hands are spreading his cheeks instead, a thumb suddenly up and waytocloseabsolutelynot. “No!” he says, far too loud, cringing into the wall to get away while he reaches back to hold the guy's hip at a distance. “Not inside,” he mutters.
“Okay, okay. Not inside,” the man agrees, pitching his voice to soothe, kissing at his shoulder. “What if I just rub against you, yeah? You’ll like that, hm?”
His body has tensed up considerably and Charles catches his breath before nodding his agreement because he’d still very much like to come even if his body refuses to let this alpha inside.
“Just like this.” There’s a cock nudging against him once more, rubbing to his skin with slow, encouraging drags. “Feels so good, you’re so fucking hot.”
He relaxes into it. His palms are tacky with sweat and they stick to the wall a little. After a brief pause, his cheeks get parted again, but this time he allows it, a pulse of interest in his core as he waits patiently for this man to start moving.
The first slow, mapping thrust is clumsy and uneven, a smear of the alpha’s arousal getting brushed up the intimate line of him.
It must be glorious for his hook up, though, because there’s a shuddering moan near his hairline and then he’s rolling his hips forward again. And again after that, but harder.
It’s almost something. Fuck, it’s been so many ‘almosts’ lately; he wants more.
A rhythm starts up and then quickly gets out of control due to over-eagerness. “O-oh fuck, that’s perfect. Look at that, baby. You like getting screwed, don’t you?”
Charles bites his cheek because he doesn’t love being called ‘baby’ by a relative stranger, but the rest of it…he can’t necessarily argue, can he? He makes a vague, moaning sound and rocks back, feels the hard length against him slide up and catch briefly against his hole on the way. He didn’t mean to do that and his breath hitches.
“Already opening up for me, aren’t you? Y-yes,” the alpha groans, shoving forward eagerly, trying to recreate the friction, “yes, take it you little slut.” A sharp, stinging smack lands on one cheek, echoing off the walls.
He sucks in a shocked breath and his hips flinch away from the hit. His fingertips go cold or maybe they always were, but now suddenly he’s aware of the chill. It’s like the volume on his internal world has been turned all the way up. He can feel how uncomfortable this position is, how unpleasurable it is to have his dick untouched by this point and worst of all he can feel every millimeter of how much this guy is getting off on calling him that. There’s a mean edge to how he said it too that causes him to let out a faint, confused noise. What happened to ‘good’ and ‘perfect’?
Right as he’s thinking about pulling away, a groping hand circles around his cock and he gasps low and eager, then moans. Loudly.
“Knew you’d fucking like that,” the man pants.
A hand on my cock? No shit, he thinks.
“Slutty little hole,” the alpha grunts, emphasizing each word with a matching roughened thrust through the wet mess he’s making of him. “Probably already used isn’t it? That’s why you’re teasing me, huh? You sore from another alpha’s cock, omega?”
No? That’s…a lot for him to sift through. This guy really likes to talk and it’s confusing that the words sound so gruff, but there’s an eagerness to how they’re being delivered like he’s hoping the answer is yes. “T-touch me,” Charles hears himself pleading because so far he’s being vaguely held and not much else.
He gets two strokes, two wonderful, firm strokes that make him want to weep before that hand around him tightens at the base of his dick to a point of being on the brink of painful. His thoughts turn to exclamation marks because what the fuck?? He instinctively tries to back away from the grip, but all that does is press him more firmly against the alpha behind who instantly mistakes the movement for eagerness.
“Gotta make sure you don’t come first, don’t we?” the alpha says between panting breaths and in amongst all the arousal he sounds amused and smug. “Good omegas wait. And you’re going to wait for me.”
Yes, because he was totally on the brink of orgasm without this intervention… Where his face is seen by nothing but the wall in front of him, Charles winces and wonders if it’s more worth it to end this now or actually wait. The pang of need in his balls is answer enough, so he endures getting shoved forward and lets this man tease at his hole without ever actually pressing in.
It doesn’t take long. He allows this larger, bulkier alpha to have his way and tries to find the pleasure in being so covered, so…ravished? Is this what being ravished is like? He thought it would feel different.
There’s another deep groan near his ear and then, “yeah, fuck, you’re so good.” A breathless, snapping thrust along with, “fucking made for this. You love it, don’t you? Love servicing alpha cock. Should’ve put you on your knees and tried your mouth too,” the guy mutters to himself and just what? Everything is speeding up, blurring together. Occasionally a hand grips at one of his cheeks and tugs him open almost too far and the alpha thumbs over his rim, riding the line between rubbing and pressing. The hot, slippery weight fucking against him gets more punishing and he’s jolted forward with the motion until abruptly, there’s a broken, almost pained sound from behind him as wet splatters over his low back and drips down between his cheeks. He wrinkles his nose in distaste because that was not an attractive sounding orgasm and his clothes. Fuck.
The man is panting next to his ear and continuing to thrust with slowing, lingering intent, spreading his come all over the place, drawing out his own pleasure. “Ahh, yes, mhm! G-good omega, making me come so much. F-fuck, got your hole all messy, baby.”
In another timeline, coming from someone else’s lips, maybe Charles would be able to enjoy the dirty talk, but that’s hard to do in this moment when he’s still barely had a touch given to him. He whimpers over how he’s throbbing in this man’s unmoving, too-tight hold. “P-please.”
The handjob he gets in return is…lackluster. The talking does not stop; he hears all about how tight this man thinks his ass is, how well he’d be fucked if he allowed himself to be bent over, how he’d look fantastic on his knees with his mouth filled. None of it is new. He has difficulty ignoring the noise and focusing on the fist working him over. Minutes creep by and Charles whines quietly, furrows his brow as he tries to think of something truly arousing.
“You always take this long?” the man wonders and Charles gets that it’s said as a tease, that it’s not meant to be taken as a complaint, but those five words are all that’s required for any speck of attraction he felt for this alpha to dissolve.
“What did you just say?” Charles asks around the rush of white noise filling his ears. He pushes away the hand on him, feels a creeping disgust sinking his stomach.
“Baby, c’mon, that was a joke. Though I won’t lie, I think you’d come better if you let m—whoa, you’re leaving?”
He’s tugging his clothes up in jerky, shaking movements and viscerally wants no part of himself to be visible to this man’s gaze. The regret for this entire endeavor is swift and punishing. He’s so stupid sometimes. What was he thinking? “Yeah, sorry, I—I have a friend waiting for me,” he gets out, refusing to look in the man’s direction. He feels like even more of a loser because this isn’t a bathroom hookup and he’s a complete mess, has no way of cleaning up and this alpha makes no offer to assist in that even though it’s his come Charles has over his ass. He’s sticky between his cheeks and every step he takes is going to be a gross reminder of his fuck-up.
When he leaves, the guy is totally nonplussed about it and is in the middle of trying to make plans with him for another hookup while insinuating that it could be more fun next time if his alpha friend joined them. He mumbles something like ‘yeah, no maybe’ because he’s not getting within a hundred miles of that and flees the scene. Rejoining the beating music and flashing lights is an awful sensory overload when he’s already a mess and wants to get the fuck out. He can’t leave without finding Pierre before he goes though. He’ll be in enough trouble for ditching early anyway.
Their table is empty, so he grabs his jacket and tracks Pierre down where he’s leaning into the bar and ordering new rounds.
“Calamar!” Pierre cheers when he spots him, lifting an arm up. “Où as-tu disparu?”
“Je pars maintenant,” he replies, starts shoving his arms into his jacket and tugging it on. Fuck, his hands are still shaking.
Pierre frowns at him and leans over to be heard around the music, asking if he’s okay.
The answer to that is both simple and overly complicated. “I—I need to leave, that’s all. I would rather be home,” is what he ends up saying because he can’t stay here another minute.
A touch lands on his forearm. “Did something happen? You look…” Pierre doesn’t even finish the thought, but it’s easy enough to fill in the blank. He’s sure he looks exactly as messy as he feels. His lips are swollen, there’s probably a reddened blotch on his cheek from where he was pressed into the wall. The back of his neck feels itchy where that alpha mouthed at him and kissed. Oh god. How could he let some strange alpha so close to his neck? There’s a rising panic that’s starting up, an inability to swallow or take a full breath. He might puke.
Pierre pulls him through the edge of the crowd at the corner of the bar and around a pillar to a slightly more private space. “You look a mess and you smell like…are you okay?” his friend asks, leaning down to talk near his ear.
Charles turns more toward the wall, cheeks glaring with heat when a couple passes by. “I-I’ll be fine, but I have to leave,” he stutters. He’s sure he smells like sex. The one thing he can be glad of is that he’s wearing blockers and so was that alpha.
“Alright, let me get my coat,” the other driver says immediately, looking around like he expects it to be nearby.
“Non, non stay,” he insists. “I just want to go home. You are having fun; stay.”
For a moment his friend doesn’t speak at all and then he asks, “are you hurt?” and Charles wishes he knew how to answer that. He supposes the answer is no, physically he’s…fine. Nothing happened. Not really.
“Non,” he replies again. “I am okay, I swear.” He barely manages to fight off the urge to wrap his arms around his middle.
The other driver hesitates before nodding. “Alright, but text me when you make it home or I will come after you.”
That’s definitely not true, but he appreciates the thought at least. All he can offer is a weak agreeing smile.
“Calamar,” Pierre says with more weight behind the word after a moment. “You’re sure they didn’t hurt you?”
He even sounds sober and Charles bites his cheek over the emotion rushing up his throat. He glances around and nods again after a moment. “Just a shitty hookup,” he replies.
“Alpha?” Pierre wants to know.
God how he’d love to not confirm it, but Pierre knows him, knows that sometimes he tries this. And it always ends poorly. “Yeah.” It’s a hollow response.
His friend looks him over with a disapproving, almost frustrated gaze and Charles’ shoulders tense up, he fucking hates that look.
“It is not like I ask for them to be horrible,” he says defensively.
“No,” the other driver sighs, “no, I know you don’t. But they are going to see you a certain way, they always have. You know this. You challenge them,” Pierre points out.
He opens his mouth to argue because he absolutely does not and even if he did just by the virtue of existing, how the hell is that his fault, but he’s beaten to the punch.
“Eh, c’mon, you know I don’t mean it like that. It’s you being an omega at all and being who you are on top of it, they’re threatened by you. That makes you something they’re going to want to control.”
Charles grinds his teeth together. He's heard this several times over by this point. Pierre means well, but he doesn’t get it. How does he explain that it’s more than the control part? It’s about the fact that no alpha ever seems to see him as anything but an object? He likes the idea of pleasing someone, of being desired—secretly he even likes the thought of belonging to someone—he just doesn’t understand why it always has to go hand-in-hand with receiving nothing in return. It’s starting to make him feel like he’s asking for too much. And in the very quiet, shadowed corners of his mind, his thoughts murmur that maybe he’s just not…good enough. Maybe he is, as usual, dreaming for something beyond his reach.
And here he is, back to circling the same depressing drain he often ends up at. Yeah, it’s far past time for him to go home. He wishes he’d never let that stupid alpha touch him at all.
“I am going home now,” he tells Pierre, raising his eyebrows up for emphasis. “So you won’t have to worry about me, alright?”
Pierre sighs pretty heavily for a guy who’s usually a happy drunk. “Okayy, okay,” he agrees. “Go on, then.”
Charles spies Pierre’s girlfriend approaching and he feels better bailing knowing his friend will have someone looking after him. With that reassurance, he turns to leave and makes it halfway through the room before the front entrance comes into view. A crowd of bodies shift in just the right sequence so that he has a straight ahead view of one of the absolute last people he wants to run into at this moment.
Max.
His steps stutter and he stops so abruptly that he’s bumped into from the side. Without looking, he apologizes and takes a panicked glance around before his gaze is drawn back to the alpha across the way. It’s not unusual for him to be here. They often end up in the same spaces, living in the same city like they do, but did he have to show up now?
The Dutchman has a slow journey to make into the club, people catching on to his presence and gravitating toward him, either to say hello as familiar friends or they’re fans that can’t believe their luck paid off getting in here tonight. Charles, who has been here for hours already, is not so much of an exciting sight. Maybe if he just edges around the side and sneaks by?
With tentative steps he advances, but he’s keeping eyes on the other driver, so he sees when his head turns and he scans the area, seemingly running right over where Charles is frozen and staring. He can’t see me like this. Oh god. He can imagine how Max would look at him in this state, the quiet confirmation he’d gain of knowing that Charles spends his down time letting alphas push him into walls and—and—the smell of sex that’s all over him is far too telling about what comes after. The respect he’d lose squeezes the air from his lungs. At the very least, to Charles’ face, Max has always looked at him as a racer. Not just as an omega. He knows that in private or maybe just whenever Charles turns his back, that probably changes, but he’s realizing in real time how badly he desperately needs to never find out what it would be like if Max looks at him how other alphas do.
Max is shaking hands and nodding at people he knows in hello, his lips curled up in a pleasant, but polite smile. The whole room’s energy shifts the more people realize who the newest arrival is.
He has to get out of here.
As he weaves between bodies he catches snippets of Max’s name spoken with hushed reverence and awe, the occasional scent of interest off a few people that don’t have blockers on, sees one omega woman tugging and adjusting her skin tight mini dress down another half inch to show even more cleavage.
Roaming, color changing club lights circle overhead and Charles can only hope none of them find him in this crowd. He slips between two more bodies, a few yards closer to his goal, and turns his head to spot check where Max is. It’s tenths of a second at best, but when he looks he could swear Max’s blue eyes are already focused on him. He doesn’t stick around to confirm it, uses his jumping heart as an instinctive guide and rushes from the club, squirming between gaps that hardly exist and accidentally elbowing a few more. When he’s out, the air feels thin and unhelpful. He hastens down the street, keeps his head low in the night and prays no one recognizes him. Just for this night, please do not see me.
He leaves his car there, doesn’t even know why he bothered driving the two minutes from his apartment to the club or when that started to be normal practice in the first place. Not to mention that tonight he took the Bugatti…he can’t imagine getting into that with the mess that’s all over his backside right now.
Every distant laugh or the sound of drunken chatter makes him anxious and he hurries, on the cusp of breaking out in a run. He rounds the corner to his place and rearranges his face into something resembling a polite smile for the doorman, swiping his hand self-consciously across the blocker patch along his neck to make sure the edges are still stuck on properly.
Inside his apartment, he strips off his shirt with shaky fingers right there in the hallway, barely managing the buttons. After tugging his shoes off, he rushes to the shower, breaths tight and strained as he flips the water on and gets his pants undone, recalling flashes of how that alpha did the same thing with short, authoritative movements. Hooking his thumbs under elastic, he shoves both layers down and off. The tacky, now mostly dried mess between his cheeks makes his eyes prickle and he can’t get under the steaming water fast enough. He clings to a bar of soap so hard that soap shavings bite up under his nails. No amount of scrubbing can get the memories out of his brain, but he tries anyway.
He tries until he can’t breathe. Until he’s sinking down onto the shower floor and sticking his head between his knees. With hindsight, he’s even more revolted than he was in the moment when everything was clouded by his own desperate arousal. The things that alpha said, the way he got off on it—on him.
His fingers claw over the side of his neck, finding the patch and tearing it off by its soaked edges. With the flat of his palm, he rubs over the scent gland until the neutralizer is washed away. Pink and raw, he fumbles until he manages to shut the water off and listens to his stuttering breaths, the dripping water, the emptiness of his home.
When he crawls into bed, he’s still naked and barely dried off. He lays still for only a few seconds before stretching over the edge and reaching for a previously abandoned hoodie. Grasping a maroon sleeve, he tugs it up into the sheets, curls onto his side and nuzzles against fabric. His own vanilla wafts up from the fibers and he takes a deep, filling inhale. There’s a trace of Andrea on it too, just a neutral, calming beta scent that isn’t much of anything, but it’s the lack that comforts him.
It’s just a shitty night, he’s had those before, but something about this one in particular feels more drastic. I can’t keep doing this, he thinks, the bleak realization settling over him like a cold blanket. He has to stop trying with alphas, he has to stop thinking that maybe it will be different. Tonight was far from the first time he’s been with an alpha that talks that way, every word laced with subjugation, compliments that are worse than back-handed. ‘Should’ve put you on your knees and tried your mouth too.’ Treating him like he was just…a toy. He thought—hoped—that by now he would’ve found at least one alpha that was semi-decent. One he was actually interested in, not the endless parade of options at his work events that always graciously let him know that they’d allow him to keep racing if they mated. Like that was a selling point, a perk he should be thrilled by. Maybe it’s me. Maybe there is something in him, like Pierre said, that makes them act that way.
The thought haunts him and he burrows into his bedding, a mournful whine slipping out where no one can hear it.