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Oluwande is not used to losing.
He used to be better at it. When he first started racing, he was really good at it, actually. From his starts street racing until now, really, he’s had his fair share of mistakes, of slow laps, of not pushing hard enough, of pushing too hard, of just not being good enough.
That’s mostly behind him, now.
He’s been racing for years. He’s got sponsorships. People know his name; they know his number. They know him.
Ever since Ed Teach retired, there’s been a gap at the top. Taking his husband— Stede Bonnet, Oluwande’s own mentor— out with him left even more space, and Oluwande’s been one of countless others scrambling to occupy the vacancy.
Izzy Hands is good, but he’s impulsive. John Feeney is good, too, but he’s newer to the tracks than Oluwande; he thinks he’s got him beat on experience alone. There’s Jack Rackham, too, and Lucius Spriggs, and countless others.
There are so many drivers that could take Ed’s place at the top, but Oluwande wants it the most.
Maybe.
He’s never encountered a driver like number 11.
Whoever they are had come over towards their car with their helmet already on. Though their face hadn’t been visible, Oluwande hadn’t needed it to be; he was captivated by the way they came out alone, by the way they moved, by the confidence present in every step they took.
Their entire getup is as sleek and black as their car. The helmet is something large and sturdy, high-quality, real. They mean business. Their suit is tight-fitting and thick, shining with black like leather. Even their hands are encased in the material, their gloves keeping every drop of their skin hidden, long legs and ropes of muscle and strength all concealed beneath the surface.
Oluwande had been aware of stopping and staring. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of them, though. And he’d been even more captivated when they’d stopped in their open car door, turning towards him as if they could feel the burn of his eyes on them, and apparently stared right back.
Or, at least, Oluwande can only assume that they’re staring straight back.
Their visor is aimed in his direction, anyways. The solid reflective glass over their face is tilted towards him. The angle of their face is similar to the angle of his; he can only assume their eyes are meeting, though it’s a bit lopsided in the stranger’s favor.
On impulse, beside his own car, Oluwande had raised a hand and waved at them.
It’s as if they weren’t competing, as if they weren’t about to partake in one of the best-known races, as if they weren’t actively vying for space over the other one.
The person had tilted their head, just slightly, watching his hand go up. They hadn’t responded, though, and Oluwande had grown dejected, just about to pull his hand down, fingers curling in, when their arm had lifted, too.
It had only been short, a small movement, but they gave him a wave right back.
Then, they’d turned, waved to the stands of people at large, and folded their body into the front seat of their car, vanishing from Oluwande’s view.
That doesn’t mean he didn’t keep thinking about them, though.
And that doesn’t mean he hasn’t kept his eye on them.
It’s sort of impossible not to, when they keep outpacing him. He’s not used to losing anymore, but he’s losing to them. Doesn’t know who’s in there, doesn’t know what their story is, doesn’t even know what their face looks like, and they keep creeping just ahead of him on every lap.
There’s frustration and competition and thrill and exhilaration all coursing through him at once. It’s inexplicable— or, maybe it isn’t— and, the harder he races number 11, the harder his cock gets. He’s fucking loving it.
He’s gotten used to winning, but maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe he loves the thrill of a real, true fight to the finish.
On the penultimate lap, Oluwande manages to slip out just a tiny bit ahead of them. He can imagine the way that their lanky-long body might coil up with tension; in his mind’s eye, he sees the stranger hunching up over the wheel, pushing in closer, as if they can get the energy in their body to course through into the engine of their machine.
His cock throbs, trapped tight to his body with the racing suit and safety equipment and buckles and straps. Fuck, he wishes he weren’t so confined right now.
It takes all his focus just to keep his slight lead.
Even then, it’s just barely not enough.
Number 11 lags, just a bit, and then seems to use that slight fallback as a catalyst for their next burst of speed. It’s like their vehicle explodes past his, one last burst like they’re in a movie scene, and then they’re flying across the finishing line for the last time, horns and guns and explosions and fireworks.
Numbers are flashing on the screens above, animated across the rim of the venue’s track. Oluwande sees his own— Boodhari, 42— sliding in second place, but he can barely pay attention to it.
Instead, he waits to see the name that streaks into place on the screen in first: Jimenez, 11.
It’s all chaos out there. Oluwande emerges from his car into total madness. There’s balloons, there’s streamers, there’s cameras, there’s microphones— fuck, there’s so much noise.
Oluwande’s never gotten better at handling all this; Stede loved it, and a couple of the other drives Oluwande trained with— Lucius, especially— were just as obsessed. Pulling that attention was a big part of the fun for them, and Oluwande definitely appreciates it, but it’s not the main goal of it all, for him.
It’s apparently not the main goal for Jimenez, 11 either. They accept their trophy, they give waves, they allow champagne to explode over their still-helmeted head, and then they set it all aside.
Izzy Hands, of all people, is the one who comes up and takes the trophy they push away. They lean in to say something to him through the thick screen of their helmet, and Izzy claps them on the back. If they’re someone Izzy knows, that’s someone Ed knows, which means Oluwande can ask Stede, and Stede can ask Ed, and he can meet this person officially, hopefully, at some point in the future.
With a dozen microphones in their face, the stranger— Jimenez, 11, in the sleek black car and sleeker black bodysuit— finally has to take off their helmet.
Oluwande’s mind shorts out.
They tuck their glossy black helmet under their strong arm. Their hip cocks, and their lean body shifts to readjust, and they run gloved fingers through their hair, and Oluwande nearly drops his own helmet and trophy to the ground.
They’re up on a dias, above everybody else; Oluwande is close enough that he can see the honeyed darkness of their eyes, the sweat-slick curls that are so glossily handsome on top of their head, the shaved streaks along the sides, the glisten of exertion making their skin gleam bronze. His fingers curl up, his own gloves creaking with the tightness of his efforts. His cock throbs hard against his thigh.
“How’s it feel to steal a win like this?” one of the desperate reporters asks, voice clear above everybody else’s.
It’s clear Jimenez hears their question, too. That’s the first one they answer, leaning in closer to the microphones to tell them all, “It’s not stealing if it’s yours.”
Oluwande laughs, the feeling almost giddy inside his chest. It’s the bubbling feeling of a crush, ridiculous as he thinks that might be, but he sort of loves it. The— It’s good, something he wants to indulge, and so he does, standing right in front and watching each and every question they answer.
They pass their helmet off to Izzy Hands, too, after a few questions. They’re clever, charming, funny, direct. He can see why they get along well with Izzy, because they’re dry, too, and a bit short, and mildly impatient with the reporters Oluwande might delicately refer to as absolutely foolish news-ghouls. There’s something even more special about them for having that razor’s edge to them.
Their bright eyes find Oluwande’s in the crowd after not long at all.
He doesn’t think it’s his imagination that they light up a bit.
“Hey,” they say, and beckon to him with their gloved fingers. “Get on up here, Second Place.”
Oluwande holds up his hand, starts to say, “No, that’s alright,” but they kneel down at the edge of the short stage, right in front of him, bringing them up to an eye level.
“If I’ve got to be up here,” they say, close enough that only he can hear them, even in all this chaos, “So do you.”
They squeeze his shoulder, then shove backwards again, heavy boots taking solid steps backwards into place. Offering a hand, they’re an incredible image in front of and above Oluwande, like a deity giving him an offering of their own.
He has no choice but to take it.
Accepting their hand, he steps up onto the dais, falling into place beside them.
He’s used to these sorts of things— cameras, interviews, journalists. Training with Stede Bonnet could help even the shyest, strangest individuals become blooming flowers on television. It’s not his favorite thing in the world, but he’s capable at it, and it’s part of the whole package. If he wants to be a racecar driver— and, fuck, he really does, he loves his job— this is something he’s had to get good at.
It’s even fun, with Jimenez.
“I’ve never seen you around before,” Oluwande says, when they’re almost wrapping up. “It’s good to race with you, Jimenez.”
“You can call me Jim,” they tell him.
The words are caught by the microphones and the cameras and the familiar strangers, but they feel like they’re only for Oluwande.
“Alright, then, Jim,” Oluwande replies.
Their name tastes so, so fucking good in his mouth.
“Oh, look, it’s Teach,” one of the journalists shouts.
That’s enough of a distraction for Jimenez, 11— Jim— to slip off the dais, avoiding those who try to catch them or ask just one last question. Izzy Hands says something to them, and they laugh, shaking their head, waving him off.
Passing Oluwande, they say, nearly in a whisper, “Follow me.”
And then, they’re gone, striding off through the crowd in the opposite direction, heading through the barriers behind the constructed dais.
The pathway back there would take them across into the stadium proper, towards the doors that bring them back below into the underneath, where the drivers are allowed to hide for preparations.
Oluwande’s been here often enough, snuck away himself there often enough. He knows exactly what it’s like: dark, secluded, exclusive, and, most importantly, mostly empty when a race has only just recently ended.
Jim’s words curl around his ear, the private, “follow me,” slipping into his bloodstream, making him blaze hotter than he thinks he’s ever run before.
And he just lost the fucking race to them.
Fuck.
Jim has vanished behind the tents and the cars and the banners and the seats and the doors, and Oluwande follows after them.
Everything is noise and chaos and people, mayhem, music, flashing lights, hectic screens, the sounds of shouts and screams. Ed Teach and Stede Bonnet are up on the screen, now, being interviewed from where they’ve viewed the race from one of the boxes, jumping down towards the track to interact with reporters and friends and old competitors-slash-coworkers.
It’s a perfect distraction, and Oluwande slips from the madness into the darkness. All the sounds cut out abruptly, immersing him in silence.
His adrenaline keeps moving, blood still buzzing, heart thumping hard and fast in his chest. His cock’s still impossibly hard, the afterimage of Jim still burning in his eyes like he’s stared at the sun for too long.
‘Follow me,’ they’d said, deep voice curling warm and syrupy in his ear, and then they were gone—
—and now they’re here again, shoving Oluwande up against the closed door to the track. Their boots give them extra height, nearly matching Oluwande’s, and they’ve got enough leverage to pin him there while one hand snakes down and past him.
A heavy, solid thunk sounds behind Oluwande’s head, reverberating through his skeleton.
Jim’s locked the door behind him.
The hall down here is dark, dimly lit by a line of warm orange-glowing sconces trimming either side, stretching down towards the pre-showroom, where there’s waters and snacks and sofas and people.
And, here, Jim has a leg between his thighs, a hand past his head, a locked door at his back, and their eyes meeting his, bright even in the darkness.
“Can I suck your cock?” Jim asks him.
Oluwande jerks his head in a nod.
“Only if you want,” he says, and almost wants to throw himself off a bridge for it. “Sorry, that’s— You know.”
Though Oluwande’s partially expecting it, Jim doesn’t push away from him, give up on him, chalk him up as a bad decision. Instead, they smile, eyes flickering between Oluwande’s.
“I’d like to,” they tell him. “You’re a good fucking driver. You almost beat me.” Their eyes flicker over his face, in the moment before they ask, “Can I kiss you?”
“Can you— Yeah,” Oluwande insists. “You can kiss me. If you can suck my cock, mate, you can kiss me.”
“Just checking,” Jim replies, before their lips meet his.
Fuck, they’re incredible. Oluwande nearly thinks he’s dreaming. He’d probably believe it, if he’d won the race; as it is, it’s a little grounding that he lost, reminding him that things aren’t perfect—
—but, even then, he doesn’t really mind losing, if it’s them he’s losing to.
The other driver’s kiss is close-mouthed, for a moment, before Jim accelerates with all the speed they just displayed in their shiny black race-car outside. Their tongue slips along the seam of his lips, and it sends such a hot spark of lust through him that he allows them in without a drop of coherent thought involved.
They push in even closer to him, their gloved fingers slipping up to find the catch on his suit and pull it apart. Without breaking their kiss, their hands move, tugging the zips down and the snaps apart. They maneuver it apart in pieces until the top hangs off of his waist, the zip over his cock is yanked down, and then, they separate from him.
“Gotta stay quiet,” they tell him, partly a commiserating comment, partly a warning.
Oluwande nods his head in a jerk.
He knows himself; tugging his own glove free, he rips it from his fingers and shoves it into his mouth, between his teeth, as effective a gag as any he could come up with in a situation like this.
Jim’s eyes burn upwards on his, for a moment, before they reach up, tear the glove out of his mouth, and dive in for another deep kiss. Their tongue is a hot stroke of heated velvet that glides along his own, licking behind his teeth, plunging as deeply as they can get into him before they’re gentling again. When they shift, their hips hitch into his, for a moment, and their thigh rolls over the almost-exposed line of his hard cock, and he moans down their throat.
They groan, deep in their chest, and then part from him again. Their lips are shining, swollen, slick with his saliva, beaten red from kissing him with force.
Oluwande tells them, “You’re fucking stunning,” and they’re the last words he gets out before Jim’s stuffing the glove back in his mouth.
Jim flushes, a red blush that starts and blooms across their face, rushing over their ears, down their throat, disappearing beneath their suit. They’re still nearly fully-dressed, just their helmet and head-and-neck supports removed. Their suit is still fastened up to their throat, making them a sinuous black river of movement when they flow down onto their knees like water.
“Next time,” they tell him, “I’ll take you somewhere you can tell me more about that.”
Oluwande nods with a jerk. The still-gloved fingers of one hand curl back into the door, nails scraping over metal and paint; the bare fingers of his other hand snap out, securing in Jim’s hair.
A beat later, he releases them, telling them, “Sorry, sorry,” muffled through the glove.
Jim just tips their head, though, and pushes up into his hand like a particularly obvious cat, pulling his touch back in with obvious approval.
“Do whatever you want,” they tell him.
They yank his underlayers down, skin-tight pants getting yanked nearly to his knees before his underwear joins.
His naked cock is finally free of the tight confines, no longer trapped against his body but springing into the open space, for a brief moment, before Jim’s gloved hand wraps around the base, guiding him in closer to their lips.
Tentatively, Oluwande runs his hand again through Jim’s hair. They huff, an exhale of breath that sighs warm and soft over his cock, and his head thuds back into the door. A hot wave of lust rolls through his body, down his spine, into his cock, throbbing in their grip.
Oluwande tightens his grip, stroking through the sweat-soft curls beneath his hand. Jim’s thumb frees his cock from his foreskin in even strokes, then, and he tightens his hold, twisting, gripping, trying to stop himself from dragging them forward until they’re sinking down over his length, until he’s secured inside their mouth.
His thumb glides along their hairline for a brief moment before he makes himself stop, telling himself it’s too intimate, but Jim’s eyes have gone dark and their lips are parting, so maybe it’s not all bad.
It’s then that Jim leans in, allowing the flat of their hot tongue to trace up from the circle of their fingers up. They swipe up his cock with the broad, wet heat, finding his head, giving him a kiss that makes his knees fuzz out inside his body, joints no longer existing.
The kiss becomes a lick, and the lick becomes a suck, and their lips are so impossibly soft before he’s slipping past them into the enveloping warmth of their mouth.
For a moment, they just— hold him, there, on their tongue. He has a flash of an image, a fantasy of them beneath a desk, under a table, on their knees, his cock in their mouth, just holding, warming, bowing to him.
It’s an explosive sort of image. That, combined with the very, very real image of Jim on their knees now, fit between his spread boots, slipping between his thighs so they can take his cock deeper down their throat, is fucking overwhelming. And, God, God, they suck cock like they were born to do it.
Oluwande doesn’t even really remember what they were doing, before. The stadium of people outside this door and all around them disappears. There’s no race, except this one; no finish line, except the one they’re both racing to cross.
Every other noise and sense and glint of awareness bleeds away until Oluwande’s entire world is Jim on their knees, expertly dragging their tongue up. They hollow their cheeks, and then he’s in their fucking throat. Apparently no gag reflex bothers them, nature’s perfect cock-swallower, and they just take him.
Their hips twitch, slightly, and their eyes slip closed. They tilt their head, sucking his cock like they’re trying to make out with it at the same time. The bit they can’t take, too much even for them, disappears beneath their gloved fingers again.
Their other hand, Oluwande watches with stunned amazement, sneaks down between their thighs. They cup over the groin of their suit with a hard hand before they’re pushing up, and then they’re moving, grinding into the heel of their own gloved hand, bringing more pressure, more pleasure.
Fuck. Oluwande wants his mouth on them. He wants to give them what he’s getting, he wants—
—everything, he can’t think of anything except them, and he tightens his grip in their hair again, unable to stop the twitch of his own hips, trying not to choke them when he moves.
He moves them, thrusts shallowly to experiment, and they moan around his cock. It sends a vibration through him that hits the centers of his bones, lights up his veins like electricity in his blood.
Oluwande asks, “Can I?”
Though his words are muffled by the glove, Jim seems to understand well enough anyways.
Their eyes flutter open, then upwards. The pupils have expanded, blown out to swallow up their dark irises, making their eyes a black deeper than the empty ends of the hallway far away. Even in this poor lighting, Oluwande can make out the fine details of them, and it has his heart racing so hard he thinks it might lap him, somehow.
Jim nods, a tiny up-and-down of their head that only just barely jostles Oluwande’s cock in their mouth, their throat.
The flat of their tongue presses up into the underneath of his cock, swipes up as they pull most of the way off. They leave his cockhead between their parted lips, even more heavily swollen and flushed with bruising blood.
He takes what they’re giving, his fingers stroking to the back of their head to hold them in place while he pushes forward. It takes a slight rebalancing, but he finds his momentum and thrusts in, starts fucking their mouth, and they moan again, ragged and rumbling all the way up to the root of him.
It’s too much. Oluwande fucks their mouth in earnest, and they’re still trying to blow him through it, except their hands have left his cock to fit between their own thighs, instead.
With quick, jerking movements, they tear apart their own fire-suit, ripping at buttons and straps until they’re able to shove their hand into the suit. They wriggle on his cock, making him moan into the glove, and then they’re moaning again, sinking onto their own hand.
Oluwande wonders what they’re doing. He wonders if they’ve slipped fingers inside themself, or if they’re rubbing themself, or if they’re jerking themself off. Fuck, he wants to see, he wants to know, he wants to be the one to get them off—
—But, based on the now-unending pleasure-rumbles that are moaning from Jim, this is getting them off, and he fucks their mouth in earnest with that thought in mind.
They push up higher on their knees, hips rolling when they grind into their own hand, and Oluwande fucks their mouth, and he’s getting closer, closer, until the pleasure is gathering with an unending, consuming sort of lust in the base of his spine, the pit of his stomach, the root of his cock, all pulling and surging towards them, into them.
He forces his eyes back open, unaware of even closing them, and fixes them on the image of Jim between his legs, on their knees, their mouth slick and spread open around his cock.
That’s the end of it, too much, and he tugs at their head, trying to pull them off before he cums down their throat.
They don’t separate from him, though. Insistent, they push themself nearer into him, burying his cock down their throat until he can feel the velvet walls. They swallow around him, and the sensation is so impossibly good, he has no choice but to hold their head in place by their hair while he cums down their throat, an explosion of an orgasm better than any he thinks he’s ever had before, somehow immaculate in the mess that is a race-day.
Every cell in his body surges, pulling towards Jim, spilling down their throat, shivering in the air around them. His hold tightens in their hair, the waves throbbing through him, his cock pulsing until he’s trembling, too.
Beneath him, under him, between his legs, Jim just relaxes their throat and watches him through hooded eyes and takes it, everything he has to give them, until he’s got nothing left to give.
Oluwande reaches up, removing his glove from his mouth to find teeth-imprints pressed so deeply in that he’s permanently fucked up more than one seam. He can’t bring himself to care, dropping the glove from limp fingers to the ground, unable to do much more than stare down at Jim and feel, right now.
Breathless, slightly absent, Oluwande tells them in a strained voice, “I feel like I won still, somehow.”
Jim huffs a laugh around his cock that has Oluwande twitching, sensitive, and breathing out on a laugh himself, breathless, his head falling backwards.
They pull off of him slowly, one of their gloved hands removing from their own underwear to massage one presumably-sore hinge of their jaw. They’re so flushed, still kneeling on the floor in front of him, slick with new sweat, rushing with hectic color, chin wet, lips shining when their tongue swipes out to lick along the bottom curve.
Oluwande’s knees go weak again, and he asks, “Can I… I— I mean—”
“C’mere,” Jim insists, rising up. Oluwande offers a hand; they’re smiling when they take it, allowing him to help hoist them to their feet. They unbalance, for a moment, their legs slightly numb, but he helps to steady them.
Then, Jim’s yanking their other hand free from the insides of their clothes. Their glove is glistening-wet with their own slickness, and Oluwande is struck with the overwhelming desire to lick it, to glide his tongue over their leather-covered palm and taste the musk and the cum and them.
He doesn’t even get the chance to ask.
Instead, Jim’s hitching forward, their gloved hands taking hold of Oluwande’s hips. They tilt into a rough kiss with him while they fit their thighs on either side of one of his.
They grind down onto his thick thigh, and they moan, bit off inside their throat.
In an instant, they’re fucking themself on his thigh, rolling into him without rhythm. They’re frantic, desperate; he takes their hips, too, and drags them over his thigh, brings his leg further up at an angle, giving them more pressure, and more.
They’ve got to be close already, because it’s only minutes of this before their kiss grows sloppily and their hips hitch and then they’re grinding down on his thigh, a sustained beat. Their kiss goes loose, lips smearing along Oluwande’s, then pulling across his chin. Their forehead collides with his shoulder, and they just catch their breath there, chest heaving, air wheezing through their lungs.
“Fuck,” Oluwande breathes. Jim huffs a soft noise. “I kind of wanted to taste you, too.”
Jim lifts their head and kisses him without hesitation, when he says that, falling into him. Oluwande can’t focus on anything except them, their roughness, their sweetness, the way they’re clinging to him, their body still twitching with the rolling aftershocks of their orgasm.
“Maybe next time,” Oluwande says, rasping, when they part again. Jim’s own previous “next time” is still ringing in his ears like the ringing echo of a bell.
Jim smiles.
Oluwande tries to burn the sight of them smiling between his thighs into his memory forever.
“That sounds good,” Jim agrees, their own voice obliterated. Oluwande wants to wrap his hands around their throat, wants to kiss them until he dies, wants to fuck their throat all over again, wants to leave marks, wants to brush kisses, wants to—
Fuck, he wants Jim.
Jim tilts into him, and Oluwande gives into instinct, tipping his head up to guide them into another kiss, slower and more languid this time.
Fuck, fuck, they taste like him, combined with that spice and heat that they’d had before, and the two of them mingled in their mouth, passing to his, makes him groan slightly down their throat.
“You’re a good driver, too,” Oluwande says, mindless. “Sorry, I think I forgot to say earlier. You’re a really fucking good driver.”
“Good enough to beat you,” Jim replies. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oluwande agrees. “Better. You— Izzy Hands taught you?”
“Don’t say Hands’s name right now,” Jim warns him, a twitch of a smile still at the edges of their lips. “But, yeah. Taught me a lot. Not everything, but— Yeah, a little bit.”
“Bonnet taught me,” Oluwande offers.
Jim’s eyes survey him again, a little deeper this time.
“I’m never going to hear the end of this,” Jim says, a statement of fact.
“I won’t tell him,” Oluwande rushes to tell them. “I didn’t mean—”
“He’s going to find out when you take me out to dinner,” Jim points out.
Oluwande starts to agree, to acquiesce, and then, he actually processes what they’ve said, and his blood runs hot and fast through his veins again, a race to the finish.
“Wh— Yeah,” Oluwande says, dry-mouthed. “Yeah, they— He— Yeah, probably.”
They dig through their suit, reaching into an inner pocket to pull out a wallet. From there, they withdraw a business card. They offer this to Oluwande with fingers that are still encased in their gloves, and Oluwande takes it with his bare fingertips, feeling the heat from their body through the tiny, thick paper.
“Call there,” Jim instructs him, “and tell them you’re calling for a race. I’ll remember your name.” They tilt their head, eyes burning over him. “Oluwande Boodhari.”
“Got it in one,” he replies, “Jim Jimenez.”
They stand there together in a silent beat.
Then, Jim reaches past Oluwande, unlocking the door behind him.
Immediately, Oluwande starts to say, “Right, right, I’ll just go, I’ll—”
Jim stops him, fingers hooking in the tight shirt clinging to Oluwande like a second skin, gloved fingertips catching against his skin.
Then, they haul him in, pulling him in for another deep kiss. They’re sloppy, now, their control slipped, and they just seem to enjoy it, melting into an indulgent swap of breath with him, kissing just to kiss.
Oluwande’s emotions and thoughts and actions and all semblance of coherence fly from him, leaving at once.
This is more than a crush. Possibly more than infatuation. Oluwande is obsessed with them.
Jim’s lips move against him, then part again, tongue gliding along his. Oluwande’s cock twitches, a valiant effort towards revival, impossibly compelled and captivated by everything Jim says, does, is.
“Call me before nighttime,” Jim tells him, more an instruction than a suggestion.
“Can do,” Oluwande agrees.
He wants to kick himself, but Jim just smiles.
They lean in, and Oluwande’s expecting another kiss, but they just push their lips softly to the corner of his mouth.
“Good,” Jim says, and then they’re pushing open the door, disappearing through it.
Oluwande’s left in the darkened hallway, cock still wet, out in the open air, debauched and messy. His chest heaves, for a moment, heart still racing, before he hurriedly swipes his cock off with his glove. He’s still sensitive, hissing through his teeth, but it has to be done.
All in a rush, he tucks himself away again, making quick work of refastening his suit again. He can’t get it all back together properly, but he decides it doesn’t matter; he’s wrapping up here, anyways.
He’s just shoved his cock away and finished snapping his suit back up when the door opens up again. He leaps backwards as if scalded by fire, already starting to try and come up with an excuse, but it’s Jim’s face that pokes through.
“You coming or not?” they ask. “I’m not waiting forever.”
“Oh— Yeah, yes, coming,” he says. “Coming, yeah, I’m right here, I’m coming with you.”
Jim’s smiling again when they pull Oluwande through the door with them, back into the lights and music and noise and chaos, screaming fans, shouting voices, microphones, screens, cars, chaos and mayhem—
—and, in the middle of it all, in the eye of the hurricane, stands Jim apart.
Oluwande kind of can’t wait to lose a race to them again.
And he really, really can’t wait to call them later tonight.