Work Text:
Monaco
23 May 2021
Max rides out his high, his hips snapping into Charles as he succumbs to the woozy flood of pleasure. His stiff muscles loosen and his neck gives out. He catches a whiff of champagne as his head lulls — his thirty second shower clearly not enough to wash the podium from his hair.
As he comes down from his blissful oblivion, Charles clenches around him, hard and unexpected.
What was that for?
Reprisal, perhaps? Retribution for not getting to start his home race, then having to put out when Max came knocking for a post-win quickie.
Slowing his thrusts, Max’s mind clears enough for him to remember how he’d been dragged over Charles’ threshold by his shirtfront and pushed against the closest wall, all before he had a chance to apologise for turning up uninvited. Charles had admitted — breathy and hot against his ear — that he’d spent the past fifteen minutes opening himself up; that he’d been moments away from calling Max to ask him to come over and fuck him until he forgot today ever happened.
The mental image of Charles on top of these crisp sheets, touching himself, thinking about him, had short-circuited his brain earlier, and now the thought is enough to make his spent dick twitch.
Charles clenches again, rocking back against him.
They’ve had enough sex over the past few months for Max to know what it feels like — what it sounds like — when Charles comes. It clicks then that Charles hasn’t got there yet.
Max releases one side of his waist, revealing the strawberry-red thumbprint he’s stamped into the small of Charles’ back. Returning to his senses, he loosens the comparable, vice-like grip on his other side. Still holding on for support he reaches around to wrap his free hand around Charles’ cock.
Max’s hips shudder to a halt as he finds Charles isn’t hard. Worse than that, he’s completely fucking flaccid. Giving him two encouraging strokes, Max contemplates what to say.
Charles cuts into his scrambling thoughts, “Let’s stop.”
An uncomfortable mixture of indignation and embarrassment pricks at Max’s cooling skin. He aims to bring an ounce of levity as he fights to say, “Was that too soft for you?” but his tone is a touch too clipped to hide his chagrin.
“I lost it, y’know?” Charles’ voice is raspy, likely from the chant of swears and grunts Max had torn from him.
He had sounded like he’d been enjoying himself... Maybe Max had been too caught up chasing his own pleasure.
Charles winces as Max pulls out, the muscles in his back tensing in a uniquely unpleasant way. A weight that feels suspiciously like unease presses against his chest. Charles had told him in his thick, lust-filled accent not to hold back tonight, but maybe Max had gone too far.
He clears his throat. “Was I too—”
“No,” Charles interrupts, stern and direct. He twists to look over his shoulder and lock eyes with him. His gaze flicks down to where Max’s hand is still holding his hip, his thumb rubbing absentminded circles into his skin. When Charles meets his eye again he lets go.
“You were exactly what I needed,” Charles reassures.
Max nods and tries not to read into what Charles means by that. He wriggles back from him, sitting on his heels to tie off the condom.
The content, smug satisfaction that usually follows sex with Charles dies before it could blossom, leaving behind a shrivelled, ugly knot in Max’s stomach. He sighs and cracks his neck to shake off the dregs of adrenaline, like he has to do after an out-of-the-points finish. He’s put in the same amount of effort — maybe more — only for it not to pay off, for him to come away with nothing but drying sweat and disappointment.
Disillusioned, he shuffles off the bed and disposes of the condom in the small bin he’d spotted by the bedside table. He continues into the ensuite and takes the washcloth from inside the shower. Using the reflection in the mirror above the vanity, Max steals the occasional glance into the bedroom as he wets the cloth and cleans himself off. Charles is still on his forearms and knees, face buried in his pillow, he doesn’t look like he’s going to be moving any time soon.
Even from here, Max can see the beads of glistening lube leak from him. The handprints on his hips and back — from where Max had held him down — are still there, blotchy and red. Any other time the sight would have elicited a primal, gratified thrum through his veins. This time, Max looks away, staring down into the basin. With shaky hands he rinses and soaks the cloth in scalding water, wrings it out and returns to the edge of the bed.
By way of warning, Max walks his fingers across Charles’ lower back. Charles instinctively nuzzles deeper into his pillow. His spine concaves to push his hips higher, closer to Max’s touch. Max wipes the washcloth over the slick mess coating his arse and thighs. Charles flinches, sucking in a sharp hiss.
They don’t do this; they don’t clean each other up afterwards. With a furrowed brow, Max stifles the unfamiliarity by listening to Charles’ body. He lightens the pressure and quietly hushes Charles, coaxing him to give in to the feeling.
To his surprise, Charles obeys. Warmth seeps into the muscles between Max’s ribs, tight and hot, making it difficult to breathe. He scowls at the absurdity of it, then Charles sighs and starts to rock with his motions, and a niggling voice in the back of Max’s mind betrays him. It whispers to stop pretending he doesn’t enjoy seeing Charles like this: so pliant, so unguarded, so exposed, for his eyes only — for tonight at least.
Once Charles is clean and soothed, Max retreats to chuck the soiled cloth in the sink. Normally they would have started to get dressed by now. They’ve got what they wanted — or at least Max had — this is the time to rush off to whatever other commitments they have. Or lie about having. But Charles doesn’t have anywhere else to be.
Somewhere in the heated rush between his foyer and bedroom, Charles breathlessly told Max he had cancelled all his own post-race plans, and that he left Carlos’ first Ferrari podium celebrations after less than an hour.
So here he is, pitifully poised on his queen bed, in his apartment, commitment-less.
Max looks towards the bedroom door. He should leave. Yet he can’t help but admit it would be callous, even by his standards, to leave him like this.
Charles rolls his head to the side, watching with evident intrigue as Max comes back to lie on the vacant side of his bed.
“What’s that face for?” Charles asks once Max settles.
“What?”
“You look like you’ve eaten a lemon,” Charles purses his lips and knits his brow in an exaggerated attempt to mirror Max’s sour expression.
“I do not. Anyway, you’re the one that should be pissed off.”
“Why?” Charles tentatively inches himself down the bed to lay on his stomach.
“You didn’t, you know…” Max gestures to where his limp dick is pressed into the covers.
Charles shrugs, “I couldn’t get out of my head, which is a shame because that was good, really good,” he muses, sliding his arms under his pillow, cradling it against half his face.
“It can’t have been that good if your mind was wandering.” Max doesn’t like this feeling, it is too much like failure; like starting on pole and stalling, helpless as the entire grid overtakes you.
Charles breaches the space between them — something they rarely do post-sex — to brush Max’s fringe off his forehead.
“It was good for you though, no?” Charles asks.
The sweaty strands fall back where they were. Charles frowns but doesn’t attempt to move them again.
Max might have admitted that was the hardest he’d come in months, if the sentiment was going to be returned. However, the glint in Charles’ eyes makes Max consider he already knows. Refusing to give himself away further, he simply nods.
“That’s all that matters then,” Charles’ smile is small and easy, like he means it. He must be too used to disappointment, too familiar with getting halfway there and having it all fade into nothing.
“No it isn’t,” Max surprises them both with his sincerity.
Charles blinks, “It is tonight,” he says, “Plus, it gives us an excuse to do that again,” Charles smirks and closes his eyes.
The action has a finality to it that Max doesn’t appreciate. “No,” he declares.
Charles squints one eye open. He never mastered the look of media-trained vacancy, the twitch of his brow giving away the concern he’s being rejected.
Max pats the swell of Charles’ bare arse, “It’s not good enough,” he clarifies, squeezing once, “Roll over.”
“Seriously, Max, you don’t need to bother. You have a million other places you need to be.”
“I don’t care,” he admits, shocking himself to find it’s the truth. Everyone attending the after parties in his name are going to have to wait. “I’m not leaving you here more unsatisfied than when I arrived. You’re getting off too, even if it takes me all night.”
Charles’ cheeks flush, and the vibrant green of his eyes is swallowed by the darkness of desire. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?” He asks.
“Not unless you really don’t want me to.”
Charles rolls over, which would be answer enough, but he decides to confess, “I always want you. It is my brain that isn’t getting with the program tonight.”
His flippant use of ‘always’ buzzes under Max’s skin, and next thing he knows he’s throwing a leg over Charles, straddling him.
He leans down until they’re nose to nose, whispering, “We’ll take it slow this time,” against his lips before capturing them in a soft, chaste kiss.
It takes Charles by surprise, he exhales a quiet, “Okay,” against Max’s mouth.
They don’t kiss all that much. They’re usually too riled up and busy pushing the other down into the mattress for that. But Charles matches Max’s lazy rhythm like they do this every day.
Warm hands run up Max’s back until deft fingers tangle in his hair. Charles’ tongue, ghost-like, licks along the seam of Max’s lips. It is subtle enough Max could be forgiven for thinking he imagined it. To be sure, he does the same to Charles who instantly opens his mouth and tugs him closer.
Max’s stomach swoops in the most juvenile, giddy way. It is different to the burning arousal they usually dive into headfirst. It’s delicate and it flutters. Charles must feel it too, if the way he shivers when Max’s tongue brushes his is anything to go by.
They kiss until they’re breathless.
Max nips at his bottom lip a final time before pulling away. Charles shamelessly chases after him.
Max files that tidbit away but doesn’t indulge him. He nudges his chin up with his nose and latches onto his thick neck. The sigh Charles lets out is tight and choked, and then he’s shifting their bodies so Max’s thigh comes to rest between his legs, putting pressure against his not-so-soft-anymore cock.
Charles’ hips grind up, seeking out much needed friction. Max doubles down, licking, kissing and sucking his neck. Gently, roughly, wantonly.
Not wanting to draw attention to the fact Charles is getting lost in the moment, yet unable to leave him to do all the work, Max tenses and relaxes his thigh, rocking in unison with Charles’ movements.
They pick up momentum. Charles’ arousal leaks onto Max’s leg. Slick and slippery, it makes the glide of his dick deliciously easy.
Charles readjusts, tilting so he can reach down with one hand. He squeezes Max’s arse, the muscle already taut with the effort of keeping up the pace. Charles’ fingers slide further and hook into the defined crease meeting the back of his thigh. He squeezes.
Despite having just got off, Max is beginning to get worked up again. Usually it would take longer, it would take more, but his own dick is twitching with interest as it rubs into the curve of Charles’ pelvis.
Fingers dig deeper into flesh as Charles cups his hand, pushing Max down, dragging him forwards and backwards with the wrist strength needed to turn a car at 5g. His other hand, still in Max’ hair, tightens its grip. Charles’ moan is followed by a string of keening grunts.
We need to do this here more often.
Charles has never been this vocal, this loud, before tonight. It may have something to do with him being home. Safely surrounded by the familiar. He’s not caught up being afraid of what team personnel might hear if they walk past locked hotel doors. Or maybe, selfishly, it comes down to the fact Max – studious and observant – has learnt how to read Charles’ body, how to make him unravel at the seams. Perhaps he knows more than a rival should, but he isn’t about to stop now, not when Charles whines his name, hot and rushed against his ear.
Max latches on to the soft, fleshy skin under his jaw, sucking hard enough for Charles to moan again, but light enough not to leave a mark. Maybe he could get away with one. Just this once. Tonight. He’d make sure it’s light enough to fade before Baku…
“You b-better not be, ah, leaving love bites,” Charles stumbles with the effort needed to piece together a full sentence.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Unconvinced, Charles humphs. Before Max can move away to prove it, he’s pulled closer. “Would feel good if you did,” Charles hums. It’s an aside, a throwaway comment, nevertheless, Max’s hips stutter.
“Is that permission?” He teases.
“No way,” Charles snorts, yet tilts his head to bare more of his neck.
The smile that twitches at Max’s lips disappears as his phone starts to ring, vibrating violently on the bedside table. Max puffs out a curse. He only allows a select few contacts to break through his do not disturb. Right now, they can all wait.
Skilled fingers leave his hair, muscles shift beneath him. He’s reaching for it.
“Leave it,” Max growls, catching Charles’ wrist without so much as a glance up. He returns his hand to his hair which earns a chuckle from the man beneath him.
Charles slides his hand up his spine to join his other, tangling in his hair.
“Do you like this?” Charles cards his fingers through the short strands.
This thing between them is too volatile and undefined to start openly confessing likes and dislikes — outside of those that are necessary, and those too obvious to be denied — so it is with utter reluctance that Max murmurs his agreement.
His ringtone cuts off and Charles takes a deep breath, the tension they had built together ebbs from him in waves; his whole body relaxing as he exhales.
Max sighs, buries his face in his shoulder, and inhales. His head swims with the scent of his warm, woodsy cologne, and what he’s come to learn is just Charles.
“Sorry,” Charles caresses the back of Max’s neck, soothing the frustration that might have otherwise consumed him.
He should get off him, he shouldn't let himself succumb to this type of comfort. Perhaps he should also consider how Charles has the ability to silence what would otherwise be an instinctive, snarky remark regarding his inability to keep it up.
Charles takes a deep breath, his chest expanding, raising Max up with it.
They exhale, slowly, in unison.
He made Charles a promise, and there isn’t much he despises more than empty promises. He changes tactics.
“Talk to me,” he whispers against the shell of his ear.
Charles is quiet for a moment. “I thought this year would be different. That win was mine for the taking.”
Max doesn’t have the heart to tell him he meant for Charles to talk dirty, to tell him exactly how to get him back in the mood. Max flounders, his composure fraying as he’s faced with the type of conversation he tries his best to avoid.
“Everyone knows you have shit luck around here,” he states.
Charles huffs at his matter-of-fact tone, Max lifts his head, catching the end of Charles’ eye-roll, watching as his focus fixes to the ceiling fan whirring above them.
Determined to prove he does have a sympathetic bone in his body Max pushes through his discomfort, “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Anyone with a brain knows today wasn’t your fault. It’s your team’s god-awful quality control that screwed you over.”
“You know you’re not helping, right,” Charles doesn’t deny it, Max tries not to smile at that.
“People rattle on about you being cursed,” Max continues, “As if some fairy-tale villain came in the dead of night and cast some wicked spell on you,” Max scoffs. Charles, however, verges on amused, exhaling a begrudged laugh. It spurs Max on.
“Look, it sucks now, and you have all the what-ifs and could-have-beens running through your head,” he taps Charles’ temple, failing to coax the Monegasque to look at him, “You have to shake them off. They’re not worth dwelling on.”
Charles’ fingers halt their absentminded caresses through Max’s hair, his brow furrowing. “If you hadn’t guessed, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
Without the gentle ministrations grounding him, Max bristles; not because Charles hinted at using him as a distraction, but because he’s damn well trying here, and Charles isn’t giving him an inch. “I know you wanted this win. One day you’ll get it,” he struggles to keep his voice even, “Imagine how sweet that will taste. Redemption. Proving all the doubters that you can actually drive the streets you grew up on.”
Charles exhales sharply, his clenched jaw relaxing as he asks, “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make something consoling sound utterly backhanded,” his dimples pop as he loses his grip on his frustration.
Max battles to hold on to his own annoyance. He shrugs a shoulder, “Someone’s gotta keep the Tifosi’s precious predestinato humble.”
Charles scrunches his nose and rubs his eyes, “Your accent is terrible.”
The next words have been on Max’s tongue since he glimpsed Charles in the crowd under the podium, clad in jeans and a Ferrari polo. He opens his mouth again, only to be struck silent as Charles chooses that moment to look at him.
Maybe he shouldn’t admit it. Surely it would be crossing one of the many lines he’s identified since they began whatever this is. Yet Charles is looking at him with curious patience. He certainly isn’t going to speak first, not when he’s seen Max stumble on his own thoughts.
Priding himself on his honesty, Max fixes him with a steely gaze, “You deserved better today, to be up there, too. With me.” He falls short of professing Charles should have won, he’s not that self-sacrificing.
The metal bands of Charles’ ring are cool against his cheek as he slips a hand down to sweep his thumb across his cheekbone. Strangely, Max can feel it swoop in his stomach as well.
“Tu es toute guimauve à l'intérieur, n'es-tu pas? Doux et sucré.”
Max rapidly tries to translate, he’s picked up enough French over the years to get the gist. However, he’s pulled in for a blistering kiss before he can rebut him.
It’s brief and leaves him wanting, but he is being pushed away. Charles doesn’t stop pushing and Max starts to slide off his body. He bears down, an eyebrow twitching up in question.
“It’s alright, you can go,” Charles says.
“Go?” Max asks dumbly. “I already told you, I’m not leaving.”
“Max.”
“Charles,” Max matches his attitude.
They glare at each other. Finally, Charles stops pushing.
“Good. Okay,” Max readjusts and shifts his weight so he can balance on one arm. He reaches over to the bedside table, holds down the power button on his phone and turns it off. “I guess I’m going to have to pull out the big guns.”
“The big guns?” Charles asks as Max shuffles down his body.
“Count yourself lucky, I don’t do this often,” he spreads Charles’ legs and settles between them.
“I don’t like the sound of— oh,” Charles cuts himself off as his brain registers what it means that Max has lifted up his dick, his parted lips moments from wrapping around his tip.
Max tilts his head to the side, laughing into his shoulder, “Did it take you that long to realise?” He asks.
“Hey!” Charles scowls, “You’re the one who’s too lazy for this type of sex.”
“Lazy? You don’t give me the choice half the time,” Max starts to jerk him off as he lists Charles’ most libidinous behaviours: “Demanding I hurry up before I have a chance to get my shoes off. Quick handjobs before leaving for the track. Or tonight,” Charles grows heavier and harder in his hand, “Fucking your own fingers so that I…” Max loses his train of thought as his imagination runs away from him again, “So I, what did you say? ‘didn’t waste time prepping you’,” the memory of sliding into him the moment he got his shorts off and the condom on shifts the atmosphere between them. Charles whines and bucks into his hand, “You’re insatiable,” he concludes.
“You can’t talk,” Charles retorts, voice tight, “You’re always in a rush, Mister I-don’t-have-time-for-round-two. Or, there was that time I didn’t get to fu—“
“That’s enough,” Max interrupts, he doesn’t want to be reminded of how their only attempt to switch ended with Charles’ fingers being enough to push him over the edge. To secure Charles’ silence Max takes him in his mouth and hollows his cheeks. The squeak of surprise above him has Max stifling a smug snort.
Charles curses as Max licks over his slit. He focuses all his attention on his tip until he’s met with fresh, salty beads of arousal.
It’s not like he hasn’t tasted Charles before – he’s taken great pleasure watching Charles crumble when he licks his hand clean after their exploits – but this is different. This is an act in and of itself. It tastes sweeter, like champagne after a win, as opposed to second place.
He slides his mouth down, finds his limit, and covers the rest of him with his hand. Tight and wet he bobs his head up and down, twisting his wrist as he goes.
Charles melts into the mattress, quietly absorbing the feeling.
Max goes as long as he can until he has to pull off to give his jaw a break and his lungs a chance to take a full breath. Unable to resist the urge, he presses sloppy kisses to the underside of his dick and he slides his free hand down to cup his balls. That kicks something into gear within Charles, he picks up his own rhythm, bucking into his hands.
“That’s it, schat— ” the word slips from Max’s lips before his brain could catch it.
Shit.
He braces for Charles to start overthinking, but the endearment appears to have the opposite effect on him. Charles squeezes his eyes shut tighter and all but whimpers, like he understood…
“Max,” he sighs.
Interesting.
They talk during sex, sure, but it’s mostly a quick check in, or the occasional curse to let the other know they’ve hit the right spot. That being said, it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that the serial people-pleaser has a praise kink.
Willing to try anything at this point, he bites the bullet. “So good for me,” he whispers, then licks a stripe up his shaft. Charles arches into him, Max has to claw back the all for me that nearly rolls off his tongue.
Max removes his hand from where he’d been gently rocking his balls, Charles grumbles an incoherent protest, Max shuts him up by pressing his middle and ring fingers to his plush lips.
Charles gulps as he gets the hint. He takes Max’s fingertips into his mouth. Warm and wet. Max’s dick twitches. Charles perches himself on his elbows for enough leverage to slide his fingers further into his mouth. Swirling his tongue around them, he sucks. Max’s stomach lurches. The shot of arousal that ricochets through him is so sudden, so violent, it aches. He’s fairly sure he’s leaking all over Charles’ sheets.
He wraps his lips around his cock again. Pushing his fingers deep into Charles’ mouth before slowly pulling them out. Charles hollows his cheeks, making the drag hot and tight. They pop free, obscene and wet. Max’s hips rut sharply into the bed. Fuck…
Shuffling to the side somewhat, he spreads Charles’ thighs wider and runs his spit-slick fingers over his hole. Still stretched and wet inside from the copious amounts of lube they used earlier, they slide in with relative ease.
The sensation catches Charles off guard, his thighs and abdomen tensing. The whine that follows is less heady, more strained.
Max gently pushes in deeper.
The atmosphere between them shifts. Max can almost hear Charles’ mind whirring, the anticipation rapidly dropping off a cliff.
“Don’t lose it now, you’re so close,” Max all but begs.
“Can you, ugh—” Charles hisses as Max curls his fingers, “ Merde, Max…”
Max can’t quite decipher if Charles is wading through pleasure or pain. He removes one finger and tries again. He’s met with a muted version of the same response.
“You okay?”
“Hurts.”
Max freezes, it’s as if he’s been thrown into an ice bath.
“Sensitive,” Charles tries to correct his word choice.
“I—” it takes a moment for Max’s mind to catch up. Charles meant what he said first. “Shit.” He ever so gently pulls out his finger.
Charles shudders.
Dismay ripples down Max's spine, “Charles…” His name rolls from his tongue like an apology, a soothing hush with no harsh consonants, the way he always refuses to pronounce it.
Charles lets out a shaky breath and runs his fingers into Max’s hair, “Shh, chéri …”
Max is helpless to prevent the blush from heating his cheeks. Maybe he could come around to the idea of pet names too, if they sound like that.
“Do you want to stop?” Max asks, coming to terms with possibility tonight might not end the way he wants.
“No. Please don’t,” his hand inches from Max’s hair to trace the side of his face and sweep across his jaw, “Just no fingers.”
Running on impulse Max twists and presses a kiss to his palm.
Charles’ cheeks tinge a pretty shade of pink too, and Max is struck with an idea. He’s speaking before he’s thought it through, “Tell me if this is too much, okay?”
Charles’ expression morphs into one of intrigue. He nods.
Max kisses his palm once more, snatches a pillow from the other side of the bed and squishes it under Charles’ lower back, propping him higher.
He lies between Charles’ spread legs again, takes a steadying breath and — to build his courage — starts kissing from his knee down the inside of his thigh.
Charles wriggles, somewhat awkwardly, the muscles spasming under his lips.
Weird.
Max switches to his other leg and wonders if Charles is still breathing because the only sound he can hear is the fan above them and the soft smack of his featherlight kisses.
The quiet is spectacularly interrupted by Charles bursting into a fit of what could only be described as giggles.
Charles’ hand flies up to cut the sound off at the source, cupping his mouth tightly, his eyes wide and glossy.
“Since when have you been ticklish?” Max is unsure if he should be endeared or exasperated. He’s smiling, nonetheless.
Charles visibly swallows, muttering around his palm, “Since forever.”
“Forever, huh? Only here?” Max trails his fingertips down the inside of his leg.
Charles chuckles nervously, his muscles twitching again. He releases his mouth and shoves both hands under his back. “Yeah.”
“Nowhere else?”
He shakes his head.
“Hmm, I don’t believe you.” A piece of him wants to dive for his waist or the underside of his chin but Max is still on a mission. “You’ve hid it well, I’ll give you that much,” he returns to the task at hand.
“You’ve never been gentle enough to tickle me,” Charles admits.
Max pulls back, jaw set. He’s about to ask if that is a bad thing when Charles adds, “I don’t come to you for gentleness.”
Despite the fact this arrangement is restricted to race weekends, and there is no established rule of exclusivity, Max finds his mind clouds over with a single, dangerously possessive thought: Charles better not be going to someone else for soft sex.
“Well, I can be.”
“I never said you couldn’t,” Charles says, matter-of-fact.
“If you ever want that, you only have to ask,” Max speaks without thinking, because his only thought — despite being disturbingly unwarranted — is: mine.
Charles’ brow twitches, “It’s a bit of a mood killer to be laughing during sex, don’t you think?”
What? Max stares at him blankly. Doesn’t he enjoy laid back, light-hearted sex? Some of the best sex Max has had includes tumbling and fumbling around with a partner during summer break, or the off-season. The pressure having dissipated and the leash of expectation loosened enough for him to relax, take his time, and give in to his playful side — rather than using sex as a way to blow off steam.
“Depends what type of sex you’re having, it doesn’t always have to be hard and fast,” Max says.
“I suppose.”
Images of them — hazy and dreamlike — lying in Max’s bed a few blocks away, Max doing whatever it takes to make Charles giggle like that again, flash through his mind like he’s using a slideshow camera. Click. Click. Click…
“That’s not really our style, though.”
Max’s daydream fades, like a reel of blown-out film.
“You’re right,” Max mutters, leans down, and sinks his teeth into the flesh of Charles’ thigh.
“Fuck, Max.”
He sucks harshly, then soothes the bite with his tongue. If it’s enough to leave a mark, to stain his skin with a bruising patch of occupancy, then that’s purely a coincidence.
Max glances up, Charles’ breathing is shallow, his jaw somewhat slack. Max nips down his leg. Charles has managed to retain his hard-on this time, maybe the thought of gentle sex wasn’t as much of a turn-off as he wanted Max to believe. Good, because there’s nothing rough about what he's about to do to him.
He reaches his destination, and with a soft, wide tongue he laves his puckered hole and hopes it isn’t too obvious he’s never done this before.
Charles gasps, his fingers twitching in Max's hair.
“Mon dieu, that feels so…” Charles' voice trails off as he loses his train of thought.
Despite his pounding heart, Max keeps the pace aching slow. Each one of his wet kisses, tender laps of his tongue, and mumbles of pure enjoyment add up to something nearing reverence.
From the way Charles is whimpering and rocking against him, he’s revelling in it.
Max is hit with the urge, the deep desire, to push his tongue inside him, to really taste, to feel his warm walls clench around him. It takes all his strength to refrain. He files the idea away for another time. However, his forbearance doesn’t prevent his awfully hard dick from twitching with interest, seeking relief against the sheets.
Charles quickly climbs the incline towards bliss, he’s right there, Max can tell.
He’s so close, his breathing’s shallow, hips are bucking, and… It isn’t enough.
Max pushes against the back of Charles’ thighs, curling him up until his knees reach his chest. He readjusts his hold to pin his leg in place with his forearm and take Charles’ dick in his hand. The angle is too awkward to jerk him off properly, so he compromises, rubbing circles around and around, over his slick tip.
Charles’ fingers falter in his hair before he grips tighter. Pulling Max’s mouth closer, his nose burrows against sensitive, fleshy skin. The breathless way his name is moaned compares to losing control and careening side-on into a tyre barrier; it rattles Max’s rib cage, trips his heartbeat.
In the back of his mind — the part that’s not drunk off lust — a little voice is continuing to tell him things he doesn’t want to hear.
Determined to ignore, ignore, ignore, he focuses on Charles’ moans and hums of pleasure, and not his own voice as he mutters out loud, “You look so good, taste so good, you have no idea… ”
Charles whimpers, “I’m so close.”
“Mmm,” he encourages. Reticence be damned, they’ve come this far, “That’s it, babe. Come for me.”
Charles screws his eyes shut, bucking harder into his hand, pushing down against his tongue.
Knowing he’s right there is doing more harm than good. He’s trying to force it and it’s causing him to plateau.
If it was any other night Max might have tried banter: Come on, don’t let me finish before you. Again. Or maybe he’d rile him up: I know we’re in Monaco but surely you can finish something tonight. Except, he can’t bring himself to do either.
There has to be something else Max can try, something he can do or say…
Before he can think of a new idea, Charles is answering for him.
“Need more,” his voice is watery, as if he might be about to cry. The thought is unsettling to say the least. He needs to prevent that from happening and fast.
It clicks then what the issue has been, why Charles hasn’t been able to fall over the edge. He’s been taking everything Max gives him. He said at the start of the night that’s what he wanted, but maybe what he needs is all the control in the palm of his hand.
Max unfurls Charles’ limbs and takes the pillow out from under his back. Charles watches with desperate interest as Max repositions himself, ready to suck him off again.
With his hand at the base of his cock, propping him up, he reaches up and covers one of Charles’ hands in his hair, curling his fingers he forces Charles to grip him harder.
Max licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and says: “Use me.”
Tonight is a night of firsts, it seems. Later Max may need to evaluate why he is willingly putting himself into such vulnerable positions.
“But—"
“No buts. Don’t hold back,” he echoes the words Charles had whispered in his ear before they fell into his bed. “Don’t think about anything else,” he speaks with such certainty that Charles can only hesitate for a moment before he reluctantly nods.
He gently pushes Max’s head down, leading his mouth to his cock, his hips immediately bucking into the warmth.
Max hums, urging him to do it again.
They set an easy pace, it’s obvious Charles is still reserved. The next time he pushes Max down the Dutchman removes his hand, practically taking all of him in his mouth. Charles chokes on his moan, it masks the fact Max has to suppress a gag.
Charles gets braver after that, simultaneously pushing him down and rocking up into him. The combination has Max right on the limit of what he can bear, but Charles is consistently millimetre perfect, judging exactly how much Max can take.
Max risks a glance up, Charles is watching him, mouth parted, cheeks more flushed than before.
His hips stutter, “Shit,” he gasps out.
It’s hard to smile with a mouth full of dick but Max can’t help himself. Charles groans, his eyes flutter closed and he starts to lose his rhythm.
Max’s adrenaline spikes, it’s like starting the final lap. So close to the end. One more flawless run and you’re there.
“Max…”
He knows that tone.
Max hollows his cheeks and sucks harder.
The next thing he knows Charles is yanking him off.
Grumbling a protest, defiant and afraid Charles is about to lose it again, Max takes him back into his mouth, and picks up their previous pace.
Any surprise that Max would want to keep going is wiped away when he hits the back of Max’s throat and he swallows around him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Charles shudders.
Max forces himself to stay relaxed as Charles instinctively bucks deeper. He pulls out of his throat, his hips snapping shallowly into his mouth. Charles’ focus is intent, his muscles tensing, his shallow thrusts faltering, as he finally, finally, comes undone. The chorus of moans and curses mix with Max’s name as warm come spurts down his throat.
The triumph of getting Charles over the edge has Max right on the brink himself, his hand shoots down to squeeze his dick. This isn’t his moment. He isn’t about to risk losing momentum.
He hones in on finishing what he started. Trying not to choke, he swallows the best he can while still sucking and licking him through it.
Charles is a mess, there is no other word for it. He’s twitching, writhing and panting, still thrusting his hips into Max’s mouth. It has to be one of the longest, most intense orgasms Max has wrung from him. He’ll have to edge Charles more often if he’s going to come like this. What a sight it is, too...
Max would happily drown in this feeling, would go so far as to forfeit a win if it meant he could watch him fall apart like this over, and over and over again. Okay, maybe that’s the dopamine speaking, but it certainly compares to stepping onto the top step, soaking in the glory of success. He keeps going, drawing Charles’ bliss out for as long as he possibly can.
Eventually, Charles’ breaths turn shaky and he’s trying to twist away from Max’s mouth. He’s too dazed to speak, so Max fills in the blanks and slowly pulls off.
Charles twitches a final time, then all but melts into the mattress. He lacks his usual strength and can’t quite drag Max up to him, but the weak tug is enough for Max to know that’s what he wants.
Max manoeuvres up his body, avoiding putting pressure on any tender parts as he hovers above him. Charles takes a few calm breaths then gradually opens his eyes, pupils still blown, he’s met with Max’s smug expression, it earns him an eye roll before he’s yanked down into a blazing kiss. It’s unexpected to say the least.
Charles has found his strength, it seems, at least enough for this, because his tongue is already in his mouth and he’s surely able to taste himself. The thought does wicked things to Max’s mind and he can’t help but rut against Charles’ thigh.
“I want—” Charles’ voice is raspy and he trails off, getting caught up in another heated kiss.
“Hmm?” Max asks, he can’t seriously want to go again.
“C’mere,” Charles gesticulates something that Max can’t see. He makes the assumption Charles wants another kiss. So that’s what he gets.
Charles huffs and kisses back, a few rushed pecks, before he leans back and shuffles higher up the bed, resting against the headboard. He hooks his hands under Max’s arms and hoists him up his body.
Max sneers, not appreciating being manhandled, “What are you–”
“I wanna repay the favour,” Charles cuts in, rendering Max speechless. “Come kneel here,” Charles pats the bed on either side of him.
Max swallows, and silently obeys. Charles holds onto Max’s hips for support as he wriggles into position, his dick hardens at the sight of Charles lining himself up.
“I haven’t done this for a while,” Charles admits, having the audacity to appear sheepish as his hands snake around to cup his arse.
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Tell me if—“
“Charles, I’ll probably come the second you put your mouth on me.”
Charles’ cheeks flush, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, “You nearly came when I did, didn’t you?”
“Shut up, or else I’ll jerk myself off instead.”
Instinctively, and without thought, Charles opens his mouth, eyes alight with something teetering on desire. Like he wants Max to come in his mouth, on his face.
Max’s blinks and tries to speak. No words come out.
Charles shakes his head and smiles shyly, “Another time.”
Before Max can think a single, coherent thought, Charles drags him closer and wraps his lips around his hard, leaking cock.
Hot arousal floods Max’s groin so quickly it makes him lightheaded.
Charles hums like he’s enjoying the weight of him in his mouth. Max goes weak and tips forward, both hands gripping the mahogany headboard to prevent himself falling completely into him.
Pleasure shoots through him to the point he forgets how to speak. A pitiful, virginal, “Oh my,” is all he can manage.
He buries his face in the crease of his elbow and refrains from bucking his hips too sharply. Despite his best attempts he can’t help the odd thrust, and it’s greedily aided by the hands still clutching and kneading his arse. By god does it feel good. Charles’ tongue is as skilled as his fingers, it works wonders on him, and in that moment he can’t fathom why they’d never done this before.
“I’m not going to last,” Max manages to gasp out.
Charles practically moans around him, the vibration rockets through him. If Max whimpers no one else has to know.
It should be embarrassing how fast he gets to the edge but Charles relishes it, happily picking up the pace.
“Should I… Do you want—“ Max can’t formulate his question but Charles knows his answer, taking him deeper in his mouth, he hollows his cheeks.
He isn’t pulling off any time soon.
The realisation, and sweep of his tongue along the underside of his dick, is all it takes for Max to buck against the back of his throat and gasp out his second orgasm of the night.
Once he’s able to think clearly he’s struck with regret for having not leaned back enough to watch. He bet Charles looked a picture of sinful beauty swallowing his come.
He quashes the thought, pulls out of his mouth and sits back. Charles wipes at the mess around his mouth, his cheeks are red, his lashes wet with tears. Max frowns — he hadn’t meant to…
Charles drops his hand, revealing his bright smile, he flashes Max a miserable attempt at a wink. Max rolls his eyes, and because he can’t resist, leans down and presses a simple peck to his lips. Dismounting his hips, he collapses on the other side of the bed.
Charles stays where he is, perched awkwardly, catching his breath. Max reaches over and grabs his wrist.
“Hmm?” Charles asks, rolling his head to look at him. Max doesn’t say anything, only tugs. Reluctant, Charles resists, then whispers a quiet “Oh,” when he realises what Max wants.
He slips down to lay beside him.
Something deep in Max burns. Not enough.
Max wriggles his arm underneath Charles and hitches him closer until his head nestles under Max’s chin. Charles curls against him, slips a leg between his, and drapes his arm lightly over Max’s chest.
Much better.
“What’s the time?” Charles speaks swiftly once he settles, like he doesn’t want to draw attention to the fact this is the first time they’ve laid like this.
“I don’t wanna know,” Max admits. What was meant to be a 10 minute fuck-and-duck has turned into something easily breaching an hour. The longer he can stay blissfully ignorant of the time, the better.
“Will you head off now?” Charles asks, brushing his thumb along the underside of his peck.
“I should.”
“Yeah, you should.”
They fall into a moment of silence, Max should probably stop sweeping his hand up and down Charles’ shoulder blade. He doesn’t.
The moment doesn’t end, it keeps going and going — neither of them moving, neither of them speaking.
Maybe he should also open his eyes before he falls asleep.
“I can’t really go smelling like sex and your cologne though, can I?” He says eventually.
Charles’ muscles jolt, an involuntary, high-pitched, noise escaping him. He tries to recover, to hide the fact he was on the verge of sleep by quickly saying, “Yeah, I suppose. Sex you could get away with, smelling like me might be harder to explain.”
“Shower?” Max suggests.
“Together?” Charles sounds dubious.
“Mm-hm,” he tilts his face to rest his cheek against the crown of Charles’ head. The action comes across far more intimate than he intended, but he is too sated to care. Max is certain the smile he can feel twitching against his chest is mercilessly smug, but to his surprise Charles doesn’t make any snide remarks.
“Shower sex.” He says instead, it’s more of a statement than a question, like he thinks Max would only want to shower with him if it leads to another round.
To be fair, if the idea had been floated any other time they’d slept together it would have been the only reason Max would have let Charles under the spray with him. Yet he finds himself shaking his head. He wouldn’t be able to get hard for a long time, and the thought of trying to get Charles off a second time makes him groan, “Maybe another time, you were a lot of work tonight.”
“Gee, thanks,” Charles grumbles.
“It was worth it though.” Max isn’t sure why that doesn’t sound like a question. “I bet you’re glad I persevered, aren’t you?”
“You're fishing for compliments.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he smirks.
Charles mutters something about Max’s mouth that he doesn’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” Charles chirps and uses Max’s chest to push himself up, scrambling off the bed before Max can stop him.
He crouches down to rummage in his drawers. “Need anything?” He asks.
Max contemplates if wearing Charles’ clothes would be crossing a line, but a pair of underwear is thrown at him before he can decide.
“I seem to recall you arrived commando,” Charles says.
“Who says I don’t want to leave commando?”
“Free-balling in denim with a cock that sensitive–” he follows Charles’ gaze to glance down to where his softening dick rests, still a passionate shade of red and glistening with spit, “–you’re brave.”
“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Max quips.
“Can’t say I recommend it,” Charles flashes him a mischievous grin and pulls out a pair for himself.
Charles collects up Max’s clothes which they’d strewn across his bedroom floor in the haste to his bed. He holds out his hand. Waiting. Max chucks the underwear back to him, Charles smirks again and strolls into the ensuite.
The shower turns on and from this angle Max can see Charles’ reflection in the mirror, standing on the bathmat, testing the water.
With the speed and velocity of a bullet train Max is struck with the realisation that if they keep doing this they will get to the point of no return. Soon this will only be able to end one of two ways: they either become profoundly deliberate, or they break in catastrophic fashion. There will be no cordial parting of ways. No gradual fizzling out. Not when their veins run with more adrenaline than blood and they’re both as stubborn as each other.
The pitch of the water hitting the shower floor dissipates as Charles steps in.
If they stop now maybe they’re in with a chance. A chance to survive and return to live in the in-between — the limbo between friend and foe, love and hate, fire and ice; the space they have successfully navigated for the past few years.
Yet, Charles has taken Max’s clothes with him into the ensuite so Max tells himself there’s no other option, he has to get off the bed and follow him. This time.