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Max waits until his jet is high over the Pacific before he drops to his knees in front of Charles.
He thinks he showed plenty of restraint. The seatbelt light went off a while ago and the lights are dimmed, making the whole cabin look blue and hazy. The outlines of Alex and George are barely visible where they’re both dead asleep on the other side of the plane. He doesn’t know who let George on his plane, because it certainly wasn’t him. But there’s nobody else around. His management team flew back to Europe the previous day to have a meeting with Heineken, or something.
Max even waits until Alex starts snoring before the reckless, crawling energy becomes too much to bear. He can’t stop himself from running over every aspect of the race and the more time he spends on it, the more his skull feels like a poorly repaired kintsugi vase, ready to crack open as his anxiety ratchets higher. He has to do something about it. Has to get that fuzzy, brain dead relief.
And, well. If he can’t do it in a sensible, emotionally mature way, an orgasm will get the job done.
Charles is dozing too and he starts awake when Max puts his hands on his thighs, pulling his sleep mask off his skull. He looks annoyed and put out until he realise what’s before him, and then his expression changes dramatically. Max feels the muscles under his palms flex as Charles mumbles groggily, “Wh — Max?”
“Hi.” Max smiles up at him and reaches for the waistband of his trackpants. “Wanna blow you.”
“Max,” Charles admonishes and puts his hand on Max’s jaw to stop him from leaning forward. He sounds scandalised, which Max finds amusing. “We can’t.”
“Why not,” Max says, a statement more than a question. He slides his hands back towards Charles’ drawstrings, leaning forward to try and test his luck and loving the way Charles’ arm holds him back. So strong.
“Because Alex and George — “
“Are snoring,” Max dismisses. He knows he sounds petulant but he doesn’t care. He feels like a can of soft drink which has been shaken up moments before the tab is pulled. He’s pent up and he wants to be taken out of his own head. “It’s dark. Come on, Charlie…”
“Fucking hell,” Charles whispers as Max drags his palm over the hardening length of his dick. His thighs drop open just so slightly and Max fights the urge to grin; he’s got him. Charles is easy like that. His grip on Max’s jaw is keeping Max in place as much as it’s stopping him. All it ever takes is Max beneath him and a bit of a whine in his voice. Max, all wide eyed and blinking up at him, fat bottom lip dropped open —
Charles sucks in a breath beneath his teeth and the fingers on Max’s jaw loosen. Max doesn’t waste his chance. He leans forward and mouths along the line of Charles’ cock visible in his soft pants, placing kisses up and down his length and feeling the fabric moisten beneath his lips. He loves the shower-clean scent of him, and the human warmth beneath his lips. “Please?” he murmurs.
Charles groans, a rumbling sound Max feels, and his hand drops to his side as his thighs splay open. “If anyone wakes up I’m blaming you,” he says. Max almost snorts. What are they going to do, throw him off his own plane?
He pulls Charles’ trackpants beneath his thighs and kisses at his abdomen, right where the skin is indented and slightly sweaty from the pressure of his briefs. He licks over the happy trail beneath his lips and Charles jerks at the tongue laving over his sensitive skin. “Get on with it,” he demands, voice strained.
Max does grin this time. “Gonna make me?” he asks. Kisses and mouths at the soft skin beneath his lips, luxuriating in the shifts of Charles’ body beneath him. He feels better already with a task to focus on, a use for his thoughts and his body.
“Well you would like that, no,” Charles mutters. Max lets it go because it’s not like it’s untrue. “Max, seriously — ”
Max pulls his briefs down too, Charles’ hips lifting to accommodate him, and Charles’ cock is freed. Any teasing left in Max deserts him at the sight, thick and proud and already leaking at the tip. He shifts on his heels as his stomach tightens and the simmering pool of arousal low in his belly flares high. He was horny before. Now he feels — desperate.
This is what he wants. Needs.
He pumps Charles a few times, feeling the weight of him solid in his palm. Dips his thumb into the slit to drag some of the moisture down. “Put your hands in my hair,” he says. He means for it to sound like a direction, but instead it sounds like he’s pleading.
Then he sinks down on Charles, taking half of his cock in one go. Charles moans long and low and his hands thread through Max’s hair.
Max breathes in through his nose. Charles is heavy on his tongue, forcing his jaw wide. Max has always loved that he was big enough to do that. Big enough to make it ache.
He settles into a rhythm quickly enough, too impatient to waste any more time. One hand wrapped around the length of Charles that he can’t swallow, the other curled into a fist on his lap. He takes Charles deep every time, deep enough to feel the blunt head of his cock nudge at his soft palate. He runs his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his cock, clumsy with how crowded his mouth is. One time he spent so long tracing every vein on Charles’ cock that he’d had tears in his eyes by the time Max was done with him. Max doesn’t want that today; he’d rather Charles put tears in his eyes instead.
The saliva in his mouth starts to pool and escape, dripping over his lips and his chin. Already his head feels fuzzy, satisfied, on his knees with a cock in his mouth, right where he belongs. The reckless overstimulation in his head is smothered by the satisfaction and the heat in his belly.
He humps down a little onto the heel of his own foot, just to relieve his own neediness. He can’t really see Charles anymore but he can hear him moaning, and he can feel the vibrations through his fucking mouth. Charles’ hands are tight enough in Max’s hair to make it sting. Max doesn’t think he realises, and hopes he doesn’t notice. He’s pushing Max down onto his cock, forcing him to take him a little further every time, distant like he’s dreaming.
“So fucking good at this,” Charles gasps. Max knows. Natural born cocksucker, that’s him, with his fat lips and wide-set eyes, and the attitude that makes men want to put him on his knees to shut him up.
He hums a little and pulls off with a wet pop, swallowing down the build up of saliva and salty-bitter precome filling his mouth. Pumps Charles’ cock a little so it jumps in his fist. “Should go harder,” he rasps.
He can’t see much in the dim blue light but he sees Charles’ mouth drop open, feels the way the cock in his fist pulses.
“We have company,” Charles reminds him, sounding pained.
Max rolls his eyes. Push him further, he thinks. Push him over the edge. “I don’t mind if they listen,” he says and Charles makes a torn noise somewhere between a growl and a moan. Max begs, just quietly, “Charles.”
There’s a beat of silence. Max can feel Charles thinking it over. Thinking about Alex and George just metres away, and how little Max cares. It must be so obvious what Max needs now and it’s a little pathetic, maybe, but he wants it badly enough that it doesn’t seem to matter. He takes the tip of the cock into his mouth and licks around the head like it’s a goddamn lollipop, teasing and depraved. The wet sound is loud in the silence.
Charles is dead still. His body is rigid beneath Max. He doesn’t sound like he’s breathing at all. Max lets his fat cockhead sit against the swell of his bottom lip for a moment. “Fine,” he says. “If you’re really not into it – ”
Charles grips Max’s head with both of his hands and forces him back down, so rough that his cockhead punches into the back of Max’s throat, making him gag and choke. “Get back down,” Charles snarls, and then he’s humping up into Max’s mouth with quick, sharp jerks. He’s holding his head down so Max can’t move away, so that all he can do is stay as still as possible while Charles uses him. Max whines and squirms, unable to pull back, breathless and gagging.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” Charles tells him, voice lowered to a frustrated growl. “This is what you need? Huh? Just a cock in your pretty little mouth to turn your brain off?”
Max whines again, too loud – dangerously loud – and Charles shushes him. He holds Max down so his nose presses to the base of his cock, throat spasming and body helpless. “Shh, baby,” Charles says. “S’okay. I know you can’t help being like this. S’okay.”
He starts fucking his face again and then Max is gone, completely, as Charles uses him like a toy. He drowns in the feeling of Charles in him, in the discomfort in the hinge of his jaw, in the shiny spit drying on his chin. His lashes are wet and clumped with helpless tears. He ruts against his own heel to stave off the desperate need for friction against his own cock. It won’t be coming from Charles today. He’s in the right place, making Charles feel good, a doll to be manipulated.
Charles laughs at him. “Are you going to get off on your own foot,” he says, disbelieving, just edging on mean. His cock blurts more precome into Max’s mouth, right down his throat. He’s throbbing and heavy and hot.
He can hear himself. Desperate little noises, in between gasps for breath, punctured by the wet gurgles as Charles fucks his face, all of it indecently loud.
They’re going to wake up at this rate. Both of them, Alex and George. They’re going to hear what’s being done to him. It’s the only thing audible in the plane, unmistakable and filthy and loud. It turns his whole body into a beacon of hot wanting. He hopes they do wake up. Hopes it makes them feel hot through the shame of it. They’d know, then, what he’s like and what he likes to be done to him. That for all his prowess on track, his stony stoicism in front of the media, sometimes he just wants to be treated like a bitch.
He hardly remembers what sent him spiralling anymore. The reckless frustration feels like a distant memory now, drowned out by syrupy, dumb satisfaction.
“Look at you,” Charles says. “You belong down there.” He’s clearly forgotten his own instruction to stay quiet and his thrusts are jerkier, less rhythmic, more wild. He hooks a finger in either side of Max’s mouth, pulling so wide that Max can feel the sting in the corners of his lips. He moans, helplessly turned on by the careless treatment. Charles’ thrusts take on a hollow sound. There’s drool dribbling down his chin and onto his throat. He’s not in control of himself anymore. Charles controls his own thrusts, Max’s breathing, even how wide his mouth is. “Fuck,” Charles whispers.
One hand leaves his mouth and drags down to his throat, leaving a trail of saliva as it goes. Max knows what he wants. He forces himself to relax. Imagines himself hollow and open. Lets Charles’ cock push past that final stoppage of his throat, so he can feel himself through the thin skin of Max’s throat. Max whines through his nose because he doesn’t have room to make noise through his throat anymore, and then he’s coming against his own heel, hips jerking as his cock pulses and spits in his own pants.
And then he’s hazy for a little while after that on the come down, just a hole for Charles to fuck, loose and open with Charles’ palm over his neck, a finger pressing down in his mouth, the cock in his throat coring him open. Until Charles is swearing, muttering merde under his breath, and he’s pulling out of Max to jerk desperately at himself as he pushes himself over the edge.
Charles comes over his face, his cock spitting hot come over Max’s nose and his lips, dripping down onto his collarbone, the rest dribbling down the head of his cock and over Max’s wrist. He’s groaning, cock twitching and jerking in Max’s grasp while Max just pants and pants, trying to catch his breath and letting Charles defile him.
He has come in his hair. In one nostril. His throat feels stripped raw, like he’s working his way past a virus. His whole body feels lit up with satisfaction, listening to Charles groan and watching the way he slumps back in his seat, legs splayed proudly with Max still kneeling between them.
He kisses the inside of Charles’ knee and Charles’ hands come up to his hair, stroking through much more gently than moments previously, soothing the stinging spots where he’d pulled hard. Max leans into his touch just like the dog he often feels like; placid and happy to be praised, always searching for more. His brain is pleasantly fuzzy and blank.
“Happy now, you fucking nympho?” Charles asks on the exhale of an exhausted breath.
Max snorts, harsh and grating on his throat. He winces. “Yes,” he rasps. “Thanks.”
Charles pats his cheek. Max thinks of dogs again. “Go clean yourself up,” Charles instructs. “Then when you get back we can watch a romcom. No more thinking, yes?” He taps the side of Max’s temple to demonstrate his point.
Max sits back, locks eyes with Charles, and drags his thumb over the come still warm and sticky on his lower lip, sucking his thumb into his mouth as Charles watches. It’s bitter and gross as always, but it doesn’t matter when it makes Charles’ expression darken the way it does.
“Go now,” Charles says, low and intent, “or you’ll spend the rest of the trip on your knees.”
Max hauls himself to his feet and makes his way to the little bathroom stall at the end of the plane, feeling heavy and tired and satisfied. His throat sends little frissions of pain up to his temples every time he swallows. He’s hazy and disoriented, finding himself staggering once or twice on the way. But he feels… good. Finally. Relaxed, the way he always wants to be.
Who gives a fuck about racing when Charles can make him feel like this.
As he passes Alex and George and swings through the bathroom door, it occurs to him that he can’t hear snoring anymore. Huh, he thinks. He hopes they enjoyed the show.