Work Text:
Max can’t stop thinking about it.
The memory of Charles keeping his cock warm as Max sits through his team meeting is burned into his mind in the most filthiest form of torture.
From the sinful heat of Charles’ mouth to his flushed, wide-eyed expression, the image behaves as an unwelcome ghost, materialising into existence during the most inopportune moments. It’s a form of punishment. It must be. Because not even three days after introducing Max to what he now shamelessly considers one of his biggest kinks, Charles flies off to Maranello in hopes of optimizing the Ferrari’s operating window.
As a result, Max dreams of a repeat performance every night, picturing from memory the red spread across his cheeks. It is not easy to forget, especially with the way Charles’ skin had glistened, wet from the smear of drool and Max’s precome. More common than not, Max will wake up painfully hard, turning to his left only to find a pitifully cold and empty spot on the other side of his bed.
Worse though, is when he sits behind his desk. That stupid desk. Something so seemingly innocuous, now tainted by Charles’ mischief.
Even so, Max can’t bring himself to replace it. Not so soon. As a result, he squirms for hours, sitting though long calls, pretending not to be distracted by thoughts of fucking his boyfriend.
It does not help that Charles has been unusually quiet during his trip. Or well, maybe not unusual — he did inform Max beforehand, sending him a screenshot of his schedule, but still. Usually, he could count on at least one call of the certain kind with Charles. But no, the number of videos Ferrari is asking him to film is truly baffling, enough to send Max running to grab his glasses, wondering if his vision had doubled. By the time Charles calls, he’s half-asleep, humming absentmindedly to Max’s rambling before murmuring nonsensical goodnights. It’s cute, and Max would never replace it for the world so there’s no way he’s going to ask for Charles to stop simply because he wants to jack off.
But, Max can try and hide all he wants. He can try and hide his desires. His lust, but Charles— he will know. Max’s attempts will only be just that. Attempts. Futile, because even when Charles is half-asleep in Maranello, his ears will still pick up the unadulterated need in Max’s voice. And Max loves comparing him to a kitten, all sweet and lazy with mischief dancing in his eyes, but Charles, he can be much like a dog in some ways. He latches onto Max’s tells, all his momentary slip ups, similar to a puppy latching onto a bone. Yipping, biting, always eager to play. Always wanting to turn it into some sort of game.
And Max adores that about him. Loves that Charles trusts him enough to peel back the layer of his media facade. Sometimes though, Max wishes his puppy would be a bit more well-behaved.
schatje 🐱
[one image attached]
so excited to see you tomorrow 😘
In the beginning, Max isn’t suspicious when he sees the text messages. Charles had sent him a decent number of photos over the past few days, and only a few of them have been selfies — half-faced shots, or playful close-ups. The rest were pictures of the sky or, most often, of stray cats and dogs he found running across the streets.
So, it’s safe to say Max had been wholly unprepared for Charles’ antics. When he opens the picture, his back straightens, a shiver scurrying down his spine. His hands rest on his groin, gradually cupping his cock as he swallows at the sight in front of him.
It’s a mirror selfie inside a bathroom. The picture is taken from the side, with Charles sitting on the sink, most of his face cut out of the frame. His phone covers the remainder of his jaw, and he’s turned away far enough to keep his cock out of view. One hand grips the edge of the sink, his back twisted into an arch, and Max’s throat dries at the sight of Charles’ lithe waist. He bites back a groan when he notes the way it accentuates the curve of his ass, wanting to take at least a few minutes to appreciate Charles’ artistic vision before giving up entirely, slowly beginning to slip his hand under his waistband.
schatje 🐱
[one image attached]
wish it was yours instead
His what?
Intrigued, Max scrambles to open the new picture, anticipation sending his heart pounding against his chest. He’s clumsier than usual, using only one hand, and almost deletes the photo on accident.
The second picture is equally alluring, and Max’s cock hardens in his palm. The setting is still the same, but Charles has flipped the camera, bringing his phone higher. Closer to him. His phone is tilted at an angle that cuts off almost the entirety of face — only his mouth is visible, and fuck, if it isn’t a sight. Wrapped around three fingers, his pink lips are wet with carefully smeared drool. His fingers curl into his mouth, stuffed deep inside him and drool drips sinfully down his wrist. There’s no way Charles doesn’t know what exactly he’s doing, what memories he’s invoking. Max’s hand involuntarily tightens around his cock, a soft moan leaving him as he tips his head back at the unexpected burst of pleasure.
The rest of the frame is taken up by Charles’ chest. A low, strained sound escapes from the back of Max’s throat as he takes in the sight of his sun-kissed skin. Suddenly, all Max wants is to touch. His head is reeling, thoughts muddled as he imagines sliding a hand across Charles’ chest. Of wrapping his mouth around his nipples, grazing them with his teeth in order to feel Charles squirm and gasp underneath his grip.
They have always been so, so sensitive. Max had spent hours once, pinching the nubs between his fingers, watching as Charles would jerk at the jolt of pain. Of course, he had only made it worse for himself, each attempt of an escape a new cause for punishment, but he was utterly gorgeous like that — splayed beneath Max, completely at his mercy. It was only once Charles was shaking, crying silently, streaks of come painted across his chest, that Max finally granted him relief.
The memory alone makes him groan aloud. He wonders if Charles would want to recreate it anytime soon. He’ll have to ask.
Max isn’t completely sure if Charles wants a reply, but he’s better off being safe than sorry. After all, he’d been so sweet, sending such pretty pictures even though he’s been busy. Max’s chest tightens with a burst of warmth, the sensation all pleasant and gooey, a stark contrast to the rush of hot blood coursing through his veins.
you
not going to stretch yourself out?
Charles reads his message. This time, he takes longer to reply, but when Max sees a video file attached, he understands why.
Though he’s inside a bedroom now, Charles’ face is still hidden above the camera frame, his legs straddling a large bolster as he grinds his hips desperately against the pillow. For the most part, the video is filled with Charles’ pitiful whimpers, his frustrated moans as he drags his cock across the surface in search of friction. Not once does his hands wander to touch though, remaining dutifully flat on his thighs. Max smiles. He can’t help it — it’s nice seeing the fruits of his labour. There’d been a time when Charles had been so impatient, so eager to chase after his orgasms. Max had been quick to put a stop to that behaviour, teaching him the benefits of patience.
He continues to watch, enamoured. He soaks in each and every gasp, taking sick pleasure at how Charles will speed up, chasing his orgasm before tiring, inevitably failing with a soft cry. Max wishes he could see his face, itching to cup his cheeks and wipe away his tears. He’s so engrossed in the video, he almost doesn’t catch when Charles begins to speak. Almost. There’s a beat of silence as Charles stutters over himself. Then, he hears a quiet but earnest, “Has— Has to be your fingers, Max,” before the video stops.
He replays the video, enraptured at Charles’ attempts to chase his pleasure. To be fair, Max is hardly aware of his own, one hand wrapped loosely around his cock as he unintentionally begins to match Charles’ own rhythm. He’d never known what it was to truly want and love until he’d met Charles, the same way he’s only now learnt what it’s like to miss someone.
“Has to be your fingers, Max,” Charles repeats, his voice wrecked with desperation.
The frayed edges of Max’s self control snaps. His hips jerk. His breath short and uneven. A drawn out moan, before the edges of his vision darken. It lasts for only a moment, but Max is left gasping, his mind foggy with pleasure. He rides it out, eyes screwed shut until clarity crashes over him like an ocean’s tide. Once he’s gathered his bearings, he glances down at his boxers and—
He grimaces at the sight. That’s a pair permanently ruined then.
The video has begun replaying in the background, and Max’s cock does a half-hearted twitch as he cleans himself up with a wad of tissues. Not a chance. Max saves the video, then swipes away, typing out a question. One he’s been wondering ever since Charles had refused to show his face during the video.
you
were you crying baby?
miss my fingers so much, don’t you?
Max isn’t expecting a reply, half-expecting Charles to have fallen asleep after sending the video. However, Charles’ surprises him with another image.
The picture is sweeter this time. Softer. His face is visible now, though one side of him is pressed against a pillow. Sure enough, his eyes are glassy, his cheeks red, stained prettily with tears. Max wonders if he’s come at all.
schatje 🐱
how’d you guess :(
miss your cock too
and your kisses
did you like my gifts?
you
do you even have to ask?
i have them all saved thank you ❤️
you’re too sweet to me
schatje 🐱
i know!!
i should have teased you moree, right?
but i missed u too much
it’s fine, i cannot change anything now
and i think i will go to sleep
you will just have to be extra nice to me when i return, yes?
goodnight max love youu
you
if that’s what you want
goodnight charles
love you more
can’t wait to see you soon
After working in Formula One for so long you’d assume they’d be used to each other’s prolonged absence by now. They aren’t. In fact, Max thinks he’s only grown worse each time. He’s spoiled now. Greedy for Charles’ presence. His patience thins when he can no longer smell Charles’ cologne in his sheets. His mood sours if he accidentally cooks an extra serving of a meal.
People often say domesticity mellows you, but in reality, it’s done the complete opposite for Max. Maybe they're all liars. Or, more likely, they just don’t know what it’s like to have Charles in their life. If they did, Max doubts they’d be sane either.
He’s stretched out on a couch in his living room, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as he waits for Charles when he hears the door twist open. His boyfriend steps in, tired but smiling. Max’s heart skips a beat. He hurries to help with the luggage and Charles lets him take it with a murmur of gratitude. Up close, Max can tell he’s been sleeping, clothes wrinkled, hair a mess.
“Missed you,” Max says softly. He brushes Charles’ hair away. Presses a kiss on his forehead. “How was your flight?”
“Good enough,” Charles says. “I slept for most of it.”
He winds a hand around Charles’ waist, guides him inside and closes the door.
“I guess you’re too tired to go out for dinner today.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I ate on the flight, anyway.” Charles stifles a yawn. He is cute like this, cheeks puffy from sleep, green eyes blinking up at Max, legarthic. He can’t resist sneaking a quick kiss.
“Do you want to go straight to bed?”
Charles shakes his head, stares expectedly at Max to catch the hint. Needy. Max kisses him again, slower. It’s still gentle, but deeper as Charles melts into it. When he slips his tongue in, Max doesn’t fight, lets him do as he pleases, resting a palm on the nape of Charles’ neck. The suitcase has long been forgotten. Max kicks it away, against the wall. He’ll deal with it later. Tomorrow.
Charles pulls back. Not enough to leave Max’s arms. No, his grip is far too secure for that, but enough to prevent him from chasing after another kiss. “Been waiting to do that for days.”
Max grins. “Guess you missed me too?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
He shakes his head. “Just wanted to hear you say it,” he says, grinning wider when Charles scoffs, exasperated. “So, if it’s not the bed, what do you want then?”
“Maybe a movie?” He tilts his head, eyes all wide and hopeful. As if Max will deny him.
“Of course.”
Charles’ cheeks dimple. Max’s grip tightens around his waist, his throat clamming up, choking with love. Charles doesn’t fight against him and soon, he’s pressed up against Max, a pleased hum leaving his lips as he rests his face into the crook of Max’s neck. He doesn’t expect to feel Max’s hands under his thighs, nor does he expect to be lifted off the ground. He yelps, legs scrambling to wrap around Max’s waist as his arms fly around his neck.
“Max!”
“What?” Max says as he carries Charles to the couch.
“You scared me! I thought I was going to fall.” He pinches the side of Max’s neck.
Max hisses. “Fuck, that hurts, you brat.”
“Serves you right,” Charles mumbles into his skin.
“Don’t you trust me? When have I ever dropped you?”
“That’s not the point.” But he stops pinching him, kissing the spot in a silent apology. Of course, Max forgives him.
When Charles is skimming through the television in search of a movie Max’s phone lights up with a text. It’s from Red Bull. Important, it says in capital letters.
Max wants to ignore it but he knows he’ll forget if he doesn’t check it now. Unlocking his phone, he expects the worst, something that will cut short his time with Charles. He’s pleasantly surprised when it’s simply a sponsor meeting scheduled for tomorrow. Only two hours, maybe three but late enough that Max doesn’t have to wake up at the crack ass of dawn.
It’s also an opportunity, he realizes.
Glancing at Charles from the corner of his eyes, Max's mouth dries at the memory of his last Red Bull meeting. Charles is in the process of debating between one of the Hunger Games movies or some Wes Anderson film about a fox, his face scrunched into a thoughtful frown. It’s probably not the best time to ask, certainly not appropriate but Max’s mind can be—- depraved, when it comes to Charles. Especially after being away from him for so long.
He’s washed by tender light, green eyes particularly bright from the television screen and Max’s brain rears back to that memory. The one where he was kneeling underneath Max’s desk, all quiet and polite, so eager to please, so desperate to have a taste.
“I have a call tomorrow. With Red Bull,” Max says casually, as if he isn’t imagining Charles’ mouth wrapped around him.
“Oh?” Charles doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t suspect anything yet. “What time?”
“One. Do you— Do you want to go out for breakfast?”
This is where Max messes up. He stumbles over his words and has to repeat part of himself when his voice shakes. Not by much, but Charles catches on his fluster. He sets the remote down, turns his full attention onto Max, concerned.
“What are you not telling me?”
He regrets trying to beat around the bush. If he’d simply ask, Charles would have been the one having to gather his bearings. Instead, Max is pinned under the weight of Charles’ stare, trying his best to remain collected.
It’s not that he’s afraid Charles is going to judge. He has no pedestal to stand on. And he is far too kind in the first place. It is also not the worst thing he’s asked to repeat. Actually rather tame considering their history. He’s being stupid. Thinking too much, falling too deep into his thoughts instead of staring at what’s in front of him.
Max inhales. He interlaces a hand into one of Charles’ own, fingers intertwining. The warmth of his flesh is an anchor, hooking Max into the present.
“I want to do it again. Cockwarming,” Max says, spilling the words out in one breath. “Only if you want to, of course. If you’re too tired, it’s fine.”
He half expects Charles to laugh, to smile teasingly and make a light-hearted remark. It’s not a critique — Max would not have been upset — but an observation. An assumption.
He doesn’t.
He perks up instead. Again, a puppy.
“Oh? You should have just said.” The grip he has on Max’s hand tightens. “There was no need for all this— this beating around the bush, I think is what it’s called. But, you reminded me. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.”
Max raises a brow.
“I want to try something similar,” Charles starts, red creeping up his cheeks. “Instead of my mouth, I want— I want to have you inside.”
He trails off, averting his eyes. His tongue pokes one side of his cheek, struggling to continue. He eyes Max meaningfully, silently asking him to take the hint. Max would have to be pretty stupid not to understand, but unfortunately for him, Max is also a tease.
“Inside?” Max prompts, biting back a smile.
He doesn’t manage to hide it fast enough. Charles’ eyes narrow at his amusement and smacks his shoulder lightly. When Max only frowns, Charles raises an arm again. Alright then. Max lifts a hand up in surrender.
“Sorry.” He mollifies Charles with a quick kiss. “You want to sit on my cock this time? Is that it?”
At Max’s words, Charles’ shoulder visibly tenses, pupils blown wide with arousal. He nods fervently, shuffling closer, lips parting. A canine peeks out, nagging at pink flesh before he inhales, wetting his lips. He nods again.
Max can’t help but tease. It is so easy. Charles is always dangling the temptation in front of him with how eager he is. “Can you even survive until tomorrow with how excited you are?”
A crease forms between Charles’ brows. “Tomorrow? No, I will use my mouth tomorrow, but I want to try this today, while we watch the movie.” Then, he flushes, embarrassed. “Ah, unless you don’t want to?”
Max sucks in a breath. He surges forward, captures Charles’ lips with his own and swallows down the surprised moan. A hand makes its way in his hair, followed by a sharp tug. Just enough for the pain to blur into pleasure. Max gasps, a sound Charles takes as a victory given the way he smiles into the kiss. Well, Max can’t have Charles feeling too cocky, can he? He slides a hand under his thick hoodie, grazing his nipples with his nails. The reaction is instant. Charles jerks into an arch, a soft whimper leaving his lips.
“Stop playing dirty,” he says when he pulls away for a breath.
“You started it.”
“Whatever.” Charles nips at his bottom lip, giggles when Max winces. “You still have not answered my question.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re obsessed with me,” Charles replies cheekily.
Max scoffs but the sound is light-hearted, even to his ears. He is obsessed with Charles. No point in denying it now. He already has a hard time defending himself as it is, but with Charles underneath him, bundled in his oversized hoodie, his lips red and swollen from the kissing, Max feels– feels like he needs to take him away, far from the public’s scrutiny. It’s stupid. Contrary to the stories the media likes to spin, Charles is more than capable of holding his own. It’s all nonsense, the lies they make about Charles' supposed inconsistency and the nasty articles centered around his family, his grief. As if it is something to sensationalize. His heart strings tighten as he takes in the sight below him, itching to cup Charles’ face between his palms and kiss him for hours. Until Charles understands just how much he means to Max. If it is even possible to actualize the volume of his love when his is a vast, endless thing, pushing past limits Max hadn’t known existed until he stares at Charles and realizes he’s somehow grown to love him more.
After living together for so long, both Max and Charles have learnt the importance of having lube stocked just about everywhere. Their bedroom, the kitchens, the toilets. All their rooms have small packets of lube hidden somewhere within. In the living room, Max had slipped one between the cushions, so he digs his hand deep inside, searching blindly.
He can hear fabric rustling next to him, eyes a sliver of skin that makes his stomach stir. When he finds the lube, Charles has undressed, only wearing his hoodie, his back facing the armrest, one leg hooked around the back cushions while the other dangles on the floor. Presenting himself. To Max.
His breath hitches, eyes drawn to Charles’ pink, puckering hole. Charles gathers a fistful of his hoodie with one hand, dragging the fabric up his chest, slowly, teasingly. He moans, a low, breathy sound, when his hoodie brushes past his dick, already so sensitive. The wait is torturous, Max watching as, finally, the clothing is taken off entire. He is unravelled now, naked while Max is fully clothed above him. The television light spills across his chest, over well-defined muscles, over his dusty nipples.
Max rips open the packet, squeezing a sizable amount onto his fingers. Usually, he is not so quick with this, always touching elsewhere first, his inner thighs, his chest, his neck. Anywhere, really. Until Charles is squirming, strung tight and begging. This time, Max is far too impatient, overcome with desire. It’s well overdue.
When Max circles his perineum, Charles’ abdominal muscles tense, his breathing hitching in anticipation. His hips rock forward, a silent demand.
“Eager, aren’t you?” Max comments.
Charles is tight, his body resistant at first as he slowly edges a finger inside. When Max has the entirety of his index inside, Charles stiffens before relaxing, canting his hips against Max’s hand. It makes Max wonder if he’s fingered himself since he left.
He thinks back to the video. The one of Charles grinding against a bolster, panting, sweating from exertion, his hips moving back and forth, desperate for relief while his hands remain on his thighs, fingers digging deep into skin. His cock twitches from the memory.
“Have you touched yourself at all? Since you left?” Max asks, a little incredulous.
“Has to be your fingers,” Charles had said, but Max hadn’t known he’d meant it so seriously.
“I told you before, didn’t I?” Charles snipes, the tips of his ears heating up.
Max hums indulgently, deciding he might as well let Charles get away with his answer. He deserves to lick his wounds in peace after being so good after all.
“You’re just perfect for me, aren’t you?” Max says, curling his finger. Charles chokes out a moan, his hands scrabbling around Max’s arm.
Max scrutinizes him for a beat, takes in the way he’s clenched tight around Max’s finger. After days of being left untouched, there’s a high chance his second and third will feel more uncomfortable than usual. Good thing Max has the perfect solution.
“Let me know if it’s too much,” is his only warning before he swoops down, wrapping his lips around Charles’ nipple.
The sound Charles makes– its pure sin. Max drinks it up, using the edge of his teeth to graze, pleased when he feels Charles’ body wrack in his grip.
“Max!” He cries out, fingers intertwining into Max’s hair. Not to tug him off but in search of comfort.
“I know, sweetheart,” Max coos, dipping a second finger inside. He could choose to sooth him with words, but presses closer into him instead. It is more than enough, Max’s mouth on Charles’ skin, mapping every inch of his chest, each slope and plane bruising red from his tongue as he works both fingers into him. Max has missed it, the taste of Charles’ flesh and his skin gleams from both Max’s tongue and the cool glow of the television once Max is finished with him.
“Please, I need you inside,” Charles says, his voice hoarse from desire.
“One more finger, alright?” He curls both fingers, stretching him open. Charles unravels beneath him, legs shaking, his breath heavy and erratic.
“I– I’m so empty, Max,” Charles cries, blinking up at Max through his lashes. His eyes are wet, glazed as if he’s on the verge of tears. The heat of Charles’ around his fingers is hot enough to match the furnace roaring inside him. For a moment, Max is melting, burning with love. Max could not survive without him. Charles has disgraced him. Filled his heart entirely, all four ventricles bursting with emotion.
Which is why he understands when Charles is crying, calling himself empty even when Max has two fingers stuffed within him. They are cut from the same cloth, the two of them – fabric that needs to be stitched back together.
“I’ve spoiled you, haven’t I?
Charles nods, spine arching when Max curves both fingers. His reply is dissolved into a moan and pure delight courses through Max’s veins knowing it’s only for him that Charles is like this.
“I can’t be too upset, then,” Max admits. “As long as you’re mine. My needy slut begging for my cock to fill you up.”
Charles’ lip falls open when Max wraps a hand around his dick, swiping at his slit. His neck arcs back, eyes screwed shut as Max takes advantage of his pleasure, slipping a third finger inside. He is so delicate like this, shaking like a petal as Max works all three fingers inside him. He sweeps down, kisses him like he knows Charles has been wanting, like Max himself has been wanting. His warm mouth slots perfectly against Max’s own, as if it’s been made for him. The music he makes is beautiful, his cries of pleasure in particular, when Max twists his fingers, his walls clenching around him as his body shakes.
“Again,” Charles demands after Max crooks his fingers upwards, the flat of his palm pressed against the curve of Charles’ ass. “Please. Feels so good, Max.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” Max obeys.
The reaction is instantaneous. A whine, and then he’s fucking back against Max, helpless, needy and so fucking loud. He doesn’t try to contain his moans, knows better than that by now, so Max hears it all — the hitched, fluctuating breaths and his pitiful whimpers. He is so pretty, his body alive with want, his mouth open as he begs. Begs for Max.
His pleas sever the thread of Max’s sanity and he bites into the fat of his thigh. The sound Charles lets out is unlike anything Max has ever heard before. It’s lovely, and as Max licks at the wound, soothing him, he hears Charles sniffling, still grinding against Max uncontrollably. There are teeth marks indented into his thighs now. The sight sets of something possessive in him, something dark and irrational.
Max fastens his pace, curling his fingers in and out of Charles as he peppers kisses and nips at his inner thighs. As always, Charles is so responsive, babbling out Max’s name as his body shakes with pleasure. The way Charles says his name, it is Max’s favourite iteration. Honestly, the change is not much, just the slight tune of his accent, but somehow it is better. He calls Max’s name with the warmth of home, even when he is panting, all desperate and helpless.
Max can’t wait anymore. He pulls out, ignoring Charles’ protests, freeing his aching cock from his pants.
“Be patient for me,” Max says, as he coats his cock with lube. “You’re going to look so pretty, so perfect, sitting on my cock, aren’t you?”
“Yes, please.”
“Come here, then. On my lap like you wanted.” Max pats his thighs. “You’ve been so patient, haven’t you? Waiting for me to fill you up?”
Charles scrambles to position himself on top of Max. He swallows down a moan when Charles takes him in his hands, breath hitching when the tip of his dick teases Charles’ entrance.
“Missed you so much, Max,” Charles says as he slowly lowers himself onto Max’s cock. He’s deliciously tight around him, and it takes all of Max’s self control not to slam Charles down onto him.
Instead, Max cups the back of both his thighs, holding him in the air. Charles makes a confused, almost panicked sound. It’s cute. He tries to push down, walls clenching around the tip of Max’s cock, thighs shaking as his body longs for more.
“Tell me how much you want it.”
Charles groans. “Stop being a tease. Let me—“
The words die in his throat when Max tsks warningly. “Alright then,” he says, lifting Charles off him.
“No!” Charles twists to face him, green eyes blown wide with panic. “Please.”
Max brushes the sweat-dampened strands of hair curtaining his forward, pressing an encouraging kiss to his temple. He drags Charles down by an inch, pleased by the startled gasps filling the air, before lifting him back up.
“Come on, Charles,” Max teases cruelly. “Is that it?”
Charles whines, face flushed red, blinking up at Max through wet lashes. “Please, I need you inside,” he whispers. “I’ve been so empty. Missed feeling you stretch me open.”
Better.
Max’s arms fall to the side, handing Charles control of the pace. He watches enraptured as Charles eases himself down Max’s cock, his mouth hung open from pleasure, eyes squeezing shut when he finally bottoms out with a whimper.
Then, he begins to squirm, rolling his hips against Max’s laps. His hands curl into fists as Charles moves, not in search of pleasure but in order to adjust to the size. He is still making soft noises, the sounds tempting, prodding at Max’s self-control. He does fairly well controlling himself, breathing roughly through his nose when a particularly prolonged moan cracks his patience.
His hands grapple onto Charles’ hips, holding him still as he snaps his own hips upwards.
“Max!” His head falls back onto Max’s shoulders, hair spilling over his face.
“Sit still,” Max orders, digging his fingers into Charles’ pelvic bone. Instantly, he freezes. “Good boy.”
The praise makes his muscles go lax, pliant and obedient for Max. Almost there, Max thinks as he takes in the content curl of Charles’ lips. Not completely but almost. He peppers soft kisses across the line of Charles’ jaw, nipping gently at skin, rubbing small circles around his hips until his breathing begins to smoothen out.
A shaky exhale. Then, Charles goes limp.
“Still want to watch the movie?” Max asks carefully. He is so precious like this, Max almost trembles, knowing Charles has given himself entirely to Max.
“Yes, please.”
Max is careful not to jostle him as he reaches for the remote. Charles had not yet picked between the two movies but Max knows better than to ask now when he is already so gone. He can’t bring himself to when Charles is silent and content warming his cock. Though he does not know much about movies, Max picks the Wes Anderson film, Fantastic Mr Fox, figuring it’s a safer choice than The Hunger Games. More fitting, certainly.
Watching the movie is easier than Max expects. He can see the appeal, the same way he saw the appeal the first time Charles crawled under his desk. The film itself is not Max’s favourite genre — he has never been a huge fan of movies in the first place — but it is easy to get lost in time when the weight of Charles’ presence is practically pressed onto him. Inside him. Burning.
While his attention is far more occupied with Charles than on the film, Charles’ eyes are glued to the screen. As a result, Max has to force himself still whenever Charles casually grinds against him, changing his position or when he startles while watching a scene.
Half an hour into the film, Max taps Charles’ shoulder gently. He doesn’t appear uncomfortable but it’s always safer to ask.
“Are you doing okay?”
Charles turns to face him, blinking languidly as he forms a response. Max waits patiently, watching fondly, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him closer. “Yeah, ‘feels good.”
Max smiles. Kisses the corner of his lips. “Let me know if you want to stop, okay?”
Charles nods, then frowns, uncertain. “And you? I’m not hurting you or anything?”
“Never,” Max assures, massaging away the crease forming between his brows. Charles hums, placated. He turns back to the screen, allowing Max to drag him closer without a fight.
Twenty-five minutes later, Max sees, or rather, he feels Charles grow antsy. His movements become more purposeful, his moans more frequent, intentional and teasing. Max is honestly surprised Charles lasted so long. It was always a matter of time of when, not if, especially after their prolonged separation so when Charles cants his hip back, Max snakes both arms around him, forcing him still.
“Can’t wait any longer?” Max mouths into the crook of his neck. The feeling of Charles shivering as Max runs both his palms up his back sends a rush of satisfaction through his blood. He massages the flat between his shoulder blades, and Charles gasps into an arch, clenching around Max, who moans, cock twitching inside, already painfully hard.
“Come on, Max,” Charles says, shaking his head, voice hoarse with desire. “I need you to fuck me.”
“Oh?” Max turns to the television screen, watching for beat as a scene plays, then back at Charles. “The movie’s not finished yet though? And you were so eager to watch it. What’s changed your mind?”
A hand twists around Charles’ waist, crawling up his chest. Max is not subtle about his intentions. Charles knows what’s coming. He doesn’t fight, only whimpers softly. It’s pathetic, the way he waits, breath quickening with anticipation. In the end, his preparation is futile. Max pinches his nipple between his index and his thumb, the same way he’s done countless times before. Like always, Charles reacts just as beautifully. His insides tighten, so slick, and so hot, pulsing in response to Max’s teasing.
“Please— Max, it hurts,” Charles mewls, even as he arches into it.
Max laughs. “It hurts? Is that why you’re clenching so tight around me? Because you want me to stop?”
He lifts Charles up. Slams him back down. Charles cries out, his eyes wide, glassy and iridescent.
“No. Don’t stop,” Charles pants, rolling his hips in a silent request.
Max flips them over so Charles is laid on the couch, his back on the cushion while Max is above him. The air is electric, charged like a thunderstorm as Charles’ meets his gaze from where he’s trapped beneath him, a pinned butterfly. Beautiful. Helpless. His tousled hair sprawled messily across the couch, puffs of air leaving him as he pants and moans wantonly.
He grips Charles' jaw between his fingers. Charles jerks, a strangled protest leaving him whilst he twists his neck in an effort to wrench free. Max hardens his hold in response, pressing Charles’ lips into a pucker whilst pistoning his hips, fucking deeper into him. Forcing Charles to face the screen, Max says,
“You don’t want to watch anymore?”
Charles’ face reddens. He tries to fight back, and fuck, if it isn’t a sight. His attempts to twist free are pathetic, laughable when Max can still see his legs trembling, chasing after pleasure. With his face flushed, skin warm with want, pink lips forced into a pout, Charles’ glare remains hilariously ineffective. Max soaks it up, watching his determination crumble as Max’s cock continues pumping in and out of him. A dark, primal satisfaction curls in Max’s gut when Charles hiccups a sob, and he guides him back to meet his gaze.
“Maaax,” Charles whines, before breaking apart completely. Tears spill from his eyes, wetting Max’s fingers. Still, it doesn’t escape Max’s notice that his cock is hard, his hips rocking back against him in search of more. “You’re being— being mean. Said you would be nice to me. Liar.”
“I’m fucking you, aren’t I?” Max grabs both his legs, folding them in half so Charles’ knees are pressed to his chest. His skin glistens from sweat, his body quivering, broken into pieces. He stares up at Max, doe-eyed, bottom lip jutted into a pout.
Max sighs. “That’s not enough for you?”
Charles shakes his head.
“Spoiled, greedy thing.”
Charles shudders, eyes rolling back as he nods dumbly. It draws out an amused chuckle from Max. He swoops down, drawing Charles into a deep kiss. He doubts he could ever tire from this. Kissing Charles, that is. The warmth of Charles’ lips press against his own. Simultaneously, Max feels a knot in him untangle. He is lighter now. Almost dizzy.
When they pull back, Charles’ lips are bruised red, swollen from kissing. Max doubts his look any better. He flips Charles over, face down on the couch, knees tucked under his chest. He fucks him hard, rough and unforgiving, jostling him with each thrust. The air is filled with the sound of wet skin slapping against one another, coupled with Charles‘ voice chanting Max’s name. As Max hastens his pace, Charles is torn between rutting against the couch, desperate for some friction or chasing after Max.
Max is not any better, fucking him with frenzied passion. His lungs are on fire, burning as if he is sucking in smoke instead of oxygen. The pitiful noises Charles makes beneath him act as gasoline, fueling him on. Max could have fucked him for hours. He can’t get enough, one hand gripping a fistful of Charles’ hair, forcing him into an arc while the other digs around the curve of his ass.
“I’m close,” Charles says, eyes screwed shut. His hand, wedged underneath his chest, wraps loosely around his cock as his hips roll in tandem to Max’s thrusting.
Max leans down, nips at the shell of his ear. Charles moans, low and breathy, laced with arousal. Slurring out pleas, his voice cracks near the tail-end of his babbling.
“Wait, Max. Want— Need to see you, please, please—“
Max groans, hot blood coursing through his veins. Who is he to deny him? Max turns him over, drinks in Charles’ blissed out expression, his tear-stained cheeks, his skin, gleaming like wet gold.
“C’mon,” Max urges. “Come for me, Charlie. You’re doing so good. So tight and warm around me.”
Charles eyes flutter shut, his muscles tensing as Max rips an orgasm out of him. He’s a mess, thighs trembling, chest streaked with cum. Max loves it. Loves him. He fucks Charles through his release, hard and slow, making him take it, even as Charles writhes, sobbing from oversensitivity.
“So perfect for me,” Max says. “Made for me. Mine.”
“Yes,” Charles cries. “Want you inside, Max. Haven’t felt you in so long. Need you to mark me yours.”
His vision blurs, hips stuttering as Max spills inside him. Though his eyes are shut, his mind heavy with pleasure, the moan Charles lets out guides him back to the present. When he opens his eyes, Charles is peering up at him, expression fucked-out but full with love.
For a moment, Max thinks his lungs have punctured because the breath he’s been holding hisses out of him, burning his throat. Oxygen is sparse. Max sucks in a deep breath.
“Love you.”
Max’s heart swells, almost bursting from the rise of adoration. He kisses him, tastes the salt of his tears as he runs both hands over Charles’ trembling, ruined body. When they part, Max pulls out, rubbing soothing motions over Charles' hipbone when he whines from oversensitivity. He can see himself spilling out from Charles’ worn hole, drags his fingers down to scoop a handful of his cum.
“Open.”
Charles’ pupils dilate, lips parting. When Max dips his hand inside, Charles’ tongue wraps around his fingers obediently, licking him clean. He swallows, throat bobbing from arousal, and when Max retracts his hand, Charles wets his lips.
The sight makes Max’s cock twitch.
“Ask for it.”
Charles’ breath hitches, flush deepening. He glances down his chest, then back at Max’s expectant gaze.
“Please, I want to taste you.”
Max feeds him like this, hovering above, watching as Charles moans around his fingers. Insatiable.
When they’re both satisfied, Max collapses on top of him, burying into the crook of his neck. He feels a hand cradle his cheek, lifts his head and sees Charles smiling at him, all lazy and pleased, dimples wedged into soft cheeks. Max could have remained like this forever, bodies pressed together, breathing in Charles’ presence.
“So,” Charles says, after a stretch of silence. “Did you enjoy it?”
Seriously?
“You’re just fishing for compliments, aren’t you?” Max asks. But it works, because he’s always been weak to all of Charles’ whims. He peppers him with kisses until Charles is giggling beneath him, then says, “I think we should watch all our movies like this.”