Work Text:
"Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature."
- Colossians, 3:5
"Blows that wound cleanse away evil; strokes make clean the innermost parts."
- Proverbs, 20:30
*
Max has just finished packing his bags when there’s a knock at the door.
It’s Charles’ knock. Two slow thuds, two quick raps.
Max usually doesn’t mind it. Charles coming to his room to be fucked like a whore after a race, to be beaten and slapped and spat on for not doing well enough. It seems to work like Charles wants it to; leaves him with red, puffy eyes, purple bruises blooming on his hips. All the things Charles requires in order to move onto the next race with a cheerful smile and delusional self-belief.
Max minds it tonight, though. Charles came second. Max didn’t even finish the fucking race. And Charles wants Max to make him feel better? That’s the sort of shit that really pisses Max off.
He pulls open the door, narrowing his eyes at Charles. He’s changed since the race, and his hair’s all soft and fluffy, like he’s fresh from the shower. He’s looking around the corridor with shifty eyes, like he’s trying to make people notice that he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be.
“Charles,” Max says, gruffly.
“Hello,” Charles replies, shifting from foot to foot. “Are you going to let me in?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just starts to walk inside. Max moves to block him with his body, and Charles makes a startled noise as he collides with Max’s chest.
“That depends.”
“On - on what?” Charles asks, sounding worried. Like the thought that he won’t get to submit his body for ritual abuse and purification is enough to have him halfway to a panic attack. The entitlement sets Max’s teeth on edge.
“On what you want.”
Charles looks at him, breaths starting to come quicker. Big, soulful, guilty fucking eyes. Max wants to smack him across the face.
“I want - Max, please.” He says please, but it sounds like it always does with Charles. Like a fucking demand. Like he expects, he knows that Max will give in, give him whatever he wants.
Max frowns, crosses his arms over his chest and says nothing.
“Max,” Charles tries instead, softening his voice and lowering his eyes, glancing up at Max through his eyelashes. “You know what I want. What I - you know.” Manipulative little whore. Trying to make himself seem delicate and malleable, rolling over to expose his soft underbelly.
There’s nothing soft about him.
Max sighs. “I’m really not in the mood tonight.”
A frown mars his lovely features, but it’s fleeting. Charles knows that sulking won’t get him anywhere with Max. Always performing, shapeshifting into what it is he thinks Max wants to see. Max thinks that Carlos probably fucks a very different Charles than he does.
“I am sorry about your race,” Charles murmurs, looking at the floor. The insincere pity makes Max’s blood quicken through his veins, his heart thudding inside his chest.
“Fuck off,” Max snorts. “Carlos too busy celebrating to fuck you tonight?” he sneers, and Charles flinches, like Max really has slapped him. Like he’d thought Carlos wouldn’t tell Max what he did to him after Singapore.
Charles bares his teeth, finally dropping the docile little lamb act. “Fuck you.” That’s a yes, then. Maybe now they’ll actually get somewhere.
“Hm,” is all Max says, but he does step back and allow Charles inside. He’s under no illusions; he’s not strong enough to turn Charles away. Especially not after the day he’s had.
Charles kicks off his shoes, leaving them jumbled in the entryway. Max clicks his tongue, disapproving. Charles pauses, before moving to straighten them up with a stormy expression. Max doesn’t respond, just leaves him crouched by the shoe rack, making his way to the mini-bar. Charles follows after him, taking in the room. Max notices how his eyes linger on the bed.
“Drink?” Max offers, and Charles shakes his head.
“No, thanks. Too much champagne.” He plays it completely straight, but Charles knows exactly what he’s saying. The implication Max will take from his words.
Fuck. Max is going to kill him.
That’s probably exactly what Charles wants.
“Well, that’s too bad,” Max says, pouring him one anyway. He adds too much gin to both drinks. He needs to take the edge off this shitty fucking day.
He shoves the glass into Charles’ hand, curls his fingers around it.
“Max,” Charles complains.
Max practically snarls at him. “Shut the fuck up. Drink.”
Charles swallows heavily but does as he’s told. He winces at the first sip. Charles doesn’t like gin, Max remembers. Too bad. Max does.
Charles smiles at him weakly. “Thank you.”
Jesus. He’s so desperate. For love, for approval. Just wants someone to be pleased with him, doesn’t matter how he has to debase himself to get there. It’s sickening.
Charles takes another sip, and Max reaches out, resting two fingers on the base of the glass. He tips it up, up, up, and Charles swallows frantically, the clear liquid disappearing steadily down his beautiful throat. Max tips the glass too high, and gin spills down the sides of Charles’ face, dampening his hoodie. Charles splutters against the onslaught, throat working hard as he attempts to clear his windpipe.
Max takes a calming sip of his own drink, watching Charles cough and wipe off his chin.
“Max,” Charles says, voice rough. He’s a fucking mess already. Eyes wide, pupils blown out. There’s a flush rising in his cheeks; from the alcohol or from the rough treatment, Max isn’t sure.
“Charles?” Max asks, cocking his head to the side.
“Come on,” Charles says - fucking whines. Like he doesn’t have everything, after today. He came second, he’s just four points from Max in the standings. As if, somehow, Max is obligated to give him something more than what he’s already achieved today. “I need - come on, Max, I want–” Charles makes for Max’s belt, fumbling with the clasp, and something in Max snaps.
“Stop fucking whining,” Max barks, shoving him backwards. It’s a hard shove, sending Charles careening off balance, stumbling towards the bed in the centre of the room. Max moves him bodily, something he wouldn’t be able to get away with at any other time than the start of the season. Ferrari always wants Charles to hit an absurdly low pre-season weight, let him build it back up slowly. Max isn’t going to complain - it makes things easier for him.
He wrestles Charles face-first onto the bed, keeping him pinned with a knee on the back of his thigh. It’ll leave a bruise. Max wonders how many times Charles will get himself off whilst touching it, sinking his fingers into the discolouration.
Max wrenches Charles’ arm behind his body, squeezing his wrist tight enough that the bones creak. Charles moans a little as the movement jostles his arm in its socket, but he doesn’t complain. From the way his slim hips are rutting against the bed covers, Max thinks he’s probably enjoying it quite a lot, actually.
“I decide what you fucking need,” he informs Charles. “I don’t care what you want.”
“Ah - okay,” Charles says, the fight gone out of him. Max applies a small amount of pressure, letting go only once Charles squeaks, a noise of genuine pain. He’d never been in any danger - Max knows how much the human body can take before it breaks. Just another thing he’d learned from his father.
“Are you going to behave?” Max asks, and Charles slurs out something resembling a yes. Good enough for Max.
He flips Charles over, lets him sit up a bit, noting the way his lips have gone all red and slick. Probably bit them to stop himself from moaning while Max was doing his level best to break his arm.
All at once, Max feels abruptly furious. Furious with Charles for coming here. Furious at the godawful self-pitying, woe-is-me act. Furious with Charles for thinking this is what he deserves, like getting Max to do this to him will help him find some fucking pace. Furious at the way Charles manipulates him into doing this, over and over again.
And that’s really the problem, isn’t it? More than anything, he’s furious at what Charles brings out in him.
It unleashes something ugly in Max. The façade of purity, the deceit. It makes Max want to ruin him - treat him like he’d never treat anybody else. It’s sex the way you’re not supposed to have it - the bad way, the kind that hurts people. But Charles wants it.
He wants it so badly that when Max had let the guilt overwhelm him and tried to turn him away for the first time, Charles had gotten on his knees and begged him not to stop. He’d taken Max’s cock out of his race suit and let Max fuck his mouth so hard it exhausted his gag reflex, throat an open, clean line, drool spilling down his chin. And before that, when Max had said the word no, Charles’ face had gone tight with anger. Pure, impotent rage, that Max would dare to deny Charles something he wants.
It doesn’t matter what Max does to Charles. He just keeps showing up, even when Max does things to him that he’s sure are a step too far. He’s made Charles tell him what a pretty girl he is. He’s smacked Charles across the face, spat in his mouth, made him swallow. He’s turned the lights off and told Charles to be quiet, that he wanted to imagine he was fucking somebody else. Charles had just laid there and taken it, whimpered quietly into the pillow and shut right up as soon as Max had snapped at him to. Max had been sure Charles wouldn’t come back after that night, but he had. The knock came, as it always did.
Charles has never told him to stop. He’s only tilted his head up, bewitched Max with that burning green gaze, and demanded more. Max would stop, if Charles told him to, Max thinks. He hopes.
It troubles him a little, that he doesn’t know.
It troubles him more to think that Charles would probably like it if Max didn’t.
Max grabs Charles’ face, squeezing his cheeks together. “Why are you here?” he demands, and Charles looks up at him, all big, mournful eyes.
“You know why,” Charles says, but it comes out muffled.
“Because you weren’t fast enough, yes? Because you didn’t win.”
Charles nods as best he can around Max’s tight grip on his face. “Yes. I failed.”
Jesus Christ. I failed. Like it’s that easy. Like Charles really does see the red string of fate, stretching out into the future and connecting him with the WDC trophy. Like he’s failed to live up to his stupid fucking destiny. He’s so pathetic, like this. Bubbling over with self-hatred. Putting the jumbled mess of his fragile bones and skin into Max’s hands and asking him to shape a champion out of it.
Why is that on Max to fix? Max wants to shake him, to remind him that there’s no such thing as destiny. No such thing as predestination.
Max squeezes his face one final time and lets go. “You should have qualified faster.”
Charles bows his head as if in prayer and nods.
“Why didn’t you?” Max asks. Charles shrugs, doesn’t say anything. Interesting. Is it worse than usual tonight? Maybe because Carlos won. Nothing stings like losing to your teammate.
Max clicks his tongue impatiently. “If you’re not going to talk about it, you should at least make yourself useful.”
Charles looks up at him, the very picture of a doe-eyed innocent. Like an acolyte, awaiting instruction from a benevolent god. Max wonders if he practises that expression in the mirror.
Max slaps him across the face, not even hard enough to leave a mark, but Charles moans into it. Tilts his face up like he’s hoping Max will do it again. So Max does, once more, just to watch the way Charles presses the heel of his palm to his crotch, grinding into it as the blow lands.
It helps Max remember why he says yes to this, every time – why he acquiesces to Charles’ displays of penitence. Max is hungry, ravenous. There’s a yawning gulf inside of him, too, something not even three world titles have filled. It’s pathetic, perhaps, but sometimes he feels like these expressions of sadism are the only thing that take the edge off.
Charles strips off his hoodie, exposing a thin sliver of tanned skin as his shirt rides up. There are bruises on his wrists, like he’s been tied up roughly. Not for the first time, Max wonders who it is that Charles gets to do this shit to him when Max or Carlos aren’t around. He’d asked, just once, what Andrea thought of the bruises. Being his personal trainer, Max has no doubt that he’s seen every wound.
“It’s none of your fucking business what Andrea thinks,” Charles had snapped. He’d dressed himself in sharp, jerky movements, and stormed out of Max’s hotel room. Can’t blame a guy for trying - but after that, Max learned his lesson. Hit first, ask no questions at any point.
Charles strips his shirt off too, and then pauses to look at Max. Max just raises an eyebrow. No point beating around the bush, is there?
“Typical,” Max tuts, when it’s revealed that Charles has foregone underwear. Charles blushes as he kicks his joggers all the way off. One of the only reactions Max trusts is genuine. Even Charles probably can’t train himself to blush on command, though Max is sure he would if he could.
Charles slides off the bed, onto his knees. He kneels up in front of Max, places his hands on Max’s belt and waits for a sign. Max just grunts, and Charles undoes the belt and zipper with a practised efficiency.
Charles doesn’t protest when Max kicks his legs apart. He draws Max’s cock out of his boxers, doesn’t pause before swallowing it down - like he’s been waiting all day for this.
The slick warmth of Charles’ mouth is ruinous. He seals his mouth around the head and then sinks down, taking half the length in one go. He traces the vein on the underside of Max’s cock with his tongue, draws back until just the head is in his mouth. He licks over the slit with careful patience, like he doesn’t want to spill a drop.
You can’t teach this type of talent. He’s a natural-born cocksucker. He’s never seen anybody who loves it the way Charles does.
Max says as much, and Charles pinches his thigh in protest. Max winds his hand into Charles’ hair and pulls sharply, until Charles glances up at him in contrite apology. Max is sure he’s resisting the urge to bite Max’s dick off. Vicious little cunt.
Max pulls him off, gives him a moment to breathe. “You have to try harder than this if you want to get fucked. This is all you’re getting,” Max says, and Charles’ shoulders rise and fall with heaving gasps as he processes the words.
Charles always fingers himself open before he shows up. He doesn’t do a very good job, though, always tight as a vice around Max’s cock when Max slides in. It had taken Max some time to figure out that it’s because Charles wants it to hurt. He wants to feel the burn of it, wants to know that something terrible is happening to him, something that he’s powerless to stop. Still, Max usually lubes himself up, at least.
Not tonight, though. If Charles wanted to be treated gently, he wouldn’t have come to Max’s room.
Max pushes back into Charles’ mouth, uses the grasp he has on Charles’ hair to force him further down on his cock. The head nudges at the back of Charles’ throat. It flutters around Max’s cock as he gags around the intrusion, an obscene noise escaping. Max thrusts deeper, makes Charles swallow around it, drinking in the way his panicked breaths stutter as Max cuts off his airway. It’s searingly erotic, watching the way Charles fights his own bodily responses. Charles doesn’t care that he can’t breathe, even if his body does. He’s determined not to submit to it, to overcome.
“Maybe you should quit driving, yes? Could spend all day doing this.” Charles glances up at him, eyes filled with tears. He takes the words to heart, sinks deeper onto Max’s cock, throat fluttering around Max as he chokes on it. Drool spills down his chin, drips onto his chest.
Finally, when Max thinks that Charles really might pass out, he tugs him off. Charles makes a mournful sound of protest in response, even as he desperately inhales lungfuls of air, deep shuddery gasps.
“Well, at least we know you’re good at something,” Max says, divesting himself of his clothing. Charles absorbs the blow quietly, making the tiniest noise of distress. Like Max has hurt his feelings. Like his cock isn’t hard and leaking against his stomach.
“Come on then,” Max says. Charles takes a moment to get to his knees. Max’s patience is worn razor-thin, so he grasps Charles by the arm, hauls him up and pushes him onto the bed.
Charles goes to lie down on his back. Max snorts. “Jesus, you can’t do anything right.” He rolls him onto his front, ignoring the bitchy noise of protest Charles makes. Charles’ pale skin unfolds before him, littered with beauty marks.
Max pulls his arm back and delivers a stinging slap to his ass. The sound is loud, practically echoing through the room.
“Max!” Charles cries, voice somewhere north of horror, somewhere south of aroused.
“Shut up,” Max says, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
He hits him again, first the left cheek, and then the right. Charles arches his back, pushes into the pain. He makes this horrible gasping sound, low and urgent in his throat.
“T-that's the best you can do?” Charles asks, and Max grits his teeth. He continues, raining down blows, watching with grim satisfaction as clear handprints begin to form on the meat of his ass.
Charles is moaning constantly, making these high-pitched sounds of keening pleasure. Max switches it up, aims for the sensitive flesh right in the delicate sit-spots. Charles is still pushing back, still asking for more, even as his body twists away from the sensations, hoping to throw Max’s aim, to stop his hand from landing on the places that must burn the most. He howls when Max’s next blow catches the edge of his balls.
Max has done a lot of things to Charles, but he never reacts to anything the way he does to physical pain. There’s something psychological about it, Max is sure. It’s all incredibly Catholic.
Maybe sometime Max will get Charles over his knee, show him what a real spanking feels like. He’s so obsessed with the idea of ritualised punishment that Max is sure he’d take to it with gusto. A paddle, maybe - or a cane. Leave marks that run so deep Charles would feel like he was on fire every time he tries to move or walk.
It makes him sick to his stomach. All the golden boy, sacrificial lamb bullshit. Charles has the contract for next year, not Carlos. So why is he the one prostrating himself in front of Max, begging for redemption?
“God, you’re pathetic,” Max spits, and Charles cries out, as if in agreement.
Max leans down, covering Charles’ skin with his own. He probes at the seam of Charles’ mouth with two fingers. “Come on, suck,” he commands, and Charles does, laving over Max’s fingers devotedly. Max bites a bruise, high and dark on Charles’ shoulder, admires the way it stands out against pale skin.
He pulls his fingers out of Charles’ mouth and pushes them roughly into his hole. It’s tight, and Charles lets out a low moan when Max scissors them roughly. He massages the rim of Charles’ hole with his thumb, notes how the lube has gone slightly tacky. Better act fast, then.
Gathering all the moisture in his mouth, Max aims and spits, a glob of saliva landing squarely on Charles’ hole. Charles clenches around Max’s fingers in response. Max takes a moment to just work it in, thumbing over the puffy rim, dipping his fingers in and out.
“Max,” Charles says, and it should sound prissy, demanding. But his voice is so rough and wrecked, unshed tears clogging his throat, it just makes him sound needy.
“Shut up,” Max hisses, lining himself up. His cock is covered in thick, sticky saliva, from Charles choking on his cock. It’ll have to do.
He gives Charles a moment to realise that Max’s cock is nudging at his rim. Watches, enraptured, as Charles tries to tighten up, subconsciously trying to protect himself. Like that’s going to do anything.
Max gets a good grip on Charles’ hips, tugs him back so that just the head of his dick pops through the tight ring of Charles’ hole. It’s obscene, the way the muscle goes taut around him. Charles fists his hands in the bedsheets, doesn’t make a sound. His shoulders have drawn tight together, scapula meeting in the middle of his back. Max wonders if he’s even breathing, right now.
He slaps Charles’ thigh like he’s spurring on a horse. “Relax.”
Charles does as instructed, loosening enough for Max to slide home with a grunt. Charles chokes out a desperate whine as Max threads a hand through his hair, one hand on his hip, and sets a brutal pace. He’s so unbelievably tight around Max’s cock, so tight it’s bordering on painful for Max. He can’t imagine how it must feel for Charles. It must hurt, it can’t possibly feel good, but Charles keeps fucking back onto Max’s dick like he’s being paid to do so.
It should be illegal for something so wrong to feel so fucking good. Max is fucking Charles, hurting him, and it’s making his head spin with how hot it is. How hot it always is, the way Charles reacts, moans as Max’s balls slap against his ass, cries out like he’s dying for it.
“Aw, does it hurt?” Max coos, mocking. Charles nods, crying out, wordlessly. “That’s too bad.” He picks up the pace, tugging Charles back onto his cock, making him take more and more. “Besides, you like it to hurt, don’t you?”
“Yes - fuck, yes,” Charles gasps, voice high and reedy.
“You’re such a slut,” Max comments, breathing hard. “You like this? You are so fucked up.”
Charles makes a noise as if to respond, but his voice cracks around a wailing sob, and then it comes. The crying. It’s gasping and high, and altogether incredibly irritating.
This is nothing new; Charles always cries.
Aside from the blushing, it’s one of the only things about Charles that Max thinks is probably genuine – he’s not a particularly pretty crier. If Charles could make himself cry, Max thinks it would look different. One lone, mournful tear cutting a cool path down his cheek. Gentle, soft noises. Not these harsh, stabbing gasps, the snotty nose and red eyes. Even for someone as pretty as Charles, it’s not a good look.
It would be enough to bruise a guy’s ego, if only Max didn’t suspect that it’s the only way Charles can take the edge off. The times that Max hadn’t managed to make him cry, Charles had always left the room with a sour expression and a dirty look, like Max had somehow let him down.
“If you don’t stop making that noise, I’m going to put a pillow over your face,” Max tells him calmly.
“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry,” Charles gasps. That’s new. Charles usually takes his licks in silence. Max wonders what’s different. Maybe it’s something about being so close to winning today and it still not being enough that has him like this.
Charles is still crying, but it’s muffled now, and when Max bothers to look, he realises that Charles has his hands over his mouth, trying to stop the noises from escaping.
“Why are you crying?” Max asks. “Because Carlos won and you didn’t? You should have done a better job, then.” It’s not easy to do poorly, it’s not easy to lose. Max knows that. But when he does, he takes it on the chin. He doesn’t foist himself on whichever rival will have him, offer his body up for ritual desecration.
Max does normal things. He goes to the gym, he hits things, he cheats on his diet plan. Charles cuts himself open, sternum to navel, and presents people with his still-beating heart. It makes Max want to scream at him, remind Charles that he’s giving Max everything he needs, to know exactly how to keep beating him.
When Charles speaks, his voice is thick with tears. “I know.”
“Know what?” Max asks, irritable. He digs his hand into Charles’ hip and hopes he leaves bruises.
“Should have - I should have - ngh - done better in quali. I could have b-been faster.”
“That’s right,” Max grunts. “Maybe next time I will come to your room before quali, yes? If you drive with my come inside you, maybe then you would not fuck things up.”
Charles nods, straining against the grip of Max’s hand in his hair. “Yes - oui, s’il te plaît, Max, whatever you want, please.”
Max can’t stand it. The ingratiating, crawling manner. He prefers it when Charles openly manipulates him; the calculated toss of his head, the demure curve of his smile. This is different. This is what Charles thinks he deserves for coming second.
Max isn’t sure if it’s even what Charles thinks he deserves, or if it’s just another layer. If Max were to strip it away, what would be beneath? So carefully constructed, the media’s darling, Ferrari’s prince. Is there anything real about him at all?
He pulls out, and Charles makes a forlorn noise. Max doesn’t pause, just uses his grip on Charles’ hips to flip him. His green eyes glisten in the soft lighting, tears rolling down the sides of his face, dampening the bedspread.
Max lines back up, fucks into him again, hitching one of his legs up until Charles locks it around Max’s waist. He leans over Charles, hands on either side of his head, and snaps his hips forward, again and again, a constant, unwavering rhythm.
Charles is watching him, but it’s like he’s seeing through Max. Like he’s somewhere far away, far above all of this. He mumbles something, and Max misses it.
“What?” Max snaps, irritated.
Charles looks up at him with those shining eyes, biting down on his bottom lip. “I said - I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” Max snorts. “Apologise to your team.”
Charles frowns, but it’s brief. Passes over his face quickly, like he’s not even really listening. “I wasn’t talking to you,” Charles mumbles, and that’s - okay. Max doesn’t quite know what to make of that.
Who is he apologising to, exactly? Ferrari? God? Whatever huge, mysterious force it is that Charles believes he’s letting down. Max doesn’t even know if Charles himself believes it. Maybe he’s simply mired so deep in the trenches of self-delusion that this feels real to him. He really feels as if he’s letting Ferrari down, like it’s not just a car brand. Like any of this means anything at all.
Max fucks him harder, letting anger fuel him. He caresses the strong line of Charles’ throat, pressing into the delicate skin of his trachea with a gentle thumb. Not exerting any pressure, just reminding Charles what he’s risking.
“Oh please, yes,” Charles begs, arching his back, pressing his head against the pillow and angling his throat upwards.
Max is struck with a vision then, of a lamb offering its throat to meet the butcher’s knife, a willing sacrifice. The visual is so powerful and perfect, that his hand closes around Charles’ windpipe before he can think better of it. Even though Charles isn’t a lamb; he’s a wolf wearing sheep’s clothing.
Max keeps fucking him, tightening his grip. He can feel Charles’ throat working underneath his hand, swallowing desperately, over and over, as he tries to get air into his lungs. His mouth is hanging open, and he looks obscene. He’s so deliciously tight around Max’s cock now, walls fluttering and squeezing. Charles’ cock is flushed a dark shade of red, leaking a messy puddle of pre-come onto his stomach.
“You would let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?” Max asks, pressing harder when Charles doesn’t respond. A reminder of what Max could do. What Charles has to lose. “Wouldn’t you?”
He lets go.
Charles sucks for air, coughs. He’s hazy, spaced out. Looking up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” he says. “I would.”
Max wonders again what it is. What he’s seeing. Who he’s talking to.
He snaps his hips forward, wanting Charles to look at him, to notice what’s being done to him. There’s a red mark around his throat, but Max doesn’t think it’s going to bruise. He wonders if Charles will be disappointed.
And, god, it’s too much. It’s altogether too fucking much - how tight Charles is around him, the way his hands are scrabbling at the sheets, thrashing around, out of control. He doesn’t bother angling his hips, searching for the spot that’ll light Charles up from the inside. This is what Charles likes; being used, being ignored in the pursuit of pleasure.
He keeps driving forward, just the way Charles likes it. “What are you going to do if you never win again?” Max asks, something ugly and vicious escaping from his chest before he can stop it. “Are you going to - fuck - do this every weekend? For the rest of your career?”
Charles moans, like the thought alone is somehow a turn-on. He arches his back, muscles going taut, and - well. Max is a generous guy. He reaches forward, grips Charles’ cock bruisingly tight, thumbing across the tip of it.
“I suppose we will find out, hm?” Max asks, and it seems like that’s all Charles needs, because he comes with a high, stretched-out moan, spurting sticky and wet between their bodies. It smears appallingly across his stomach.
Jesus, fuck. All Charles needed was the implication of his failure, and he’s coming on Max’s cock, shaking like he’s been electrocuted.
Max keeps fucking forward, relishing the way his orgasm is making Charles clench, hole fluttering around his cock. Charles loops his arms around Max’s neck, trying to get him closer, push him away. He scrabbles at Max’s back, digging his nails in and scratching, like he’s trying to leave his mark. He’s still sort of crying, slurring out moans and bitten-off words, like he’s out of his fucking mind.
The sight of it is too much for Max, stomach swooping with want as he comes, hot and wet and deep inside. It pleases something primitive inside of him, feeling like he’s laid claim to Charles. Imagining his come dripping out of Charles’ hole, running down his thighs as he makes his way back to his hotel.
He keeps fucking forward into Charles until his cock softens enough that it slips out. Charles makes a distinctly displeased noise at the loss, and Max twitches with irritation.
He sits down beside Charles on the bed, needing a moment to catch his breath. Resting his weight on his hands, Max casts a critical eye over Charles’ prone form. There’s a bruise in the shape of Max’s hand beginning to form on his hip, cheeks red, sweat glistening on his forehead. Bruises on his wrists, the red ring around his throat, come drying on his stomach. All of it feels like proof of Max’s ownership.
“Jesus,” Max says, laughing. “You’re a mess.”
Charles fixes him with those eyes, red-rimmed and puffy. “Thank you,” he says, voice soft.
For once, it’s not accompanied by the nagging voice in Max’s head that says he’s being played.
*
Once he can walk again, Charles disappears into the bathroom. Apart from the times Max had kicked him out straight after, leaving him wet and wanting, Charles is usually fastidious about cleaning up. When he comes out, he hovers in the doorway, watching Max on the bed. Max just keeps scrolling through his phone, replying to some texts offhandedly. He only looks up when he feels the bed dip underneath him, watches with surprise as Charles sits down on the bed.
“Can I - stay here?” Charles asks, and Max looks at him incredulously. This is not what they do. Charles shows up, Max fucks him through the mattress, and then Charles leaves. No such thing as an afterglow.
“You want to sleep… with me?” Max asks.
Charles fidgets uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“I have an early flight,” Max grunts. Charles nods, fingering the bed covers.
“Me too.” He looks down and away. “I will go, then.” He makes no move to leave, though.
Max frowns at him. “No - stay, if you like. I don’t care.”
Charles looks at him for a long moment. And then he nods.
It’s different. Having Charles stay. Usually Charles leaves, and Max gets the best sleep he’s had in weeks, bone-tired and wrung out. But now Charles is here, using the hotel’s toothbrush and looking at Max and flitting around him like a gnat, all nervous glances and fidgety movements. It’s making Max remember everything he’d said. It’s making him feel guilty.
“Thanks,” Charles says, when the lights are off and they’re lying side by side in bed.
Max turns his head on the pillow, looks over at him. “For what?”
Charles gives him a withering look. “You know for what.”
Max doesn’t dignify that with a response. Charles shouldn’t be thanking him for this. Instead, he says something truly ridiculous.
“I didn’t really mean it, you know,” Max says, and Charles turns over on his side to look at him. His eyes are shadowed, moonlight filtering through a slit in the curtains and highlighting the bottom half of his face. His lips, his throat.
“Mean what?” Charles asks, frowning.
“About you not winning again,” Max says, awkwardly. “I think - I mean. I’m sure you will. Maybe.”
Charles rolls his eyes, thumping him on the chest. “I know that. Dickhead.”
“You know that I didn’t mean it?”
“Yes,” Charles says, chewing on his lip. Then, he smiles, and he looks so radiant and beautiful that it’s all Max can do not to kiss him. Like he’d planned this, somehow. Like after his self-flagellation bullshit, he’d known that this would end with Max reassuring him. “And I know that I will win again. You are not - how do you call it? Unfailable? I will beat you again. Carlos did, today. I do not need you to tell me these things.”
“You mean infallible,” Max says sourly. Now he’s the one who doesn’t need to be reminded. After his race today, limping back to the pits, he’s never felt more fallible. “I didn’t say that you needed me to tell you,” Max grouses. “You just need me to slap you and call you a slut.”
Charles’ cheeks glow pink under the luminous moonlight. “Yes. That I need.”
Max sighs out a heavy breath, ruffling his fringe with the force of it. “You are very fucked up, you know.”
Charles scoffs, shuffling closer to Max. Their faces are so close to one another’s, it would take nothing for Max to just lean in. Touch their lips together. “So are you.”
Max snorts. “Yeah. I know.”
Charles kisses him, then, for the first time all night. It’s got none of the hastiness of their encounter, none of the violence. It’s chaste, soft. “Goodnight, Max.”
Max thinks it might take a very long time for him to fall asleep tonight. His heart’s pounding in his chest, so loud he feels briefly worried that Charles might hear it. “Goodnight, Charles.”
He can’t help but read into it. Is this just another layer of deception? What is Charles getting out of staying the night with Max, out of kissing him? So gently, in stark contrast to everything else he’s demanded - taken - tonight.
And then, Charles shuffles closer, into the loose circle of Max’s arms. He rests his cheek on Max’s bicep. Max can see the dark bruise he’d bitten earlier, high on Charles’ shoulder.
And Max realises - he doesn’t care. If this is just another one of Charles’ insane acts of manipulation, Max will just have to deal with it, won’t he? If Charles is doing this for his own gain, if he thinks he can get something out of this, well. At least he’s warm and soft, curled up against Max in the dark of the room.
Yeah. Max can live with that.