Archive of Our Own

Of all things, it starts off as an accident, of course.

It’s a slow, lazy morning. The kind where full consciousness starts peaking in like sunlight though window curtains, the new day still a bleary concept that’s barely begun trickling into sight.

“Fuck… Charles…”

Underneath the covers and lying on his side, Max mumbles nonsensically into Charles’ nape as he continues snuggling into the warmth surrounding the bed, arms tightening around the unconscious man tucked close against his chest.

He’s still gradually awakening from the remnants of a quickly crumbling dream, senses dulled to blunt points as the physical world sneaks into the picture through thin lines. In the corners of his mindscapes, his hips are thrusting with a mind of their own, his hard cock gliding between the closed gap of Charles’ thighs, grinding against the deliciously slick slide of his drooling pussy. His wet folds wrap around Max’s cock, the sweet juices of his cunt dripping out and coating the entirety of his length, assisting his motions as he mindlessly chases for his own release, breath coming out in hot pants and sharp gasps, pumping his cock back and forth until—

Fuck—!

And then he snaps wide awake.

He’s coming just as he startles into full awareness, lips parted in a silent scream. His orgasm hits him out of nowhere, tipping him over the edge with a wayward step—blindsighted and thrown off-kilter. A low whine climbs up and escapes from Max while his cock twitches and spurts ropes of cum, adding onto the wet mess of his own precum and Charles’ slick.

Fuck, he thinks, his voice stuck in his throat and feeling like he just swallowed cotton.

Because none of this has been part of his dream—not anymore, at least. What might’ve started off as the imaginings of his horny nighttime escapades certainly did not end on the same note. His cock is still twitching in need after he already came—a pathetic reminder of the reality before him—and his stomach is coiled tight with an arousal that hasn’t met its proper end.

He’s so turned on he can barely think.

He’s also so horrified he can hardly move.

“Mmn, Max?”

Max’s mind unhelpfully supplies himself with the illusion of desire lacing Charles’ voice, rough as it is when he speaks. Most likely from the aftermath of their activities last night, where Charles screamed himself hoarse; their neighbours are well acquainted with Max’s name by now. The same event can also be tied to the fact of how they’re completely naked in the morning—skin grazing against skin. How Max’s hard cock ended up rocking against Charles’ wet cunt.

Charles turns around, never leaving the circle of Max’s arms around him as he faces Max. Max’s cock—now softened—slips from the wet tunnel between his thighs as he changes position. If he noticed, (which he must’ve, because, well—) then he doesn’t comment anything for some reason.

They need to— They have to— talk about this, right? They should, at the very least, try to form some kind of understanding, some kind of recollection, over what just happened. Over any possible… broken boundaries, and whatnot.

If only Max can get over his (wrong, so very wrong and somewhere on the more morally incorrect spectrum) arousal first.

“Charles, I—”

Words fail him.

He tries again, “I’m—”

“Carlos wants me to play padel with him and Lando, later today,” Charles begins, somewhat rudely cutting Max off. Though, he is more grateful than not for the interruption. “Are you… do you want to join us?”

Max is still processing the horror of his own barely conscious actions when Charles says this.

Because here he is: looking up at Max through those thick, long eyelashes of his, green eyes with hints of blue speckled in honey that light up like gold underneath a streak of sunlight that flickers across his face—a sort of glow that lingers and stays. His eyes have always been a myriad of dazzling colours, like grass fields containing flowers of every kind and swept up in winding rivers. There’s also a slight blush running across his cheeks and a smile dancing on his lips, like he’s taunting Max, already expecting him to agree; as if Max could ever deny Charles of anything.

God, he’s infuriating.

How does Max put up with him?

It's a wonder why he loves Charles so much.

“Um…” Max blinks. “Okay. I— I’ll come with you.”

And that’s that.

They don’t talk about it. They don’t bring it up. Not once they’ve gotten out of bed and started their day, or even later that night when they went back into bed.

At least padel was nice. The physical exertion distracted Max from the memory of waking up with his morning hard-on already well on its way to being relieved, and how it felt for that to be from Charles’ pussy grinding against his cock and the heat of his thighs surrounding him just as he was awakening.

Afterwards, Max goes about the next few days like usual; Charles continues to grate on his nerves in his lovingly infuriating manners as always. They live in sync with each other—a push and pull, ebb and flow pattern that drags them along the waves.

He still doesn’t know why Charles never questioned Max about how he literally came between his thighs while neither of them were capable of being fully aware that it was even happening. But to be fair, how would Charles even begin to approach the topic? Maybe walk up to Max and say, “Hey, just so we’re on the same page, remember that time you came between my thighs while I was still asleep and you were barely half-awake? Uh-huh, yeah, what are we supposed to do about that?”

Right.

So, it becomes almost like an unspoken rule for the both of them to resolutely ignore this particularly large elephant in the room. There’s no reason to mention an event that’s only occurred once, after all.

And for the most part, Max has learned to push his more… unsavoury thoughts aside to the darkest corner of his mind, stuffed inside of a sealed box that’s clearly labelled ‘DO NOT OPEN!’

…Or something along the lines of that.

At least it helps with this… (crisis? dilemma? conundrum?) of his. Oh, whatever. What this situation of his is called doesn’t matter. What does matter, is that the solution for it works. Mostly. Because for some time, that’s how Max copes with himself. With the fact that he’s still, without a doubt, enjoying himself far too much from an indulgence that should’ve never even begun, even as out of his control as it was. So he keeps to himself about it—unspoken, but not forgotten.

Just his own, private knowledge to keep.

⁂

Max almost forgets about it. He really did almost forget. He was just this close to letting it all fade into the background as if it never happened at all.

Until, it happens again, that is.

It’s a few days later, and this time, there’s no sunlight leaking through any windows when it occurs. It’s the dead of night; they’re succumbed to pure, whole darkness and a too-loud silence. Charles has just taught their neighbours another range of vocalizations for Max’s name, and after they’d tired themselves out—they’re now fast asleep, wrung out of energy, and still naked but recuperating in bed.

Well, at least Charles is. Because apparently, Max’s unconscious is clearly not satisfied just yet, starving him from a full night of sleep with fitful dreams to take him away.

“Schat, schatje, please, please please please, need to, I need—”

These dreams are fairly normal for Max. Charles being the starring feature in them has been a recurring event even before and after they stopped dancing around each other and finally got together.

What isn’t normal, however, is for Max to suddenly come to and realize his position in reality being identical to that of his dreams; his cock inside of Charles’ pussy, wrapped around him like a hug as he unconsciously gets himself off with shallow thrusts.

It’s just like that very first time, mere days ago. The two of them on their sides, Charles’ back against Max’s chest, Max’s arms circling around the other man. And one of Max’s hands is pressing over Charles’ waist, and then his stomach, and then further downwards, where his fingers find Charles’ clit, already hot and pulsing and—

This is—

How—?

Did he— Did they—

Did they fall asleep like this?

No, Max clearly remembers getting up for a towel to wipe them both down before they fell asleep. They couldn’t have fallen asleep like this: two bodies connected to each other like perfectly matched puzzle pieces.

So, again, how—?

“Ah—!”

Max suddenly gasps when he accidentally jerks his hips just so, which dissolves into a strung out moan when Charles unconsciously moves back against him.

Fuck, he’s already so close, just from that; how long has he been at this, without even knowing?

And Charles is right there, all soft and warm and wet around him—dripping all over him, all slick wetness that drools down the length of his cock.

Max grits his teeth, fingers just narrowly avoiding contact with Charles’ clit, not hoping to wake him up no matter how much he wants to rub his clit in the way he knows will wrack him with pleasure, shatter his world, while Max chases for his own release. His other hand slides down from Charles’ waist to grip on to his hip, like an anchor stabilizing him to the seabed.

He moves—out of control. Just unconscious, jerky little twitches of his hips that drag his cock in and out the wet passage of Charles’ cunt, the slick glide of his inner walls throbbing around him. Max is so hard that it hurts, his arousal a vice-like grip that tightens around his hindbrain, his mind heavy with want, with need. And then he’s moving again, sheathing the entirety of his cock inside of Charles with one sharp thrust, whereas moments ago he still had some way to go, and his orgasm sweeps over him like the opening of a dam, water rushing out of the gates in a hurry. He’s coming, coming inside of Charles, filling him up to the brim, and just as he thinks he’s done, his cock jerks and then leaks one last time, Charles’ own slick dripping over the lips of his cunt, over the base of Max’s cock.

In his arms, Charles twitches, the type of startled jump that happens when you’re just about asleep and then suddenly you’re somehow falling through the broken cracks between dream and reality.

Max blinks awake.

(And since when did he keep his eyes closed this entire time, even while slowly gaining consciousness?)

The brown tousles of Charles’ hair brushes against the back of his neck, wavy and slightly curled and looking just as soft as what Max knows is like the smoothest of silks. His chest rises and falls in that steady pattern unique only to when he’s asleep, the sound of his breathing soft yet heavy at the same time.

Fuck.

This is—

He just came inside of Charles while the man was still unconscious.

This is even worse than the last time—that very first time.

What is Max supposed to do now? Wake up Charles and tell him, “Hey, uh, sorry—I just need to tell you that, apparently, I am crazy enough to get hard, start fucking you, and then come inside of you while I’m barely awake and you’re still fast asleep. And it isn’t even the first time something like this has happened. How do you suggest we move forward?”

Max almost laughs at himself.

Well, there’s actually a chance Charles doesn’t even realize—would never even realize—what happened, by the time the sun rises. It’s not like Max hasn’t come inside of him before. And it’s not like Charles doesn’t have a frequent habit of adamantly refusing any help that Max offers in cleaning him out, preferring to feel his cum inside of him for as long as possible, keeping a part of Max with him for as long as possible.

But no, Max can’t do that, because that’s crazy and outright insane and just what is he thinking, to even consider keeping something like this from Charles, to reduce this into a dirty secret meant only for him, never brought to light, kept under wraps under darkness under—

“Max?”

Max sucks in a breath.

“…Charles.”

His name comes out in a single exhale, as if the act of breathing fundamentally involves Charles and as if without him—Max wouldn’t even know what his life comprised of.

In a mirroring of the events from that very first time, Charles has turned around and is looking at Max again, his eyes set and brows furrowed in a way that’s awfully neutral, which Max hates because that means he can’t read what Charles is thinking. And that’s not to mention how Max’s cock has slipped out of him without notice in this time, which he, again, doesn’t comment on.

His expression is as still as ever, almost like that of an observer, one trying to carefully piece together what is going on inside of Max’s head. Which is quite ironic, considering the fact that that’s exactly what he’s trying to do for Charles.

A beat of silence passes. Charles opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. Just shuffles in place, skin brushing against the bedsheets and hair sweeping across the pillowcase.

Another moment passes and goes by. And then in the next—

—In the next of the next moment, the words are spilling out of Max before he can even process what he’s saying.

“Schatje, I-I’m so sorry, I don’t— This is—”

Whatever he has to say next is unable to be given form through sound when Charles takes Max’s lips with his own, laying a quick peck that succeeds in silencing him, but one that Max deepens before he even understands what he’s doing. He barely lets go of Charles, forcing himself to pull away if only to try and get his vocal chords working in the way he wants to and form some coherent sentences.

“Charles—”

“I… I liked it,” Charles mumbles against his lips before Max can say more.

What?

“What? You—”

Charles looks away.

“I liked it,” he repeats, unabashed; more firm, more confident. “I liked the feeling of you… wanting me, needing me, when you’re most out of control, when you’re guided by your own body and nothing else. And I liked how… vulnerable I felt, how in the moment, everything was—when I couldn’t do anything. It… It felt… good, when you had me like that.”

Oh.

“Oh, schatje—”

Max gets it now. He understands what Charles means.

Except—

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? You know that I— That I wouldn’t have judged you.”

Considering the fact that Charles was only a passive participant to everything that was happening to him while Max, the active party, was the one making everything happen—yeah, Max wouldn’t have judged him.

Charles chews on his lip for a brief moment before letting it go and speaking. “I thought—well, I assumed—that you didn’t like it, so. So I didn’t want to make you talk about it and feel bad, or worse—make you feel uncomfortable over something so insignificant.”

Max blinks.

He lets Charles’ words wash over him in waves, lets himself bask underneath them like sunlight on the beach.

And then—he lets out a small, sharp laugh.

“Charles, you— You thought that I didn’t like it?” He shakes his head, chuckling quietly. “Here I was, thinking that I was so wrong for liking it so much, while you were here assuming the complete opposite?”

“Well, I couldn’t have known what you were thinking, could I? I’m not a mind reader. And why didn’t you tell me anything first, if you liked it so much?” Charles pouts petulantly. Max is struck with the urge to surge forward and take those lips between his teeth.

Actually, he almost does just that, if not for the fact that he isn’t finished saying everything he wants to just yet.

Patience. He can always wait for more.

“Charles,” he says again, soft and warm as he smiles. “How can you be so perfect?”

That gets the expected reaction out of him.

Charles blushes, something that he tries and fails to hide—the slight tinge being just so irresistibly adorable—especially when the tip of his ears quickly transforms from a pale pink to a flaming red in no time.

Even now, when the two of them have been together for so long, small things like this still catches Charles off guard.

Max has learned long ago that Charles always gets like this from a little bit of praise. A fact he wields like a weapon in cases like these.

“And you’re so annoying,” Charles huffs.

“Back at you.”

Charles rolls his eyes.

But he still isn’t done.

“There’s… also something else, about… all of this, that I…”

He trails off and doesn’t pick up his words again.

Max frowns.

“What is it?” he presses.

“It’s, well,” Charles hums, a beat of punctuation, shy again. He sits up, his legs curling in so that he can hug his knees. Max follows and rises as well, but Charles is still refusing to look his way as his gaze falls downwards. “It’s embarrassing, and very weird actually, but—I just, I don’t want any of this to stop, to end. Is that… Is that so bad?”

Max watches him in shock, in awe.

“No, of course not, that’s—no, never.” He shakes his head. “Charles, I’d never think that. Not when it comes to you.”

Hesitantly, Charles turns toward Max, finally coming face to face with him again. A smile has just begun tugging on Charles’ lips, showing off his dimples.

“Then, can we… What do you say about doing it again?”

Max smirks, pretending he’s deep in thought, teasing.

“I could be convinced.”

⁂

In the end, it doesn’t take much convincing for Max to—well, be convinced. Charles’ plans are as infectious as always, no matter how devious or innocent they may be. In this case, they’re particularly devious—not that Max minds at all, of course.

The sun is dipping just below the horizon, letting in a soft, warm glow through the westside windows that spreads across their apartment’s living room when—this time around—they’re letting it happen on purpose.

They bring out a large bottle of some Italian red wine, a gift given to Charles sometime in the past. They don’t have any of those Moscow Mules that Charles is so very fond of whenever they’re out at a club or a bar, (Max still remembers tripping over himself to buy those drinks for him, way back then,) but the wine is plenty sufficient enough in working with Charles’ aims.

That is, working with his plans to fall into the deep, easy slumber that he frequently succumbs to whenever he drinks red wine.

But other than that—from an outsider’s perspective, it looks as if they’re having a typical dinner; takeout pasta from that restaurant by the corner that Charles likes so much, with the Italian red to match.

Well, if you just ignore the fact that Max is currently kneeling underneath the table, a hand on each of Charles’ thighs to keep his legs spread apart, and lapping at his wet cunt like a parched man with an oasis.

“Putain, Max, I’m, I’m gonna—!”

It’s a good thing that Charles is sitting by the kitchen island as he eats; their regular table is far too low for Max to fit underneath the surface. From his seat on the dining stool, Charles’ feet don’t even reach the ground, and he has to scramble to grip onto the edge of the island’s sleek, marble surface for purchase as his legs tremble from the strength of an impending orgasm.

Max takes this as a sign to further increase his efforts, thrusting two fingers inside of Charles as he begins licking at his clit. His other hand slides up from Charles’ thigh to press down against his lower stomach, warm and tense against his palm.

“Mmn, fuck—!” Charles whimpers, immediately snapping his legs closed around Max’s head at the first available opportunity.

He doesn’t stop him, even when there’s something like white noise echoing in his mind—his ears ringing incessantly. All it does is intensify his senses until all he knows is Charles—the taste of him, the smell of him. All of it for Max.

A bead of sweat rolls down his neck and into his shirt’s collar. His hard cock twitches within the confines of his pants. Aching, desperate. He’s certain there’s a wet spot over his boxers and pants from the amount of precum he’s leaking.

A hunger temporarily staved off.

Since forever—well, for as long as he’s known what sex was, at least—Max has always enjoyed pleasuring his partners through his mouth, through his tongue. But when it comes to Charles, it’s like this desire has grown and multiplied, an all-consuming hunger that drags him down with no way back up.

With his tongue flat against Charles’ clit, Max moans into him, sending vibrations that elicit a long string of whines from Charles while he curls the fingers inside of him just so. His legs tighten around Max’s head, and Max looks up through his own lashes just in time to catch the sight of Charles with his eyes closed and head thrown back in pleasure, baring himself for all the world to see, but only for Max to know the taste of. The flush running down his neck almost matches the red of his shirt.

His lips part in a gasp, “Hah, ah, Max, I can’t, it’s—”

Fuck, he’s so beautiful, seated above Max like he’s on an altar fit for worship. His back arches and his arms flex, and that’s all the warning Max gets before Charles is coming in quick spurts of clear slick, raining down on Max as he hurries to lick everything up, swallow everything down. He replaces the fingers inside of Charles’ cunt with his tongue, tasting him from the nectar’s source.

“Ma-ax!” he cries out, dragging out and stuttering through the ‘ah’ of Max’s name as his hips jerk up, nearly slamming his clit into Max’s nose.

He’s still coming, squirting everywhere, all messy—so, so messy and Max loves it. He circles Charles’ throbbing clit with his thumb, his tongue fucking him throughout his orgasm.

And then, when his legs finally give out with one last quiver—he falls against the back of his seat with a whimper. One hand comes to glide through the short strands of Max’s hair, soothing him, petting him. When Max whines and refuses to let up, Charles only sighs and tugs his head back until Max gets the message, pulling away to rest his chin on Charles’ knee.

Charles smiles at him, his blush a hazy dusk across his face, his eyes damp with unshed tears of pleasure.

“Look at you, so good for me…”

Max has a slight understanding of how he must look: mouth wet, chin dripping with slick, cheeks red, and eyes dark with a ceaseless hunger. He would consume Charles, take everything he can from him, so long as Charles allowed it for him.

“Please, Charles, schat, I need—let me…” Max croaks, his unused voice hoarse with want.

Charles cocks his head. “Hmm, I don’t know, Max. I’m not quite sure if you’ve earned it yet.”

But Max knows better, knows enough of Charles to intuitively predict that this fight he’s putting up won’t last long. Looking down at Max, his eyes are already drooping in the tell-tale signs of drowsiness, the crease of his double eyelids even more pronounced than usual.

Max huffs and slowly rises to his feet, careful not to hit his head against the table’s undersurface, and pushes Charles’ chair back at the same time until he can stand over him. This way, his hard cock is at the perfect level to just barely brush against the same knee his chin was just resting on. He fights against the urge to do something really pathetic, like, start humping his leg, or something. Even though his hips barely twitch forward to try and do just that.

“Seriously?” Max begins, giving his vocal chords some time to adjust before being used again. “I give you an earth-shattering orgasm and that’s all you have to say to me?”

Charles smirks. His hair sticks to his sweat-slick forehead. Green irises are nearly eclipsed underneath the black of his pupils. “I think you’re getting too ahead of yourself. Earth-shattering, you say? That’s a bit of an—”

Max steals the rest of his words with a kiss.

He pulls Charles up and away from his seat, the both of them now standing, and his hurried hands are already pulling at Charles’ shirt and trying to take it off for him. After his own shirt is thrown off to the side, Charles begins getting Max to take his off, cursing in annoyance when it’s not immediately gone.

“Always, it’s you and these damn polos with these tight necks and stupid buttons and—”

Max chuckles against Charles lips.

He unbuttons the neck of his shirt with practiced ease, pulling it off and letting it join Charles’ shirt in whatever corner of the room it was thrown to. As soon as his shirt is gone, Charles is on him again, just as if not more eager than Max was. He nips at Max’s jawline until Max groans with the knowledge that he’s sure to find a blooming lovebite come morning, to which Charles is finally satisfied with and backs away.

“Had enough already?” Max taunts.

“For now,” Charles throws back, petulant.

As Max turns around to quickly peruse the table, he realizes a few things. This being that, while Charles has been struggling to keep himself together through each bite of pasta and sip of wine since Max went under the table, he did end up finishing his food at some point near the beginning—and also at least two glasses of the Italian red, by the looks of the tall wine bottle.

“You didn’t even finish your portion of the food,” Charles complains.

“Sorry.” Max turns back and pouts, not feeling very sorry at all. “I got hungry for something else.”

Charles shakes his head fondly. “You are impossible, you know that.”

Max only bites Charles’ neck in response.

And then, without any notice, he sweeps up Charles in a typical bridal carry fashion: one arm wrapped around his back and the other underneath his knees. His entire body runs hot in Max’s arms, burning like fire.

“What are you— Max!” Charles yelps.

The burn of lactic acid travelling through his muscles fail to bother him as he begins walking to their shared room, kicking open the ajar door before getting close enough to the bed and carefully throwing Charles onto the mattress.

“Well, that was rude,” Charles huffs, just because he can. But his head is tilting off to the side lazily as he sits up with his elbows, and right then—he yawns.

Max joins him on the bed and crawls up in between Charles’ spread legs. Offhandedly, he grabs a pillow and gets Charles’ to lift his hips up so that he can place the soft cushion beneath his lower back.

“Shouldn’t you be too tired to be a brat?” he teases, sitting on his knees and pressing his hand against Charles’ pussy, fingers coming back carrying heavy slick that glistens underneath the dying light of the sun.

Charles whines, back landing onto the mattress as his head falls back. His abdomen flexes, torn between thrusting his hips up against Max’s wandering hand or away from him. But before he can even make his decision, Max is already choosing for him.

His hand rises and falls against Charles’ pussy, slapping his slick folds with an obscenely wet sound.

“Oh!” Charles gasps.

And before he can even react, Max is doing it again—this time aiming for his clit as he slaps down on his pussy.

“Non, I can’t, this is, it’s,” he sniffles, “‘s too much.”

“Shh,” Max hushes, “you can take it, I know you can.”

The third time his hand comes down on Charles’ cunt—he lingers, digging the heel of his palm into Charles’ clit.

“Ah, fuck, no—” he cries out, just before the entire length of his body trembles like an unravelling as another orgasm—weaker than the last—wracks through him. His back arches up and away from the mattress as he moans.

“There you go,” Max whispers, pleased. “See? I knew you could do it.”

Charles grumbles, falling back onto the bed. He throws Max a look. “That was—very mean of you.”

Max leans down and bites at the soft flesh of one of his thighs.

“But have I earned it yet?” he asks, smiling up at Charles as he holds onto the thigh he just bit. “Do I deserve it?”

“You—”

A chuckle, soft like wind chimes against the breeze. 

“Ouai, okay, yes,” Charles says like he’s reluctant, but Max knows better than to trust whatever he’s showing on the surface. He’s spent, drained, worn out of energy and exhausted; he can barely hold himself up to look at Max, what with two orgasms and almost half a bottle of Italian red down.

“Okay,” Max echoes back, licking his lips.

And then—Charles twists into the soft mattress, slowly closing his eyes, and just… lets go.

Max inhales sharply.

Ever since they moved in together, Max has noticed that Charles falls asleep very easily, and that once he is asleep, there is little that can awake him. Such is how they fell into this predicament in the first place, Max thinks. And while at first, he thought that this would’ve turned out much, much worse—in reality, it ended up being anything but.

A blessing in disguise.

For a few minutes, he doesn’t move; frozen in time, in place, with Charles’ thigh still in his hand’s grip. He doesn’t budge, until—with his ears straining—he finally notices the pattern of Charles’ breathing settling in, unique to when he’s fully asleep.

He’s actually—

Oh, fuck.

He lets go of Charles’ thigh and lets it drop back onto the bed with a dull thud. Max immediately looks back at him.

Nothing—

No reaction at all, nothing but maybe something bordering between a sigh and a huff.

“Mijn god,” Max breathes out for no one but himself to hear.

Now that he’s tested that out—Max shuffles back and takes off his pants, kicking off his boxers as well and letting everything fall off the side of the bed and onto the floor without much care.

When he comes back, he carefully grasps onto both of Charles’ thighs, holding them up by the insides of his knees as he folds them up and back, all the way to his chest, showing off his glistening pussy—pink folds a blushing red from Max’s earlier treatment, wet around the edges from his own orgasms and—again—Max’s ministrations.

His cock—now free from any restriction—hangs heavy between his legs, throbbing for his attention.

And Max?

Max believes he’s waited long enough already, as he grips his cock in one hand, slick from Charles’ pussy as it is.

The hand holding Charles’ legs up continues doing so, while his hips jut forward as he lines his cock up with Charles’ cunt, just almost sliding inside of his waiting hole.

With his cock in hand, Max taps the tip over his wet folds, leaking precum into the slick of Charles’ drooling pussy, marvelling at how the thick length of his cock looks over his lower abdomen.

It’s— It’s a whole thing. Not on Max’s side—well, maybe a bit as well—but still mostly on Charles’ side.

The thing about him, is that he seems to have a bit of an interest in Max’s cock. Of course he does. The equipment comes with the sex, after all. But, it’s not exactly just that. Because it’s not just some surface-level interest, or basic appreciation, if you will.

He—well, he seems to have a fixation on Max’s cock. Or, rather—the size of it, so to say.

The first time they fucked, (which was way before they even ever considered getting together—) Charles had nearly kicked Max out once he took off his pants.

“Fuck off,” he exclaimed, almost offended. “And you just had to have a big dick as well?”

(They both also had another thing for hating each other, back then. Which, really, was just another form of foreplay that preluded their relationship.)

Still, in the end, it was between breathless gasps of pleasure that Charles admitted, the words falling from his lips like they were being choked out of him: “Je l'aime, je l’aime beaucoup. How you fill me up, so big, so full—”

Max’s cock twitches and spurts more precum from the memories. He groans underneath his breath.

Gripping his cock, he slaps the tip a few more times against Charles’ clit— just for extra measure, and maybe to see the way his thighs unconsciously twitch from the stimulation—before finally, finally sliding inside.

“Fuck,” he grunts.

A guttural moan catches from the depths of his throat when he thrusts himself all the way inside—wet, velvet walls slick around his cock. Max takes Charles’ legs and lets them spay around him, so that he can take hold of his lithe waist and begin truly fucking into him.

And then, just like this—

(Fuck, he’s like a doll, all malleable under Max’s hands, all his to manipulate this way and that.)

And he just wants to—

And he wants, he wants so much to just be selfish in this one moment, this singular moment in time, and just take what’s his, what’s rightfully there for him to claim.

Charles mumbles something incoherent—quiet, almost going unheard underneath Max’s rough breathing and even more rough fucking—if not for the way Max is so attuned to his every detail, even the nearly imperceptible ones. The sound of skin on skin, slick connection between them overrides the way Charles barely shuffles in place as he sleeps, eyelids fluttering but never opening.

(Max gets the idea to try and see if he can get Charles to come while asleep. Perhaps next time, or the coming morning—when he wakes up before Charles—he can test that theory out.)

With a start, Max realizes that he’s already getting terrifyingly close to coming himself. He hasn’t gotten there so fast in so long, but maybe it’s to do with how much he’s been wanting for all of this, that makes him tip over the edge that much sooner.

Just through muscle memory, he angles his thrusts in a way that nearly hits the place that could make Charles come again, growling underneath his breath as he pistons his cock even harder, even faster. The grip of his hands over Charles’ waist strengthens enough to leave blossoming bruises the next day—a fact Max preens under.

And throughout it all, Charles as still as ever; the sound of his breathing a constant that runs through the space between them.

He pulls himself practically all the way out, leaving just the tip of his cock inside, before thrusting back in with all his might as he comes. His orgasm hits him with an overwhelming power, his cock spilling hot ropes of cum into Charles, into their shared warmth.

Finally, he lets go of Charles’ waist, but keeps his cock inside for just a few more moments as he spurts the last rounds of cum. Afterwards, he falls back—hissing as his cock slips out—kneeling on his feet again as he supports his own weight with his hands behind him.

God, that was—

Every word of every language he knows fail to allow him proper description.

Lying in front of him, he watches Charles’ chest rise and fall like waves against the shore—a steady, soothing pace. He lacks the usual flush he gets whenever they have sex, and his brown hair has dried itself of the sweat-slick gleam he just had.

Max runs a hand through his own hair, brushing away some of the sweaty stands sticking to his forehead. He looks down, and sees the sight of his own cum dribbling out of Charles’ empty hole.

Well, that can’t do.

He gathers the bits of leaking cum with two fingers and shoves them inside, Charles’ inner walls pulsing around him. Once he’s satisfied enough with that, Max takes his fingers back out and strokes his thumb across the wet mess of Charles’ pussy.

Without thinking, he goes to the bathroom and wets a warm towel like habit, his footsteps padding across the room. When he comes back, Charles has unconsciously shifted to lay on his side, but is otherwise still fast asleep.

As he kneels behind him on the bed, he wipes him down. Only on areas exposed to the surface, while making sure to leave his cum plugged deep inside of Charles. Copying Charles, he lays on his side as well behind him—back to chest, chest to back.

He lays a soft kiss over Charles’ shoulder, near his scapula, and waits until his breathing syncs up with Charles’ own.

And: “Goodnight, schatje,” he whispers quietly into the darkness of their room.

Then Max closes his eyes, and joins Charles in his sleep.