I luv you Danyul, I luv you *puppet kisses*

He shrugged languidly, looking up at Daniel without so much as sitting up, too cozy in bed. They were sharing a hotel room again: it was technically Max's room, but neither of them cared. Daniel just used his to go shower in the evenings, and then he swiftly came back to ask stupid questions like, ‘do you reckon i could win in a fistfight, mate?’. 

So Max merely shrugged. “I mean, I'm pretty good at boxing, no offense…”

None taken, clearly, because Daniel rolled his eyes, but he did it in that fond way that made the younger man feel butterflies in his stomach. “Mm, maybe. I dunno, maybe boxing doesn't count that much. I kind of feel like— you know what I feel like?” He asks, nods to himself without giving Max enough time to answer, and keeps on monologuing. Max, who could listen to him talk for hours, finds that he doesn't care. “I feel like boxing doesn't give you that much of an advantage in a fistfight. Like, in the streets and in the sheets, there's no rules, you know what I mean?” 

The Dutchman nods absentmindedly, trying not to think too hard about Daniel in someone else's sheets, about what lines he'd cross without even asking, if he'd be a bit of a pushy asshole like that. Max's treacherous, overconfident voice tells him he'd be able to handle it perfectly, but he ignores that, too. “What do you mean? Like, eeeeh, I'm fistfighting someone outside of a club, I'll kick them in the nuts, that's what you're picturing?”

It's Daniel's turn to look a little stumped, stopping his pacing around the room to sit at the edge of the bed and ponder on it. “I mean, not kicking someone in the nuts, jeepers, Maxy…” 

Max's turn to roll his eyes. They're reversing the roles entirely, now. Any day now, Daniel will be the one looking up to Max, not the other way around. Will he like him back, then? “Then what do you mean?” 

“Dirty tactics!” Daniel explains. “You know, hair pulling, headlocks, biting… everything's allowed. Within reason. Ball sacks are off limits, I for one am quite fond of my testicles. Balls. Gonads. Scrotum. You get the idea.” 

Max sits up at that, interested in the turn this conversation is taking. “Biting? Seriously, mate?” 

But Daniel looks so enamoured by the concept that Max can't shatter the fantasy, even if it is a pretty ridiculous fantasy — last night, they stayed up watching Fight Club (Daniel had insisted on introducing his teammate to the “classics”), and maybe it was because Max had been too busy trying not to discreetly rub one off under the covers at the thought of all those naked, sweaty men writhing around on the floor, but he was pretty sure he hadn't seen a single one of them bite each other. 

They kind of drop the subject after that, because Daniel won't budge even though it's a stupid idea, and Max can't afford to fantasize about manhandling Daniel or he'll have to take a nighttime shower to deal with his chubbed up cock. But Max keeps replaying it in the back of his mind, curious. He's always curious, when it comes to the older man. Keeps all their secrets and his pretty smiles in a safe, locks them inside of his heart, commits them to memory. 

Eventually, they do go to sleep — quali tomorrow. Still, Max keeps thinking about it, and thinking about it, and thinking about it, and— He’s woken up by something hot and humid in the back of his neck. When had he fallen asleep? There’s a weight on top of him. What time is it? The weight is hot and heavy and the tongue on his nape is hot and moist and he feels like a furnace, he’d kick off the covers but he can’t move, something’s pressing him down. Someone. Who could it be? There’s only one for Max, it’s always been just one, nobody else could’ve gotten into the hotel room this late at night. He arches his back, pushes out his ass, tries to rub Daniel’s erection on his glutes, can’t really move all too well like this. He finds himself hoping he’s enough; even now, pinned down, the overconfident voice from before is nowhere to be found, he never feels like enough for Daniel. Has the older man noticed he’s been racking extra weight on his squats? Does he feel the firm, lean tissue under his swollen cock? Is it enough, or would he rather the soft, gracious jiggle of fat only a woman could give him, with ample buttocks and a tiny wasp waist? No time to dwell on it. Daniel’s moving, fast. Rough, hot hands pull Max’s cotton boxers down, shoving them out of their way. There’s something animalistic to the way the Aussie is panting and huffing like a dog above of him, arranging them with a sense of urgency as he sucks on Max’s baby hairs at the back of his neck like he’s trying to get a taste of him and commit it to memory. “What are y—” Max tries to ask, only to have his head yanked downwards until he’s practically gagged by the pillow. Before he can crane his neck and gasp for air, he’s having to bite on the pillow to stifle a groan, colors bursting behind his eyelids as Daniel thrusts into him, dry.