#a88ficlet

“Max?” Charles whines from the bed. He’s blindfolded and bites the edge of his lip as he hears the door open and close. He's poised on his hands and knees, naked and waiting. It would be easy enough to reach up and remove the cloth covering his eyes, but the not knowing is sparking arousal between his hips. “If you left I—”

“I’m here birthday boy,” Max answers, amusement practically dripping from his tone. “We have company.” 

Charles' body flushes, heat finding his cheeks at the idea of someone else seeing him like this.  Exposed and vulnerable, soaking wet and hungry to be fucked. 

He feels the bed dip in front of him, fingers curling into his hair. There’s a gentle tug as he’s urged forward until his lips are bumped with the tip of a hard cock. 

“Hi Charles,” a warm voice rumbles over his name. 

“Oscar,” Charles answers, smiling. As soon as his mouth opens Oscar presses down on the back of his head and groans at the willing and eager suction Charles offers. 

Another weight settles on the bed between his legs, and he assumes it’s Max until a finger teases along his pussy and a low whistle meets his ears. 

He doesn’t have time to question it, Oscar’s hand firm and unyielding, forcing him to keep his focus on sucking and pumping as an unknown body takes up position behind him. He’s expecting to be fingered, but not the feeling of lube being poured between his cheeks and an insistent pressure as a thumb opens him up. 

Company is more than just Oscar, and Charles whimpers at the idea that he’s going to get all his holes used. 

Every sensation is amplified by not being able to see, not being able to anticipate the next move. He chokes and Oscar lets him catch his breath, petting his sweaty hair from his forehead. 

“I’m always amazed at how good you are at taking it, kitten,” says the voice from behind and Charles knows who it is immediately. 

“Seb,” Charles grins again, wiping spit from his chin as he’s stretched further. Seb adding a finger, twisting and spreading them, driving Charles crazy. 

Even with all the stimulation and distraction, there’s part of him that can’t relax until he knows where Max is.

“Fuck,” Charles pants. “Max?” 

“Here baby,” Max answers, a hand resting on Charles’ side as the bed dips again. “Let me get underneath you.” 

There’s an arrangement of limbs, Charles’ body manhandled until he’s straddling Max. A comfortable and familiar position. He can still feel Seb behind him and Oscar’s hand stroking his cheek.

“Please,” he begs, but it’s cut off by his mouth being forced back around Oscar’s dick. 

Charles catches a quick breath through his nose before he can’t, but it’s nearly knocked out of him as Max grips his side and thrusts into his pussy. He’s soaked from Max’s previous attention and more than ready, but everything combined makes bursts of light explode behind his eyelids. 

Max hilts himself at the perfect angle, and Charles moans around his mouthful of Oscar as Seb’s cock nudges against his ass. 

For a moment he’s not sure he’s going to be able to take everything at once, a buzz of nerves making him squirm, eyes blinking open, forgetting the blindfold. 

“You can do it,” Max encourages, reading Charles’ mind or his body language.

“Nice and easy,” Seb adds, voice strained as he presses down on Charles’ lower back and pushes inside of him. 

Charles makes a strangled noise, and is allowed to pull back and inhale. He’s got tears on his cheeks, soaking into the black cloth obscuring his vision. 

They don’t wait before they find a rhythm to take him apart fully. Max is steady and quick beneath him, Seb rocking to a counterpoint, and Oscar insistent at his mouth. He’s never been so overwhelmed, in the best way, and he grips Max’s shoulder and Oscar’s hip as they all pound into him. 

Then Max reaches between his legs and rubs his clit with quick and precise movements. He crashes into his climax so hard his back arches and every muscle in his body tenses and trembles. 

They don’t stop.

Neither does his body. So full, so stimulated and turned on, one wave crashes into the next and he’s not even sucking as Oscar continues to fuck into his mouth. 

He loses track of them, of himself, of anything outside the feeling of electricity arcing through him. The room echoes with the sounds of sex and his ragged, desperate noises. 

Oscar comes next, pulling Charles back by his hair and painting his mouth and cheek with his climax. He rests his face against Oscar’s stomach and tries to relax, but Max has other ideas. 

Max and Seb both speed up, but it’s Seb that slaps Charles’ ass and says he’s close. It’s a blessing because Charles isn’t sure how much more he can take. He reaches down between his thighs and tries to hold Max’s hand so he can’t keep circling his clit, but his wrist is caught and held and he can’t believe the betrayal of his body as he comes again. 

He screams, throat raw, the force of his climax would be enough to push Max out if he didn’t have hands pinning him in place. Charles sobs and Seb finishes, the heat of it spreading inside him. 

Max is only a few thrusts behind him, grunting Charles’ name and wrapping his arms around him. 

He must look away too soon, a beer bottle raised to meet his lips as he studies the chipped paint of an ancient Subaru, because Max’s voice tickles his ear a moment later. 

Little shit is too fucking silent and sneaky when he wants to be.

“Are you pissed at me or something?” Max asks, and Danny doesn’t get it. Not until he pauses and examines his own expression in the side mirror of the truck he’s leaning on. He looks irritated, more than the slight itch under his skin of general impatience, he tells his face to chill out. 

“Nah, we’re good Maxy.” Danny turns a smile on him and Max’s frown deepens. “I mean it, the set was amazing. You played like a god. Everything was perfect. Is perfect.” He’s staring into Max’s blue eyes when he says it, it’s earnest and open and a truth Daniel can force past his lips. 

“It can be more perfect.” Max finally relaxes, Danny can see the angle of his shoulders drop a few degrees, and he smirks. He’s also thinking about the rainbow pack of condoms. Danny doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. 

“What color?” Danny asks and Max blushes, crimson blossoming on his cheeks. There’s that damn red again. He’s haunted by it. 

“Maybe green or purple, like that lollipop I had earlier.” Max licks his lips and it’s fucking obscene and Danny wants to suck on his tongue, imagines tasting that grape sucker he’d been downright lewd about eating during their acoustic set at the label’s tent. 

Danny had gone through two bottles of water, chugging one and dumping one on his head trying to keep from tenting the crotch of his skinny jeans in front of a live audience. 

“Or blue, although that makes me think about—” 

“Stop,” Danny interrupts, knowing the voice Max uses when he’s about to say some weird shit.  

Max's face splits in a wide grin and he starts laughing, a partial wheeze as he crosses his arms over himself and grips his sides. 

He’s too fucking cute. 

Danny needs to face fuck him like several hours ago. 

“You’re so annoying,” he says and tosses his elbow gently into Max’s ribs. Max straightens up, but the smile doesn’t flag at all. 

“And you have a big dick,” Max answers, smug, like he’s just delivered the title winning jab in a boxing match. “And the blue condom makes me think about this alien comic I read once.” 

Danny groans at the quick rush of Max’s words, speeding out of his mouth like a train before Danny can stop him. Stubborn brat. 

“Fuck you,” Danny finally answers, downing the dregs of his beer, grimacing at the warm foam. “Now we’re definitely not using the blue one, and I’m still going to be thinking about that later. If I can’t get hard, it’s your fault.” 

“Oh, we both know that’s not going to be a problem.” Max drags his eyes down Danny’s body, gaze settling below his belt. Danny’s dick twitches like an obedient dog. 

Pathetic Ricciardo, really just low. 

“And I will also be thinking about it later,” Max says.

“You’re a freak.” 

“Your freak.” 

Danny ignores the way that lodges in his throat. Doesn’t want to consider the truth of those words. Always fighting back the part of him that wants to take and take and see how much Max will give. Danny thinks it’s probably too much.  

“Fucking aliens.” 

It’s more of a tease than a question. Because of course Max is going to choose plowing his cock between GP’s lips over another shitty pour. It isn’t even a competition. 

“Here?” Max rasps then clears his throat. 

“On the sidewalk in front of everyone?” There’s no disbelief in GP’s tone. In fact it’s more like the voice he uses when coaxing information out of Max on the track. It’s gentle, commanding, makes Max’s throat bob as he swallows. 

“Can you imagine?” Max replies. He’s breathless and hot, tugging at his shirt and fanning it to cool the layers of sweat on his skin. 

“I’d drop to my knees. People wouldn’t pay attention at first, not around here.” GP bites Max’s earlobe and it sends a shiver like electrical current directly to his balls.

“I’d unzip those too-tight jeans.”

Max makes an indignant noise but doesn’t risk saying anything. 

“Get your dick in my mouth. I wouldn’t want anyone else to see it. Have to hide it in my throat.” “Please.” Max turns and their mouths nearly brush. 

GP pulls back with sparkling kind eyes. He steers them down the nearest alley, a right turn and then a left into a dead end loading dock for a liquor store. There’s a giant illuminated beer bottle dancing back and forth overhead as GP shoves him against a concrete wall. 

The air escapes his lungs right before GP crashes against him. His kiss is rough and intense and everything Max needs. Like stars colliding with the force to create new galaxies. The contrast of GP’s touch is dizzying, slow and precise in unbuckling Max’s belt and tugging his pants down around his thighs. 

Max hisses at the cold cement against his ass. 

“Tell me what you need Maxy.” GP touches his thighs, his stomach, every piece of exposed skin except his aching hard cock. 

“Touch me.” Max grinds through his teeth as he bucks his hips and reaches up to trace his middle and ring fingers along GP’s lower lip. “Taste me.” GP opens his mouth and Max sinks his fingers past the hot wet slide of his tongue.  

Max groans, doesn’t care that they’re in public, doesn’t try to stifle the noise as GP sucks on his thick digits. Mouth shiny as he bobs his head and holds Max’s gaze. He can hear the thrum of club music in the distance, voices carrying from the street, the reality of them getting caught making arousal churn between his hips. 

“God,” Max breathes as he watches the tip of GP’s tongue work against his fingers until it can flick and tease at the juncture between the two in his mouth, a barely visible flash of pink darting between his lips. Max can see the spit accumulating on his skin, dripping onto GP’s chin. 

Then GP pulls away and Max expects him to go to his knees, to finally give Max what his eyes have been promising all night. Instead he smirks and looks down at Max’s straining erection, heavy and full and begging for attention. 

“Jerk yourself off,” GP says, and again the tone reminds Max of something he might hear when the team needs technical feedback. 

The contrast makes Max’s head spin. His mouth opens to protest, but his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip before the words can escape. Instead he drops his spit-slick fingers to his cock and makes a tight circle he can start thrusting his hips into. 

Obedience will be rewarded. 

A concept GP’s been drilling into him for years. 

He pumps and thrusts and eye fucks GP as desperate whimpers escape past his lips into the humid Miami air. 

Impatience and frustration start to tighten his shoulders and he curls his toes as he picks up his pace. He wants GP to relent, have mercy, but he doesn’t want to beg. 

“Gianpiero,” Max finally whines. 

GP grins and slowly lowers himself, denim-covered knees finding asphalt as he anchors his hands on Max’s hips. But he still doesn’t lean in, instead looking up as his smile melts into a smirk. 

“Put it where you want it,” he offers and parts his lips, making an inviting ring that Max doesn’t hesitate to sheath himself inside. He’s already so fucking close. Watching the familiar stretch of GP’s mouth around his girth nearly ends him. He ruts forward and finds a firm grip pressing him back against the wall. GP swallows him down until his nose is buried in Max’s pubes and he’s fighting his gag reflex like a seasoned professional. The partial choking noises, the tight pressure, everything makes Max’s balls tighten and his stomach clench and he’s coming with his hands gripping the back of GP’s head. 

He explains the terms–the reasons he’s right; hooks Max up to wires and sensors. He delights in his research and so does Max. Well, in part Max enjoys it. Charles touches him, his skin–the sensation of warmth–he craves it, but it’s like diamonds. Rare, hard, cutting. 

Max hates pain: the electricity that floods his veins, the wretched noises gutted out of him, the smell of burning flesh and the taste of iron and ash on his tongue. The pain is necessary, Charles assures him, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking at him with kind eyes.  

Sometimes it takes him back to the blank; the dark place. It’s not bad, but there’s no Charles. It’s not something he thinks while he’s there, because he’s not there, but when he comes back he feels an ache of longing–the same ache he feels when Charles steps out to go for groceries or pick up his mail, the long days he spends out. Just out. He doesn’t tell Max where he goes, just comes back with the result. 

Charles loves results. They put him in a good mood. Max’s mood reflects the weather of Charles’ disposition. Storms would roll in if the desired outcomes were not so easily grasped. He’d curse in English, then again in French. Max doesn’t know French–none of his books teach it–but he does know the sound of French: the curl and hiss of the sharp phrases as Charles stomps around the lab. 

Max doesn’t leave. Max never leaves. Charles traces the scars that wrap his bicep when he tells him. It makes Max angry sometimes–the confinement. Maybe he’d call it imprisonment after finishing The Count of Monte Cristo, if it weren’t for the way Charles touches him. Max doesn’t leave, but he does peel back some of the newspaper covering the windows. Just at one corner. The view is obscured by overgrown hedges, but Max can make out the moving shapes and colors of people. 

Charles hates people. Max thinks he doesn’t understand them. Charles is smart, but Max thinks he’s not patient enough for people. He huffs at that suggestion when Max mentions it. 

“A ridiculous assertion,” Charles scoffs. 

“The laughing man,” Max offers, thoughtfully and without malice. A man had come to the door. It was during the cold months when everything turned pale: the ground, Charles’ skin. “He was nice.” Max is right about this. It’s objectively true. He had been forthright; funny; careful with Charles as his temper soured. 

“He was not nice, Max.” Charles nears him and Max flinches. Max loves Charles, but he flinches. Charles doesn’t notice. He simply brushes a thumb over Max’s cheek. 

“Beautiful, simple, don’t think of this too hard.” 

“He said Max.” The name Charles has always called him. “He was nice.” 

Charles hates to argue–they don’t argue–so Charles doesn’t respond. But there’s a shift in the green of his eyes. Something flat and hollow, dwelling in the swirling depths, makes Max think long and hard afterward. He sits and stares at his hands, the tangle of veins under the patchwork of his skin. He knows some things are true when Charles says they are not. 

Charles loves Max. Charles hurts Max. Charles lies to Max. 

After that he read The Time Machine and The Death of Ivan Ilych, and he understands better how things can carry two different aspects in a singular, or he tries to understand. It makes a sharp pain jolt behind his eyes, then it lingers there. It helps him. He wants to continue reading, and also he doesn’t. He loves Charles, and he also fears Charles. 

The next time he’s on the table, wide leather straps holding him down, he asks Charles to clarify a part of the puzzle. 

“I’m Max, but also I am not Max?” Charles tightens the buckle at his chest. His knuckles brush the vertical scar running between his pecs. 

“Your name is Max.” Charles answers. It’s not good enough. Max makes a noise of protest as Charles presses the wooden bit between his teeth. He struggles against the straps and hears the table creak. “Stop this!” Charles demands, and Max stills. 

Max is scared of Charles. So he stills. 

“You are the only Max.” Charles whispers into his ear after a moment before leaning away. He pushes the hair off of Max’s forehead and stares into his eyes, somehow seeing and unseeing. “My beautiful Max.” 

He’s far away when he says it and he flips the switch a moment later. 

Charles works and Max suffers. 

And suffers. 

Suffers. 

Time passes and Max learns to understand why Charles doesn’t believe in death. He isn’t scared of the darkness, of the nothing, because he’s never faced it. 

Max reasons that he should. 

It’s a late night when Max wraps Charles in a hug. They don’t touch often, but to Max’s surprise Charles leans back against him. Max tightens his grip. 

“Blow me.” The low voice in Liam’s ear tickles like a feather and he brings a shoulder up defensively, turning until he can’t, pinned in place. He looks up and catches a familiar sliver of stubble-dusted jawline and full lips. The accented words are unmistakable, and even if they weren’t, there was a dick introducing itself to his ass. He can’t misunderstand that. 

“Yeah?” Liam answers, not sure if it’s a statement or a question, agreement or confusion, a mouth-watering mix of both. There’s eyes and mics everywhere. One of them should move away. Neither of them do. 

“Right here?” The whispered question revs Liam’s engine big time. 

“You’d be too loud,” Liam counters, grinding back. Two could play this game.

The pressure of Max’s hips finally relents as he steps away with a camera-ready smile. Like Liam had just said the funniest thing in the world. 

“You’re that good?”

Liam turns and lets his tongue swipe between his lips. A shiny pink invitation.

 “Better.” 

Max’s blue gaze devours him as Liam leans back against the counter and stares.

“Driver’s room. Fifteen minutes.”

*

It feels like he’s on his knees before the door closes, Max sitting in an uncomfortable folding chair and pushing his underwear down his thighs until his hard cock is level with Liam’s hungry mouth. It’s thick and uncut, heavy on his tongue, salt and musk invading his senses as his lips stretch wide. It’s the biggest dick he’s had in his mouth, but he figures Max assumes that whenever he’s staring down at a head between his thighs. 

“Fucking hot mouth,” Max groans. “You look good like this, more relaxed than the last few days.” Max rubs the tension out of his shoulders with a firm grip and it feels amazing.

Liam’s easy pace stutters a bit, but he recovers quickly, pulling back and lapping at the tip while giving Max a confused look. 

Max slides his hand to the back of Liam’s head and urges him back down. 

“You’ve been stressed, I can tell. With everything going on.”

Liam makes a noise of protest but keeps bobbing up and down, tongue swirling and hand pumping. 

“You clearly needed a distraction. Pouting like that in my garage.”

It feels surreal, the levelheaded advice offered as Max tests easing his cock against the back of Liam’s throat. 

“You can take it?” Max asks, and to his credit he waits for an answer. 

An affirmative is muffled around a full mouth, and Liam relaxes eagerly, bracing to have his face fucked. Instead, Max is slow as he pushes forward and holds Liam’s face down, nose buried in his pubes until he chokes. He does it again, and again, just as slowly. Rubbing at the hinge of Liam’s jaw when he pulls away, letting him catch his breath, admiring his spit slick smile. Max isn’t wrong; he’s definitely feeling less stressed out now. 

“Come on my face?” he asks when he feels Max getting close. Feels the way his thighs tense under Liam’s hands and Max rolls his eyes as he groans. Liam’s more than pleased to be able to get that reaction out of him. He watches with rapt attention as Max reaches down to jerk himself off. They wouldn’t have much uninterrupted time, his movements urgent and quick. He paints his climax over Liam’s swollen red lips and smirks as he plays his fingers through blond hair.

“You know, you owe me one.” Liam says as he grins and licks at the salty come dripping from his top lip onto his waiting tongue. 

“This was for your benefit,” Max pants, catching his breath. Smile impossibly wide on his face as he tosses down a wink. 

“What? How’d ya figure?” Liam finishes wiping up his mouth with his index finger and then sucks it clean. 

Max watches and inhales through his teeth. “I took the edge off for you. Free therapy and good practice.” Max pats his cheek.  

Liam rolls his eyes and uses the sturdy handles of Max’s thighs to stand. 

“You’re an asshole.” Liam chuckles as Max puts himself away. 

“But I’m not wrong,” Max answers.

And he wasn’t wrong. “You still owe me one.”