ace charles?! been dying for some ace fics ngl
Yes!
Here's a snippet, for the consideration of the (proximal) masses. It's unedited (be nice to me).
“Hey, Max.” Charles wonders aloud, tilting his phone for Max to see. “What one do you like more?”
He flicks between two hoodies on the screen – a pale blue, and a black, both with Nahmias splashed gaudily across the front. Max squints at the screen. It probably doesn’t matter which he says; Charles will almost certainly get both.
“I like the blue one.”
Charles hums, letting his head flop back against the pillows, looking down at the screen of his phone propped on his bare chest. Max snorts quietly, amused. From this angle, he has about nineteen chins.
“Maybe, I will take both.”
Max bites back a smile, and turns his focus back to what he’d been doing before – what he’s been doing for the past forty minutes. He lifts one of Charles’ knees back over his shoulder, feeling his heel settle against the middle of his back. He lets his fingers trail up, wrapping over to stroke firmly over the crease of his hip. When Charles finishes shuffling -- still tapping absently at his phone – Max settles in to lick at him again. Not at his clitoris – Charles doesn’t like that – but around it.
The hoodies, Max knows, will be here in a few days, in one of two ways.
Either they’ll come to Max’s address, the box adorned with the fake name and contact details Charles has used to order them; or Doni Nahmias will figure out somehow that it’s him, in which case the clothes will be deposited at Charles’ doorstop, and the money back into his account. After that, Charles will wear them to Max’s apartment, take them off, and forget them on the couch, or in the kitchen, or in the bedroom, or on the terrace. Max will fold them, and put them in the drawer with the rest of his forgotten belongings, until Charles accuses him of stealing them, and takes them home again.
It'll have to happen soon, he muses, thumbing gently over warm, wet skin. The drawer is getting full.
Charles sighs heavily and lets his phone fall, hands collapsing against his chest, apparently content with his procurements. When Max glances up, he’s gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. His expression doesn’t change as Max’s fingers wander, except that his eyes fall closed. His foot slides up to plant itself on Max’s back, knee lifted a little higher – thigh close enough for Max’s head to lean against, hips tilted for better access.
Max, watching his face, folds his fingers – with two knuckles, he glides firmly over the dip between folds. Charles shudders a little, twitching. Some days he likes this; others it’s too much. Today’s a good day. Max can tell by the way his scent has been clear and fresh all morning. It has a certain crispness to it – one that can easily turn sharp with apprehension or sour with warning.
Max does it again, pressing more firmly with his knuckles – there’s no friction, the delicate skin already thoroughly soaked. Not with slick. Charles’ body rarely produces slick. It’s happened maybe once or twice in the entire time they’ve been doing this – months. Not even enough to make him wet; just barely enough for Max to catch a scent in the air, and a trace on his tongue. He’s not even sure what it was that did it – they haven’t been able to replicate it, to Charles’ great disappointment.
Max doesn’t mind.
Yes, maybe those slight traces tasted better than the champagne he drank on his first ever podium. Maybe it shone on his fingers like gold – gleaming brighter than the WDC trophy.
But in some ways it seems right, that he only got to have it for a moment. He works himself half to death just to hold that trophy for ten minutes each year – none of his replicas at home can quite compare.
He thinks he might’ve worked harder still, with Charles. He thinks they both have.
In any case, for Max, it’s probably the smaller moments in between that make it worthwhile. It’s each step closer to the perfect setup on a new race-weekend. It’s every purple sector, and podium. It’s the way the mechanics make space for him among them; the way Christian smiles up at him with pride on the top step; the way GP’s daughter lights up when she sees him.
With Charles, it’s the way his knees flop languidly open when Max nudges at them; the way his hands find Max’s skin without thinking; the way his scent stays warm and open through it all.
It’s like that now: soft and calm and inviting. It’d probably even stay that way if Max were to slide a finger or two inside him, to stroke at the velvety heat of him and massage at the tightness of the muscles there.
But Max won’t, because as he’s contemplating it, a timer goes off.
So instead, he slowly pulls away, going to the bathroom to wash his hands.
Then he goes back to the bed, and flops down next to Charles, casually tangling their legs as he digs his own phone out of his pocket.
“Alright, so.” He flicks open a spreadsheet. “What went well?”
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Idk guys are we vibing it or no? Lemme know.
