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hb-writes · 2 years ago

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For the Best

Summary: They had given Mia three-thousand miles to process all that had happened with Edward, Bella, and the Volturi. The road trip from Forks to Ithaca with Jasper was planned for her benefit, to allow her time to think, time to sort herself, while the rest of the family was already back in their old home and getting resettled within the familiar walls they’d left less than a year before. It hadn't been enough. Mia still didn't feel sorted or settled or ready to forgive her brother for all that had passed between them, for all of the things that hurt, but had nothing to do with her.

Characters: Edward Cullen & Mia Cullen (OC)

Request (from anon): How about #55 with Edward (Twilight)? Congrats on 500 followers love! You deserve that and so much more!❤

Content Warnings: Angst (no fluff at all), Mentions of Death, The Volturi, Mentions of Suicide, Depression, Mia draws the wrong conclusion about her mental health issues/ social support available to her (I feel like this one might at some point require the fluff of a part 2), minimal proofreading

A/N: Wanted to note that I think Mia and Edward have both come to very wrong conclusions on a lot here. Our brains are really tricky and they can be real jerks, convincing us of some pretty damaging things that simply are not true. If you’re hurting, reach out for support even if your brain is telling you it’s better for you to keep it all inside, even if your brain is telling you no one cares. I promise, it’s not better and there are people out there who care and want to support you. Take care, my loves. ❤️

Here’s the AO3 link if you prefer to read over there.

Twilight (Mia Cullen) Masterlist

Angst Celebration Masterlist

Please take a moment to tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

Mia sat on the floor of her bedroom as her brother settled against the frame in the open doorway. She had a fleeting wish that she could go back in time and shut her bedroom door properly, not that she had the type of family who would respect such a thing as a closed door, but at least it would have given her more of a warning.

"Hey."

Mia snorted at Edward’s grand opening. They hadn’t spoken properly since they arrived back in Forks, with Mia enacting the sort of silent treatment Carlisle didn't often allow to hold between his children for any significant measure of time. He usually took a more engaged approach in helping to repair a damaged relationship. He usually knew just the thing needed to mend and fortify a bond between siblings, but this time, their father left Mia and Edward to settle things on her own, with no prodding or prompting or confining them to the same room for hours until they worked it through. Carlisle hadn’t even broached the topic with his daughter in any sense beyond acknowledging the situation existed. Mia figured that meant some part of her father felt she was right to be upset and some part of her felt her anger fortified by that.

They had given Mia three-thousand miles to process all that had happened with Edward, Bella, and the Volturi. The road trip from Forks to Ithaca with Jasper was planned for her benefit, to allow her time to think, time to sort herself, while the rest of the family was already back in their old home and getting resettled within the familiar walls they’d left less than a year before.

But it hadn't been enough. Mia didn’t feel sorted or changed. She didn’t feel as though the time had done her any good, nothing in her shifting after she considered all of the pieces she’d been given—the secondhand bits of knowledge passed by her mother and father—from Emmett, Rose, Jasper, and Alice. None of it had come from Edward, not much had come from him in the whole time he’d been gone, really. Somewhere along the line, Mia had stopped asking questions to or about him. She had stopped reaching out. She had stopped speaking with him even when he did call.

But even so, Mia knew enough to be upset and confused and hurting, feelings she’d come to accept as commonplace, simply part of her now.

She knew that Alice had seen Bella jump off a cliff.

And she knew that Rosalie had told Edward what had happened.

And Mia knew that Edward had gone to the Volturi. She knew her brother had begged for death. She knew that he sought it out in his own way when he was politely declined by Aro, Marcus, and Caius.

And Mia knew that Bella had now made the same arrangement with the Volturi that her father had once negotiated for her, the permission to live as a human for now traded for the promise that she would one day be turned—both of them deemed suitable enough of an asset to be afforded a temporary extension of their mortal life.

Mia hadn't attended the family vote on the matter, shutting herself away in her father's study for the duration and locking up her mind, protecting herself from her siblings’ presumably well-intentioned intrusions, protecting herself from releasing anything she intended to keep locked inside. She’d been doing that quite often these days.

"Mia—"

Mia met her brother's eye for a moment, the first time in days that she'd even looked at him. She shook her head, a bit unsettled by the fact that her gaze had been enough to silence him, intimidated by the fact that Edward was tentative of her. She looked back to the books she'd scattered across the carpet to organize before replacing them on her shelves.

Mia clocked Edward’s movement as he took a step over the threshold, but she didn't acknowledge him.

"We're going to have to talk eventu—"

Mia tossed her copy of War and Peace into a new pile, a satisfying thud sounding as the tome slammed against the hardwood, cutting off Edward’s words.

"We won't,” she said, a great effort set into considering her well-worn copy of The House at Pooh Corner. She ran her fingers over the antique cover before gently setting it on the top of a pile. “You'll graduate and marry and Bella will—"

Edward cleared his throat, taking another step further into the room as he readied himself to correct her, but Mia shook her head, cutting him off before he could even get started. She did it without even sparing him a glance, knowing his mouth would be opening for a rebuttal to argue against her. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want his excuses or platitudes.

"You'll leave us behind," Mia ground out, tossing another book on the pile. "You've done it before."

Edward nodded, settling against the empty bookshelf. "I did. And at the time, it was for the best.”

Mia swallowed, rage bubbling up inside of her at Edward’s words, all of it ready to spill out. "For the best?” she scoffed. “What if I did that to you? Would you think it was for the best or would you hate me? You were gone for months without a single word, Edward! Who exactly was that best for?"

"You," he offered. “It was best for you.”

Edward hadn’t thought about it when he first left. He’d been too consumed with his own wants and needs to consider his sister’s, but he had thought of it a handful of times since being home. Despite her anger, Edward was nearly certain that his sister had benefitted from his absence. She’d somehow come out of the time apart stronger—more resilient, less dependent.

She'd grown.

It had been good for her to be away from him.

She had been better off without.

"Look at you now, Mia."

Mia swallowed the hard lump in her throat. It was all she could manage considering the thoughts rushing through her mind at her brother’s words.

Look at you now.

Mia usually tried not to look at herself. She tried not to think too hard about who she’d become because when Mia looked at herself...when she really allowed herself to see the girl who stared back in the mirror after the last six months, she didn’t like what she saw. She didn’t like the girl who’d made it by—just barely—struggling to sleep, fighting with the people to whom she’d once quite easily agreed, put off entirely by the idea of school work, put off by the idea of family, put off by almost everything she’d once enjoyed, courting her own company more than anyone else’s, more occupied with her own pain than that of anyone around her, more concerned with being angry with the people who had left rather than being grateful for the ones who had stayed.

Mia thought back on the fights she’d had with her mother and her father, the ways in which she had pushed Alice and Jasper away, and she hated herself for it. She hated herself almost as much as she hated Edward for leaving. Almost as much as she hated Emmett and Rose for taking time to be a couple on their own, accessible to her on a per diem basis, present to her hurt only when it suited their schedule, seemingly able to forget that one of their family was gone when she was reminded of it every day.

Mia had hated the three of them for simply not being there almost as much as she hated Rosalie for her part in Edward going to Volterra, almost as much as she hated Edward for what he’d only put a stop to for his girlfriend’s sake, only brought around and brought home to them because Bella had jumped into his arms at the right moment, mere seconds before it would have been too late…

Seconds later and Edward would have left them for good.

Mia hated herself most of all though. She hated that she hated, hated that her family’s actions could do that to her. She hated that Edward’s absence could change her in this way. She hated that she cared enough about her brother to pass her ire off to the rest of them. She hated that she’d let herself become someone she barely even recognized.

The old Mia would have forgiven him already. It may have taken some gentle nudging by her father, but she would have done it. She would have shown compassion and understanding. She would have listened. She would have talked. She would have shown empathy, foregoing her rage in the name of love and family. She would have forgiven herself somewhere along in the process, too, but Mia wasn't that girl anymore.

And she didn't know if she could let go of the anger long enough to shift that way because, above all, the anger had become a comfort. The hate she felt toward them and toward herself was somehow safer than the pain of the hurt and the fear that haunted her beneath the rage.

“You’ve been better off without—”

Edward stopped himself, nearly choking on the words as an almost physical force hit him. He could suddenly hear his sister’s thoughts, Mia’s words coming at him though there was still silence settled between them. Each fragment of a thought came quicker than the last, louder than the last, more pained than the last, all of the sentiment Mia had pent up over nine months’ time, all of the anger and hate and self-loathing, all of the pain and hurt she kept hidden deep within her.

Edward had expected his sister's anger. He had braced himself to withstand it when he came to her room to try to set things right, but he had never expected this. He had never Mia to direct the bulk of it at herself. He’d never actually expected her to feel that amount of pain. Edward hadn't thought his sister was capable of feeling even a fraction of the hurt that he’d been holding, almost as if he believed that he held a monopoly over this particular type of agony. The realization that Mia had been feeling this way, was still feeling this way...the weight pressing down against him—the weight of Mia’s pain—nearly crushed him and all Edward wanted to do was take it away from her and fix it—to soothe it, to soothe her.

“Mia, this was never about—”

“I know!” Mia shouted, her eyes and her thoughts snapping shut at the sounding of her brother’s voice. “It’s not about me,” she continued, her ragged breath breaking on a sob as her brother’s unfinished words hung between them.

It wasn’t about her. None of what happened over the last nine months was about her. Mia knew that, but knowing that didn’t make it any of it hurt any less. She looked at her brother's face through tear-stricken eyes. She saw her pain reflected there, confusion and horror etched in his features.

It had been a fleeting look, something Mia wasn't meant to catch, but it was more than enough for her to decide that her relationship with Edward had changed too much for her to set any of this on him. He wasn't the brother who could take this on anymore. He wasn't the one to help her sort through the pain or soothe the hurt. And he’d moved on. They all were moving on and making plans, even if Mia felt stuck in it.

Everyone was giving her space, giving her time to process, to shift, to follow. Mia had thought she was grateful for it, grateful that her mother, father, and siblings were leaving her be, but maybe that hadn't really been for her benefit either. Maybe it was just that her pain was too much for everyone else to deal with, too much for her to be sharing, too much for them to be expected to fix... Maybe they were just ready to move on, to move past this. Mia closed her eyes and pushed it all back down, fitting the pain back into the dark depths. She put the hurt and loneliness back on the shelf of her heart and covered it all with her anger and some part of her accepted that even if it hurt, this was better.

It was for the best that she kept it to herself. Mia had never understood the real benefit of her mental shield. She couldn't protect anyone else with it. She couldn't shield anyone but herself, but she'd always thought of her gift as protection from the outside world, a protection from bad things. Maybe Mia's real gift was protecting the world from herself, to protect her family from the darkest, most horrible parts of herself.

Had Mia said as much, her brother would have readily corrected her, but Mia didn't say as much. She didn't say anything.

—

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#twilight #twilight fanfiction #Twilight FanFic #Twilight New Moon #edward cullen #cullen!sister #cullen sister #mia cullen #we intertwined #hb.writes angst #500 follower celebration

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f1tyreslightmyfyre · 2 years ago

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The Serenity of Fulfillment - Ch. 6

Series Main List

A Lestappen AU Fic: dark-hypnotherapist!Charles x driver!Max

Warnings: Explicit 18+ NSFW smut (including oral sex, anal fingering); heavy manipulation and dubcon (or is it?); dom/sub themes; explicit language; themes of control and vulnerability

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: After a short life delay, on with the *ahem* show! Y'all's support for this fic here and on AO3 is so very much appreciated ❤ Full credit inspiration to this moodboard created by @karlmarxverstappen for this ficlet by @blorbocedes!

Music pulses around him. The night club throbs with breathing, sweating bodies, and it’s exactly the type of anonymity that Max has indulged countless times before. In the rushing river of bright lights and swirling dark eddies, he can just exist in the mindless escape even if he isn’t much of a dancer.

But tonight… something itches under his skin. He taps a restless finger against the tabletop, unable to name it or place the feeling. Instead, he tries to lose himself in the moment - in the beat that deafens him, in the drink that numbs him, in the cigarette smoke that chokes him. But his restlessness only continues to grow.

His fingernail clinks against his drink with impatience as he sighs heavily. Despite how many times he’s been here before, he doesn’t want to be here now. It seems strangely empty and… oddly lonely. It shouldn’t make sense when he’s surrounded by so many people whose only objective is to score a hookup, and in the sea of them, he’s just another faceless player.

Charles’ handsome face flashes in his mind. Warmth infuses Max’s blood, cock twitching with interest. The weight of the man’s business card, tucked safely in his wallet, suddenly feels like lead and Max’s fingers itch to reach for his phone. Over the roar of music and blinding flashes of light, he can still hear an elegant voice and see a kind smile.

“Please know that you can reach out to me any time, day or night, should you need me.”

He tries to shake the thought from his mind. He doesn't know what’s wrong with him, but he doesn’t need Charles. It’s a Friday night, after all, and surely, Charles has plans already. Or, perhaps, he even has a girlfriend… or a boyfriend? Jealousy flares in Max’s chest as his fingers again yearn to reach for his phone and send the forbidden text.

He takes another pull of his drink, scowling down at the dark liquid. It tastes too sour, too bitter, too sickly. The heavily conditioned air weighs down on him, clogging his lungs, and his skin crawls at the prospect of anyone touching him. Anyone who isn’t….

His resolve crumbles as he reaches for his phone.

VER: It’s Max. If it’s too late to text, please tell me

His heart sticks in his throat as he glances around the club, searching for any distraction. An exhilarating anxiety settles in his gut, and when his phone lights up, he doesn’t hesitate to abandon his drink.

LEC: Hello, Max - I meant what I said: day or night, should you need me. It’s not too late at all

A wave of relief rolls through Max as he types out a response.

VER: It sounded like a bullshit line so I had to check

LEC: I would never joke about something so serious. How can I help?

Max pauses, his stomach somersaulting. His fingers stumble over the screen as he struggles to put his thoughts into words.

VER: I don’t need help, just… something different than this

LEC: Come over, Max. You have my address. We can talk

The weight of Charles’ card doubles, and Max is helpless not to push up from the table. He ignores the distant calls of his friends as he leaves his drink and heads towards the exit. The pleasant night air washes over his flushed cheeks, and he doesn’t think twice as the valet fetches his car.

He cuts through the night as his phone narrates directions to the unfamiliar address. Of course, the building is polished and elegant - it matches everything about Charles’ office. The night guard in the lobby already has Max’s name and permission to show him to the elevator. With a swipe of the guard’s access key, Max finds himself en route to the topmost penthouse apartment. For a man of Charles’ profession, perhaps it’s impressive, but the surroundings are lost on Max in his unsettled mood.

It’s only once the elevator lobby door opens to reveal Charles’ welcoming face that tension drains from Max's shoulders.

“Hello, Max.” Charles’ eyes glint warmly in the light as he holds the door open. “I’m glad that you’re here.”

“... Sorry for interrupting your night.” Max says awkwardly, stepping inside and glancing around.

Charles’ apartment is a study of clean, modern white lines with sparse pops of color. A spacious marble kitchen gives way to a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sight of a white, upright piano catches Max’s interest.

“You don’t need to apologize.” Charles brushes by him, moving into the kitchen. He’s dressed in a loose, sky-blue linen shirt that’s undone just enough to reveal an intriguing swath of smooth skin beneath the hollow of his throat. The shirt gives way to dark joggers, and he looks perfectly at ease as he leans against the counter, studying Max in quiet contemplation.

The obvious question lingers in the air, but Max chooses to ignore it. Instead, he nods back towards the piano. “Is that just for decoration?”

“No,” fond warmth colors Charles’ voice. “I taught myself some years back, and it’s a nice way to relax.”

“You should get one for your office.” Max turns back around, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Maybe that would help some patients… or you can learn how to hypnotize using music.”

Charles fixes him with a kind, patient smile. “It’s alright that you’re here, you know.” He gives a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t need to be so anxious.”

Indignation flares in Max’s chest and he attempts a dismissive shrug. “I’m not anxious.”

“Don’t forget that you’ve played this game with me before. During our first session. When you asked about my bracelets and jewelry to delay discussing the issue at hand.”

Again, Max tries to shrug off Charles’ words with a stiff motion. “There’s no issue. Is it wrong to just make conversation?”

Charles’ eyes bore straight through him, and Max has nowhere to hide. His vibrato falters, and he… he doesn’t know what else to say. He rips his gaze away from Charles, looking everywhere - anywhere else. The expansive kitchen counter behind Charles sits barren except for an open wine bottle standing sentry with a stemmed, half-full glass.

Max wets his top lip. “What were you doing before I texted you? Drinking alone on a Friday night?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth teases up as he relents to glance over towards the wine glass. “If you must know - I just returned from dinner with friends and was about to settle in for some music and reading.” He crosses his arms against his chest, turning back to Max. “My turn now - what were you doing before you texted me?”

Max sighs, moving further into the kitchen and avoiding Charles’ gaze. “I was out with friends. There’s this club that we go to sometimes. Loud music, decent drinks, just dark enough.”

“Did something happen there tonight?”

Max stares down at the pristine counter, studying the white marble’s grey veins. “Nothing… specific. I just… wasn’t feeling it, I guess.”

“And why not?”

His throat goes tight. “I... I don’t know.”

“I don’t think that’s quite true.”

“I can’t-” Max cuts himself off with a sigh, bracing his hands against the marble to steady himself. Fuck, why is this so hard? He risks a glance over at Charles, finding the man turned to face him. Distant light dances in his gorgeous eyes making them shine like emeralds, complimenting his dark locks and contrasting with his skin tone. Coupled with the relaxed fit of his shirt, the devastating combination makes Max’s knees go weak. Silent expectation lingers on Charles’ face, and Max knows what Charles is waiting for. But... fuck. “I don’t…” Max tries again, gripping the counter’s cool edge. “Can’t you just hypnotize me or something? Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Charles gently shakes his head. “No,” he says as a small smile comes to his face. “That wouldn’t be professional.”

“And if I don't want you to be professional?” Max’s words leave his lips before he realizes he said them.

The air changes, thickening as Charles’ eyes darken. “What are you asking me, Max?”

Max’s heart hammers against his rib cage as every nerve-ending screams to life. The marble turns to ice under his fingertips and the collar of his shirt scratches his skin. Charles’ sharp eyes pin him in place, and every restless urge within him begs for satisfaction. He exhales a trembling sigh. “I don’t know, I…,” Max breaks off with a frustrated shake of his head, lowering his gaze to glower at the marble. “Maybe I’m… fuck. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.” Ashamed heat burns his cheeks as he raises a hand to scrub at his face.

Bare feet pad against the hard floor, and the heat of Charles’ body draws up alongside him. They’re not touching, but Max’s hair stands on end at the close proximity, fingers yearning to reach out. Hints of Charles’ day-worn cologne linger in the air - notes of citrus and cedar - conjuring hazy memories as Max’s head spins.

Fuck, he should just leave now. He should leave before he says something even more stupid… before he does something that he can’t take back. But his feet refuse to move, his body melting from the tantalizing promise of having Charles so close.

“You’re certainly not losing your mind.” Charles’ voice is a honeyed whisper that ripples down his spine. “But you’re lying to yourself. Making excuses.” Gentle puffs of Charles’ breath brush Max’s neck, searing his skin. “You know what you’re asking. You just have to say it.”

Max exhales a trembling sigh. “Charles…” He turns his head, unable to resist the man’s presence any longer. Their noses nearly brush, and blood rushes to Max’s cock as runaway arousal clouds his vision. Desperate need burns in his belly and Charles is the only salvation he craves. He grips the marble so hard his fingers ache. “I… I need…” His voice shrinks to a strained whisper, eyes closing as his last thread of control snaps. “... you.”

Charles exhales with approval as he whispers. “You have me, Max.”

Max leans forward, needing the taste of Charles’ lips like air in his lungs… but he finds nothing. His eyes fly open to see Charles leaning away even as dark, appreciative hunger burns in his blown-wide eyes. The corner of Charles’ mouth teases a wicked grin as his voice drops to a low, molten register. “But first…."

Charles steps backwards, crooking an index finger to beckon Max forward. Max’s mouth goes dry as Charles spins and continues moving through the apartment’s long shadows. His blood burns and he’s helpless not to follow, erection straining against his trousers as Charles enters his bedroom. A distant voice protests in the back of Max's mind, and fuck, is he really about to do this with his fucking hypnotherapist of all people?

But the sway of Charles' hips draws Max like a moth to the flame - and Max wants to burn.

Charles turns around, pinning Max with the full weight of his delicious gaze as he points towards where Max stands just outside the doorway. “You enter my bedroom,” Charles purrs, drawing his extended finger back to point at his own chest. “You follow my rules. No arguments. No questions.”

A shiver of exhilaration crawls up Max’s spine as he forces a hard swallow. He nods and crosses the threshold. “Y-yes, I understand.”

Charles smiles like the cat who got the cream, a predator whose prey willingly walked into a trap. Another part of Max’s brain tries to raise an objection, but the words refuse to come as he drowns under the force of Charles’ approval. “Not yet, you don’t,” Charles coos, darting his captivating eyes down Max’s body with open appreciation, “but soon enough, you will. However,” he pauses, again taking another assessment of Max’s figure. “You need a shower first. I don’t like the smell of cigarette smoke.”

Max nearly snorts a laugh - he can’t really smell that bad, can he? Even though it seems like an odd request on the surface, his blood heats with the heady promise. Especially as Charles disappears into the en suite, turning on the vanity light before stripping his shirt overhead. The golden light plays off each curve and dip of Charles’ spine, and Max’s heart jumps into overdrive as Charles reaches for the shower tap.

If Charles means to join him, then fuck - who cares about the reason for the shower?

Anticipation makes his mouth go dry as he steps into the bathroom, unable to keep his eyes off Charles. For a man with a desk job, Charles keeps himself in excellent physical shape with lean muscles that Max wants to map with his tongue. A scattering of dark moles add intrigue to the seemingly endless expanse of smooth skin that disappears beneath the black joggers.

Charles turns back around, unphased by Max’s open stare as he arches an unimpressed brow. “You’re not showering with your clothes on.”

Max snaps out of his trance, heat flushing his cheeks as he kicks his body into gear. Even as a gangly teenager, Max has never been ashamed of his body, and he has no reason to be self-conscious now. Yet still, his fingers shake as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, toeing out of his shoes. His erection strains against his last remaining clothing, and that’s just it… there’s nowhere to hide now.

He bites his lip as he slides his jeans and underwear down, listening to Charles similarly remove his own clothing. Fuck, fuck… maybe Max should just leave. It isn’t too late. He can still -

Charles’ warm hand falls to his upper arm with a reassuring caress, and Max nearly melts to a puddle on the tile. He turns to face Charles, blood racing as he watches the man’s open assessment of him. Charles’ eyes darken with hungry appreciation as he drinks in the planes and angles of Max’s body, and Max forgets how to breathe.

Again, Charles strokes his arm with encouraging support. "This way, Max.” He pulls open the glass door, admitting a wave of steamy humidity that does nothing to curb the heat building on Max’s skin. Shower spray thickens the air as they stand under the water, letting it soak into their hair and sluice down their skin.

"I'm very pleased that you’re here." Charles says, smiling impishly as he cards a hand through his wet curls. "After all, you know what they say: cleanliness is next to godliness."

Max scoffs as he rubs his arms under the water. "You're really quoting the Bible now?"

"That saying doesn't come from the Bible - well, not directly." Charles reaches out to the built-in shelf for a black bottle and body loofah. "Its origin is an ancient proverb found in Babylonian religious texts. 'Cleanness of the body was ever deemed to proceed from a due reverence to God.'"

Charles builds a lather on the scrub, and Max's nose fills with notes of cedar, citrus, and something that he can't place. But as he breathes the scented air, everything about it is undeniably Charles. Tension seeps from his muscles under the warm spray, not helped when Charles places the soapy scrub against his deltoid with gentle, circular motions. Charles sweeps the scrub down his arm and back up towards his shoulder, warming Max's blood and doing nothing to curb his eager arousal.

He fights back a rising wave of embarrassment before wetting his upper lip and trying to refocus on the conversation. "Does that mean,” Max says with a sigh, “… that you consider yourself to be a god?"

Charles’ green eyes flash with an enigmatic glow in the soft light. "In my profession, the temptation is certainly there. It'd be a lie to say otherwise." He glides the scrub along Max's chest, a shiver rippling through him as Charles brushes over a nipple. "But any power I hold over others is at their own allowance. I'm no more a god than you are."

Max scoffs derisively but the sound chokes off as Charles' hands move down around his navel and hips. "Depends which publication you read."

"That's what they think," Charles says, crouching down as he slides the scrub along Max's thighs. He carefully ignores Max's erection, and a low, needy ache builds at the base of Max's spine. There's no way that Charles doesn't see his arousal from his current vantage point, but if it bothers him, he says nothing.

Max's breath hitches as the tip of Charles’ nose presses in against the curve of his hip. Charles draws a deep inhale, massaging the scrub down Max's calves. "That's what they think," Charles repeats, breath scorching compared to the shower water. "But what do you think?"

A shiver crawls down Max's spine and his hand clenches at his side. All he can think about is running his hand through Charles' hair, gripping the drenched curls and dragging his mouth to his aching cock.

Max forces a hard swallow as he tries to ignore the fire burning in his belly and summon words. "I-I don't think that."

"Will you after you win the world championship?"

"You say that like -" Max's words die with a shudder as Charles drags his nose around the outside of Max's hip, continuing to sweep the sudsy scrub up the backside of Max's legs. "Like,” Max finds his voice again, “it's not even a question."

"It's not." Charles has no right to sound so calm as he massages the scrub over the round globes of Max's backside. He stands to his full height, slotting his chest against Max's back as he works the scrub in between them. Charles' words tickle his ear as he whispers. "It will happen.” He teases the scrub down Max’s spine in a long, slow line. “You’re already doing so well.”

Another shiver ripples through Max, unraveling under Charles’ praise. His eyes slip closed as he draws a deep breath, struggling for control.

“So very well.” Charles murmurs, lifting the scrub from Max’s skin. The sudden lack of sensation makes Max’s eyes open, and he watches Charles’ hand extend to the shelf. He sets the scrub in place and reaches for a cream-colored bar of soap. He pulls it towards him, out of Max’s sight, and heightened anticipation surges through him.

In a flash of realization, he recognizes it. The elevation of his heart rate. The surge of adrenaline. The edge of control. It’s the moments that Max lives for in the driver’s seat. It’s the exhilaration of pushing himself to the limit, the thrill of the unknown ahead. Except… this time? Right now? This is Charles’ game and Charles’ rules.

Arousal electrifies him as the heady thought slams through him. He releases a trembling breath, glancing up at the ceiling as swirls of steam suffocate him.

“That’s it.” Charles whispers over the echo of falling water. “You’re beginning to understand, aren’t you?” A slick, soapy hand settles to the top of Max’s spine, tracing over the defined ridge of bone.

Max arches into the touch, cock twitching helplessly as Charles’ slippery fingers dance down each vertebrae.

“You’re doing so well, tesoro mio.” Charles purrs in a gentle rumble, teasing the base of Max’s spine. “You may think you know the only way to find what you crave, but I assure you…” He dips his fingers between Max’s cheeks, easily sliding between firm muscles to find the perineum's soft, sensitive skin. “You just think you know what you want.”

Max gasps, dizzy as blood rushes from his head to his already aching cock. Charles’ soapy fingers tease a smooth pattern over the secret stripe of skin, setting every nerve ending on fire. Impossibly, his cock grows harder and he digs his nails into his palm. His hips tremble with impatient need as Charles’ fingers lazily stroke him.

A pleased groan fills Max’s ears before Charles whispers. “Shall I show you?” His fingers drift up to tease Max’s entrance, circling the tight ring of muscle with obvious intent.

The breath punches from Max’s lungs at the realization. He’s been with men before but he’s always been the one on top, no one’s ever…. He’s never wanted it, never even considered it… but now?

“... Y-yes.” He barely recognizes his breathy whisper over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Charles’ finger breeches him without delay and his mind short-circuits. The foreign sensation feels perfect somehow as soap suds ease the way for Charles to create a steady rhythm. “Very good, Max,” Charles coos as the tight muscle starts to yield. “So very good.”

The words wrap around Max’s mind like a suffocating embrace and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. He’ll let Charles take him, break him, ruin him - whatever the price is to never live his life without this high, he’ll gladly pay. A stuttered moan sounds in Max’s throat as a second finger joins the first.

Without warning, those fingers crook against a spot that arcs a white-hot current through him. Max's hands fly up to brace against the shower wall, arching into the deep-seated touch. Charles shows no mercy, dragging his fingers over and over to rocket waves of mindless pleasure through him. He’s never known his body could feel like this - that he could surrender so completely, that he could be so utterly wrecked before even having his cock touched.

“Sei un tale dono.” Charles’ voice sounds far away despite the heat of his body that nearly burns against Max’s back. "Non avete idea.”

Max’s nails dig into the marble, his shameless moan echoing in the too-humid air. He's so damn close, he just…. "Charles… fuck," his head spins as he groans, nearly overcome. "I need."

“I know you do.” Charles breathes as his fingers continue their maddening caress. “But you’re so gorgeous, and you’re not going to come yet.”

Max whimpers, struggling against every instinct in his body. He drops his head to draw a shuddering breath, toes curling against the swirling water on the shower floor. Time stands still as Charles torques him higher, varying the rhythm, varying the pressure - always keeping the promise of sweet relief just out of reach. Everything within Max screams to take what he wants, to demand that Charles stop fucking around. But above the blood pounding in his ears and the all-consuming need, he remembers Charles’ rules.

The last thing he wants now - ever - is for Charles to stop.

But that’s exactly what happens. The deep press of Charles’ fingers withdraws, and Max whimpers at the bereft emptiness left in their wake. He turns, frantic to drag Charles back, desperate - so desperate.

Charles shushes him gently. “I know, tesoro mio. I told you that you’re not going to come yet,” he whispers as he rinses the soap from his hands and Max’s skin. “But you will soon - when I say.”

Max whimpers again, lost for words, skin sizzling as Charles continues to clean them both up. An eternity passes before he turns off the taps and opens the door to fetch towels. Swirls of steam still curl around him, further fuzzing Max’s lust-fogged vision as he accepts the fluffy fabric, numbly running it over his skin.

Too many thoughts collide in his head but nothing that he can form into a coherent sentence as Charles pulls him from the shower and guides him towards the bed. The cool bedcovers raise goosebumps along his shower-warmed skin as he falls against it, unwilling to risk Charles’ displeasure.

Charles sinks his knees into the mattress, straddling Max’s thighs as he looms above him. For all of Max’s broad physicality, nothing compares to the commanding prowess of Charles’ presence as he stares down at Max, eyes dark and utterly unashamed of his own prominent arousal. Max’s mouth waters as his heart gallops, dizzy from the gorgeous sight that is Charles above him.

“Please…” The whispered word leaves Max’s lips without permission, his neglected cock aching for relief.

Charles plants his hands in the mattress, crawling forward but carefully keeping his body just out of reach. “You beg so prettily for me,” he coos as a wicked tilt comes to his lips. “But I know that you can sound prettier yet.”

Max barely draws a breath before Charles’ mouth lowers. His back arches with a cry as the hot suction of Charles’ mouth engulfs a nipple. Charles’ teeth pinch the tender bud, and the pleasure-pain combination curls Max’s toes. He gulps for breath as Charles’ tongue teases the sensitive skin, and Max doesn’t know how he hasn’t combusted yet. His cock leaks with angry need and his hands are desperate to touch. He raises a hand to Charles’ shoulder, clinging to the lean muscle - until Charles’ teeth clamp down. Hard.

He yelps, pulling his hand back to the mattress. The wonderful torture of Charles’ mouth disappears and those green eyes flash in Max’s in hazy vision. “No touching, tesoro mio.” Charles cautions, his tone gentle but firm. “In fact…” He trails off as he dips his head, nuzzling down Max’s sternum. He peppers teasing kisses that race thrills of anticipation down Max’s spine. “Your hands,” Charles murmurs, licking a horizontal stripe across Max’s belly, teasing around his navel. “Do not cross below this line. Or I will ask you to leave.”

A trembling whimper crawls up Max’s throat as he throws his arms out and screws his fingers into the bedcovers. He won’t risk it - he can’t risk that Charles will deny him what he’ll surely die without.

Charles hums with distinct satisfaction, rippling vibrations against the soft skin of Max’s lower belly. “So very good for me, Max.” He praises, dragging his tongue down the inward curve of Max’s hip. “You’ve been so good for me since the beginning.”

The words don’t register in Max’s mind as the heat of Charles’ mouth dances along his aching cock. Another undignified whimper passes his lips and he tries to thrust his hips towards such sweet promise, but Charles’ hand clamps down on the curved bone in warning. His grip tightens to the point of bruising as his tongue darts out to taste the wetness gathering on Max’s tip.

“Please, please, please…” The litany falls from Max’s lips, fingers aching as his hold on the bedcovers tightens.

“Remember, Max,” Charles coos, hot breath gusting over Max’s aching length. “Only when I say.”

The heat of Charles’ mouth disappears altogether as he shifts his knees to wedge open the spread of Max’s legs. His heart rate ratchets higher as the lean shape of Charles’ shoulders press against the underside of his thighs, and Max sobs when Charles’ mouth descends.

He finds a new religion as Charles’ tongue unwinds him from the inside out. The heat of Charles’ mouth devastates as he works the ring of loose muscle, shooting sparks up Max’s spine. Max’s heart thunders as blood pounds in his ears above his own cries that echo in Charles’ bedroom.

When two of Charles’ fingers slide in alongside his tongue, Max nearly hits the ceiling. They set a precise rhythm as they seek out each secret of Max’s being. Every muscle goes taught, his cock jumping with impatient need as Charles finds his target. Each stroke of Max’s prostate threatens his sanity as he edges closer - ever closer to that sweet precipice of relief. Until Charles’ touch withdraws and those fingers tease everywhere else but where he needs them most.

“Please, Charles, fuck,” Max babbles, chest heaving as surely - surely, his heart will stop. “I need - I need to come.”

Charles hums, low and considering, as his fingers settle deep inside Max in a low, slow caress. “Not yet, you don’t.”

Max sobs as the coils of pleasure tighten in the base of his spine. Sweat gathers on his skin as he writhes against the mattress, pinned under Charles’ delicious and devilish ministrations. Again, the sweet edge of orgasm sings in his veins only for Charles to pull back - again, and again - for minutes, for hours - for eons.

“Please…” Max tries again, voice ragged and words trembling. “I’ll do anything… anything.”

“Yes, you will.” Charles' voice rumbles with rich, dark promise as he presses a kiss to Max’s perineum. “And you’re going to.” He nuzzles around Max’s heavy balls as his fingertips dance just outside his body. “You’re going to break. And we're going to meet the real you.”

Max throws his head back against the pillow, a raw cry tearing from his throat as the heat of Charles’ mouth engulfs him. After so long neglected, the surge of sensation around his cock slams his body into overdrive, every muscle tense and strung out. Charles’ fingers plunge inside to fill him up, and the last vestiges of Max’s mind splinter as tears dampen his cheeks.

He can’t breathe for the pleasure that strangles him as Charles takes him to the edge and denies him over, over - and over again. It leaves him dizzy, his limbs long numb with all-consuming need as his existence reduces to the slide of Charles’ fingers and the suction of his mouth. The heavy, burning weight of Charles’ hand falls to his chest, and Max releases his white-knuckled grip on the bedsheets. He claws at Charles’ hand, scratching angry lines on his skin as he clings to the other man.

Charles interlaces their fingers, raking his own nails down Max’s chest as he grips Max’s hand tight. The heat of his mouth pulls free but nothing falters in the merciless rhythm of his fingers. “Come for me, Max.” His voice sounds hoarse and wrecked, emerald eyes dark and unfocused. “Come for me now.”

Max roars as everything within him releases in a blinding rush. He falls back against the bed, utterly spent as his release coats his skin and the bedsheets. His eyes flutter closed as he swims in the blissed-out remains of his mind. The weight of Charles’ hand on his chest is his only anchor as he blinks against tears, drawing shuddering breaths.

Charles shifts, adjusting the splay of Max’s thighs as the deep press of his fingers disappears. A sob tears from Max’s throat and his other hand reaches out blindly. “Don’t go…” He pleads, gulping and heaving for breath. “Don’t leave me.”

“No, tesoro mio.” Charles reassures, the warm length of his body pressing alongside Max’s. With a whimper, Max turns into Charles’ embrace, burying his face in the crook of Charles’ neck. He doesn’t register his tears that drip onto Charles’ skin as Charles presses a kiss to his sweat-soaked brow. “I won’t leave you.”

Max curls tighter into Charles, basking in the reassuring weight of Charles’ arm as it wraps around him. Charles wedges a thigh between Max’s and holds him close. “My good boy,” Charles whispers, dusting another kiss to Max’s damp brow. “Always so good for me, my sweet boy.”

Max numbly nods. “Yours, yours….” His voice is thready as his body continues to unwind from the intense high. He melts against Charles, hovering on the edge of sleep as he drowns in the tenderness of Charles’ kiss and velvety words.

This - this is everything he’s ever wanted… how could he have ever thought otherwise?

Series Main List

#max verstappen #max verstappen fanfic #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fanfic #lestappen #formula 1 #f1 #f1 rpf #formula 1 fic

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