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Ian didn’t know why he kept doing this shit.
It seemed every trip down to Australia cost him a ton of money, sleep, dignity, and physical wellbeing. They always ended with him covered in bruises and ready to kill.
And yet.
Every time Max sent some half‑assed text like “Come down, pussy, let’s hangout and film shit,” Ian was buying a ticket within the month.
He liked to tell himself it was for the content. The internet ate that shit up. The more stupid and dangerous it was, the more clicks they got. People loved to watch idiots hurt themselves. Ian liked to think that said more about them than it did about him.
Self‑inflicted torture packaged as entertainment and an endless stream of comments begging for more.
Fine. Whatever. He could play the idiot.
And torture themselves they did.
He was already uneasy about George’s mousetrap idea and he knew Chad would end up bringing out that giant fucking John Cena doll. But when Max suggested they straight up burn themselves with a bunch of mini candles, he was seriously considering just going home.
Despite popular belief, Ian wasn’t actually a masochist. The jury was still out on Max. Ian thought that there had to be a line Max wouldn’t cross. It seemed no one had found it yet.
When Ian tried to reason with him, Max laughed straight in his face and called him a pussy. It was a dick move but the cross dressing Aussie didn’t care.
Eventually, Ian still ended up in the stupid Where’s Waldo costume, helping Max light each candle.
Now he stood under the shower, skin stinging, the smell of tomato sauce and egg lingering on his skin. His chest and arms blotched with red marks, bruises blooming all over. His hands hurt. His feet hurt. Everything hurt.
This didn’t feel like a vacation.
By the time he’d finished seething and scrubbing spaghetti out of places spaghetti should never be, the house had gone quiet. He figured Chad and George had already fucked off after a half‑assed attempt at cleaning.
Ian finally stepped out of the bathroom, the scent of tomato sauce immediately hitting his nose and pissing him off all over again. He’d never be able to eat spaghetti again.
The kitchen looked slightly better as he stepped into it. Or at least as good as Max’s house was ever going to look. The dishes were all piled haphazardly in the sink and the floor was mainly clean except for the half swept orange crusted pile of spaghetti and garbage by the island.
Sitting on the island was Max in a pair of fresh clothes with damp curly hair from his own quick shower. His bare feet knocked against the cupboard doors in an idle rhythm. An almost empty VB dangled from his fingers, condensation trailing down to his knuckles.
He looked cleaner than Ian had seen him in weeks and for a split second, Ian considered pouring more spaghetti all over him.
“It’s two in the afternoon.” Ian said, stepping carefully around the mess on the floor. “Really leaning into the Australian stereotypes, huh?”
Max tipped the bottle back, swallowed slow, then grinned around the rim. “Shut up, cunt. I can drink whenever I want in my own fucking house.”
He always made that face when he insulted people. That ugly, exaggerated twist of his mouth that showed off his fucked up teeth. Ian couldn’t help thinking it looked like God had given up on the last step with Max and just shoved a handful of teeth into his mouth, not caring where they landed.
Ian had once asked if Max had been kicked in the face as a kid or if they’d just come out of the factory that fucked. Max’s had grabbed him by the collar and bit him hard enough to draw blood.
He probably still had a picture of the mark saved somewhere.
“Whatever, asshole,” Ian muttered, dragging his eyes away. “I’m not cleaning the rest of this shit. My hands are wrecked from your genius fucking idea to use the candles.”
At that, Max’s gaze dropped to Ian’s hands.
His expression lit up bright and vicious seeing the beginning of what would surely be several blisters.
“Shut the fuck up.” he said, sliding off the counter. “You’re such a pussy. Wasn’t even gonna make you clean, princess.” He took another swig. “Should we call the Ambos? Are your delicate hands about to fall off?”
There was that ugly sneer again.
Ian didn’t think his decisions through on the best of days. Let alone days spent in Max’s vicinity. Max had a way of bringing out a different side of him.
In three strides he was in Max’s space, catching his wrists and shoving his hands together. Skin to skin, pressing down hard on the palm of Max’s hands. Right where the majority of there burns were.
Max yelped. The empty VB slipped from his grasp, shattering across the tile below them.
“What the fuck! Let go you psychotic retard!”
Ian pressed harder, ignoring the white-hot sting on his own hands. Ian was also pretty sure glass had nicked his foot when the bottle hit the floor, but he didn’t care.
Because Max’s snear was gone, replaced with a pained, shocked expression.
“Keep talking cunt.” Ian spat, fingers tightening. “Every time you drag me down here it’s for some stupid shit. You only get to act so tough because there’s some part of your brain that never fully developed. You’re a masochist with no self preservation skills.”
Max struggled, trying to get free, but Ian dug his nails into the soft center of his palm and pressed harder.
Max let out a shriek. His eyes went glossy, tears collecting in the corners.
Ian felt something ugly and electric spark in his chest.
He wanted to see the tears fall.
“Get off me you cancer riddled faggot,” Max spat.
“Yeah?” Ian leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him, the faint scent of beer and soap. “I’m a faggot? You’re the one calling me every day begging me to visit. Always asking me to film more stupid shit with you like you don’t have your own fucking friends. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were the faggot.”
Max tried to wrench away again, stumbling back until his lower spine hit the sharp edge of the island. The impact forced a choked noise out of him. “I fucking hate you.”
Staring into Max’s vitriol filled eyes Ian had never felt so strong.
His whole life he'd been underestimated.
He was a skinny, awkward nerd. But having Max pinned between him and the counter, wrists trapped in his grip, unable to escape.
It did something to him.
He could feel his pulse picking up as his arousal began building.
The irony wasn't lost on him that he’d just called max a fag, but he’s never claimed to be free of hypocrisy.
Max glared up at him, eyes wet and furious, jaw set. "I didn’t drag you here at gunpoint. I never made you do anything. You just don't like admitting you wanted to."
lan's grip tightened again.
"Wanted to?" he echoed, incredulous. "Yeah, I definitely wanted to get fucking burnt and have a fucking hard plastic John cena doll thrown at my head multiple times.”
Max jerked one hand free just enough to shove at lan's shoulder. "You didn't say no."
“I tried—"
"You didn't." Max's voice cracked around the edges, but he doubled down anyway.
"You could've said no or just not fucking come but instead you agreed to everything and then spent the whole time moaning and whining like a pansy ass bitch.”
Before Max could twist away again, lan shoved him hard.
Max stumbled, heel knocking against the island, and went down awkwardly onto his knees with a sharp crack against the tile. The sound of glass grinding under him cut through the air.
For half a second neither of them moved.
The broken bottle glittered across the floor beneath Max's shins, catching the kitchen light.
Max sucked in a breath through his teeth, hands braced on the tile, trying not to shift and cut himself more. Ian could already see little rivets of blood flowing from underneath Max’s hands and knees from where he had landed on all the glass.
He stepped forward immediately, crowding Max before he could stand.
"Back up," Max snapped, holding himself still. "Move, motherfucker."
“It’s just a little glass, why don’t you stop bitching and whining about it since you’re such a tough guy," lan shot back.
Max ignored him, trying to rise anyway, and lan shoved him back down by the shoulders.
"Stay there."
Max's head snapped up, eyes blazing.
lan didn't register whatever insult Max threw at him because all he could focus on, looking down, was the unmistakable bulge in Max's pants. It wasn't like he'd been staring before, but he would have noticed if Max had been hard this whole time.
A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped him. "Jesus, maybe you are a fucking masochist. Are you actually hard right now? You're one sick fucking freak."
He didn't wait for Max to respond. He made a quick, rough move to yank Max's head back, using the moment of surprise to shove his fingers into Maxes agape mouth.
He shouldn't have been shocked when Max immediately bit down.
Ian yelped, yanking his hand back on pure instinct and smacking it across Max's face as hard as he could. The crack of skin on skin was sharp in the quiet kitchen. Max's head whipped to the side, and he barely caught himself from falling further into the sharp shards of glass.
Ian used the momentary distraction to shove his pants and underwear down his thighs and grab a fistful of Max's hair, yanking his head up until their eyes met. Max's were wide, wet, and furious.
"Bite me again," Ian snarled, his voice a low threat, "and I'll get that shock collar I know you still have. I'll convince George it's finally time for revenge. Trust me, he's been complaining for months that we never got to shock you, and if you think I'm the only one pissed after today, you're as fucking retarded as you look”
Max ground his teeth together, glaring up at him like he could kill him with his eyes alone.
"Fucking faggot," he spat, the word thick with hate and desperation.
Ian didn't give him a chance to say more. He shoved his cock into Max's open mouth. The choking was immediate and violent.
Max's whole body seized, his hands flying up to push against Ian’s thighs. Ian could feel the shards of glass still lodged in Max's palms, sharp against his own skin. They stung, but the pain was only secondary. He could feel Max's blood smearing onto him, mixing with his own. And all he could think about was having parts of himself in places Max could never get him out of.
He pressed forward even harder, using Max's long hair for leverage. He'd fucking rip the pretty hair right out of Max's head if he had to.
Max was almost convulsing now as lan rammed himself back and forth down his throat, leaving no space for air. He was full on crying, tears and snot streaming down his red, puffy face, his eyes wide with a terror that was utterly captivating. The sounds were wet, desperate, and the sight of it…
Max Stanley, the loud-mouthed shit talker, on his knees, crying and bleeding all over the kitchen floor with Ian’s dick down his throat, was the most intoxicating thing lan had ever seen.
He pulled back just enough to let Max suck in a ragged, desperate gasp of air, before slamming back in.
The gag was violent, Max's whole body seizing with it. lan's own head was swimming, a mix of pain from his burns, the sharp sting of the glass on his legs, and the tight heat of Max's throat around him.
As he began to pull back again, Max finally managed to shove him off, his throat still convulsing. With a sick heave, the entire contents of Max's breakfast were all over the floor and lan's feet.
They both stood stock still for a moment, taking it in. Max was still retching, using his arms to cradle himself. lan was transfixed on the string of saliva still connected between his cock and Max's mouth. Drips of vomit fell from Max's lips, pooling on the floor below them, all over Ian’s freshly washed legs and feet. It was warm. lan briefly wondered if his cuts and burns might get infected now.
The thought of infection was distant though, a clinical annoyance that did nothing to quell the hunger still coiling in his gut. In fact, the sheer depravity of it all only seemed to encourage him.
Max was broken, humiliated, and Ian had never been harder in his life.
He watched Max shudder, a dry heave wracking his frame. The pathetic whimper that escaped him was captivating.
"Pathetic," Ian breathed, his voice thick with lust. He tightened his grip in Max's hair, ignoring the way Max flinched and tried to pull away. "Is that all you've got? You make a mess and just give up?"
He used his grip to force Max's head back up. Max's eyes were screwed shut, his face a mess of tears, snot, and puke.
He looked completely wrecked, and it was beautiful.
"Open up. I know you can, you’ve done much worse," lan commanded, nudging his slick cock against Max's swollen, vomit-slick lips.
Max shook his head, a weak, miserable gesture.
"I said open up," Ian repeated, his tone dropping. He yanked hard on Max's hair, pulling his head back at an agonizing angle.
A sob escaped Max's chest. He hesitated for another second before his jaw trembled and his lips parted, just enough. It was all the invitation lan needed.
He slid back in, the wet heat of Max's mouth now mingled with the sour acid of his stomach. The texture was foul, but the submission was exhilarating
Max didn't fight this time. He just took it, his body limp and pliant, a ragdoll for lan to use.
Ian set a brutal pace, not caring about the choked sounds or the way Max's hands, still bleeding, scraped uselessly against his legs.
He was chasing something now, could feel his own climax building again, a tighter, more intense coil than before. He looked down at the scene below him. Max, covered in his own puke, kneeling in broken glass, being used in the middle of his own kitchen floor. The visual was enough.
With a final, guttural groan, lan came. His body shuddering with the force of it. He stayed buried in Max's throat until he was completely spent, then pulled out, letting Max's head fall forward.
Max collapsed onto his side, curling into himself on the filthy tile. He was shaking violently, silent now save for his ragged, hitching breaths.
He looked small.
Ian stood over him, his chest heaving.
The adrenaline began to fade, leaving a sharp, painful clarity in its wake. His bruises throbbed, his burns screamed, and a deep cut on his foot pulsed with each heartbeat.
He looked down at Max, a faint pang rising in his chest.
Turning to the cupboards, he searched for a cloth that wasn’t already soiled to start cleaning him up with.