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coff33andb00ks · 6 months ago

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Hazy Days - LN

summary: summer fling, don't mean a thing pairing: lando norris x divorced!reader word count: 3.6k warnings: non-explicit smut (mdni), older woman a.n.: fuck quadrant's summer scope vids song: summer nights from Grease

You're doing it again. It's been over a year now and you're still rubbing your ring finger with your thumb. You're not as quite as surprised when you don't feel the rings, and when you look down you're relieved to see that the pale patch of skin has disappeared. I've got to buy a ring, you think. Because, despite everything, you still feel weird without a ring on that finger.

You give your head a shake. The marriage is over. It was over before it officially began, but the divorce has been finalized for almost a month. The settlement is in your account – it's how you're paying for this spontaneous trip.

You're no longer a married woman. A terrifying thought, even now, when your entire identity for nearly 10 years was wife. And now…

Now you don't know what you are.

So you packed a bag, bought a plane ticket on a whim, and now you're at some seaside hotel in the south of France. You're looking out at the people on the beach, and further out at the yachts dotting the Mediterranean.

A place you've always wanted to visit and now you're frozen in the hotel room, scared to death that you won't enjoy it. Like a decadent dessert you've thought about all day that tastes like an old candy bar when you finally get a bite. Like the new Louboutin pumps you'd wanted for your birthday two years ago that had pinched your toes and you haven't worn since.

You've built this up in your head and now you're afraid it won't live up to your expectations.

Babes, enjoy it. This is gonna be so healing for you.

Your best friend's words ring in your mind and you reach for the phone to call her for more reassurance, then remember the time difference. She loves you, but she won't appreciate a phone call this early unless it's an emergency.

"God, get over it. You're not the only newly divorced woman in the world," you mutter to yourself, turning away from the window to finish dressing. You want to do some exploring, get plenty of photos to share, maybe find a few souvenirs.

Your thumb slides over your ring finger as you exit the hotel a little while later and you sigh, turning back to ask the concierge of a nice jewelry store. When you tell him you're interested in purchasing a ring, he knows the perfect place and soon you're on your way, strolling along the winding streets.

The afternoon sun is hot and you breathe a sigh of relief once you step into the shop. The interior or hushed and you're aware of the clerks' eyes all moving to you. A couple young men at the counter are chatting and laughing, not paying attention to you at all, and you venture further into the shop.

The men are looking at bracelets, and a smartly dressed clerk is more than happy to show you the rings, leading you to a low counter and inviting you to sit in the cushioned chair.

"Oh… No, not anything like a wedding or engagement ring," you say as a tray of sparkling diamond rings is brought out. "I… I recently got divorced and I need something to replace my rings. Something that looks nothing like a wedding ring?"

From behind you, you can hear the two men murmuring, their English accents oddly comforting after three days of hearing only French voices. You finally narrow the selection down to two and are trying to decide when movement out the corner of your eye snags your attention.

It's one of the men, peering at necklaces. You steal a glance at him – handsome, well dressed, a head of dark curls – and look back at the rings when he turns his head, embarrassed to be caught looking.

You're focusing on the rings, trying them on and testing out how they feel against your thumb, when he speaks.

"I think the other one looks better."

Jerking your head up, you find yourself looking into a pair of brilliant green eyes.

It's so fucking unfair that his lashes are so pretty.

"Do you?" you ask, looking back at the rings.

"Yeah – unless you want something flashy?"

He's moved close enough you can smell his cologne.

He even smells divine. So fucking unfair.

You switched rings and nodded. "Flashy isn't really me… I'll take this one," you tell the clerk.

The man smiles. "Getting used to a ring?"

"Ah… No," you chuckle. "Can't get used to not having one."

His smile dies and a look of panic flashes over his face. "Um… Sorry?"

You almost laugh. Giving your head a shake, you watch the clerk wrap the ring and wait for her to return. "Don't be."

"Oh," he murmured, smile returning and sliding into a grin. "Congratulations, then."

This time you do laugh. "Thanks."

He gives you a look as the clerk returns, and before you can reach for your wallet he's already handing over his card. You open your mouth to protest but he tips his head. "A congratulations gift," he insists.

His friend approaches, giving you a friendly nod. "What are we congratulating?"

You smile weakly. "The end of my marriage."

"Divorce?" he asks. When you nod, he smirks. "The best thing about marriage, honestly."

"Max."

"What am I supposed to say?" Max protests, holding up his hands.

The first man groans. "You're such a – cheers," he says when the clerk brings his card back. "Let's go before you embarrass me even more."

You're smiling at their banter as you thank the clerk for her assistance. When you stand to make your way out, he's waiting near the door.

"Buy you a drink?" he offers as he opens the door for you.

His name is Lando. Max – pain in my ass – is obviously his best friend and doesn't join you for drinks as he's got to get packed up to leave. When you suggested Lando spend time with him before he goes home, Lando waved it off.

"He lives in England but I see him all the time."

Lando, it turns out, does not live in England. He looks almost embarrassed when you ask where he lives, and when he finally mutters that he lives in Monaco your eyes widen. Surely he's too young to be that well off?

Trust fund, probably. Now you don't feel so bad for his paying for the ring.

"That must be… Interesting," you say, taking a sip of your drink. He's brought you to a chic bar at the beach, and you're sitting on the upper terrace, the slowly sinking sun casting a golden glow over the water.

"I don't really get much time there." He fiddles with the stirrer in his drink. "I'm gone a lot."

Interest piqued, you set your glass down. "Oh?" Maybe he's a model, even if he is a little on the short side. Not that he's that short – he's definitely taller than you. "What do you do?"

"I drive cars." He ducks his head briefly. "Racecars."

"Really? I'm not… I'm a dumb American, the only racing I really know is the Indy 500?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "That's IndyCar."

You listen, fascinated, as he tells you about formula one, which you have heard about but it's not in your orbit. He seems both relieved and amused at the fact you're not into sports, and you can feel him relax as he laughs when you tell him you only watch the Super Bowl every year so you can eat a ton of junk food.

A drink turns into a few, and he's so nice to listen to, so easy to talk to. When he suggests dinner, you hesitate. You don't want to be that woman, newly divorced and falling into bed with the first man that looks at you. Especially one so young—

"How old are you?" you blurt.

It obviously surprises him and, though he was halfway out of his seat he sank back down. "How old are you?"

You refuse to play coy, to fish for compliments like you're desperate. "I'm thirty."

His eyebrows lift. "Twenty-four."

So not that young. More like… younger.

Lando gives you a smile. "Does that cancel dinner?"

You look into his eyes for a long moment then glance out at the view. There's an obvious fork in the road in front of you. One leads to something with this handsome racecar driver, and you have a feeling it's going to be more than dinner. The other leads to the rest of your solo vacation, with the cloud of what could be lingering. Looking at him again, you slowly breathe in.

Expensive cologne. Salt air.

"I'd love dinner," you say, and his smile rivals the setting sun.

You'll never be able to describe the meal you ate. Lando makes it nearly impossible to focus on anything but him. Not in a demanding way. He's just… Magnetic. He tells you stories about his career, about embarrassing moments and highs and lows and talks about his other ventures. How does he have time to sleep? He talks glowingly about Max and has you giggling into your wine over a story of the two of them getting into trouble that left Lando locked out of his parents' home. When he apologizes for talking so much you almost beg him to not stop. But he asks about you, and you can't help thinking he seems genuinely interested.

"My life isn't half as interesting as yours," you say with a shake of your head.

"I don't know… You're divorced, halfway around the world, having dinner with a strange guy. Seems interesting to me," he murmurs.

"Oh, it's a tale as old as time. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love and gives up everything… Girl becomes a woman, boy becomes a toad."

Lando winced. "No kissing to turn him into a prince?"

"He'd have to want the kiss for that to happen."

"What a fucking idiot," Lando says.

You tilt your head to the side. "For being a toad?"

"For not wanting your kiss."

You set your glass down with a surprised gulp. About to call him out for feeding you a line, you pause, seeing the glimmer in his eyes. Without thinking you lick your lips and see his gaze dip down briefly. You don't know what to say or how to react so you sit there, unable to refrain from thinking about how a kiss from Lando would feel.

"His loss." Lando's voice was barely above a murmur. Then, shockingly, his cheeks darken and his tongue darts over his lips. He looks down at his plate and you can hear his sigh before he looks up, his expression serious. "You gave up everything?"

"A slight exaggeration, really." You shrug, picking at your food. "I had dreams that I put on hold to help him achieve his."

"I've never been married. But, like…" He sighs, setting his fork down. "That doesn't seem fair?"

"Life isn't—"

"I know, but marriage isn't life is it?" His face screws up at that but he forges ahead. "Isn't the whole point of it to support and help each other achieve their dreams?"

Smiling sadly, you nod. "I thought it was. He thought different."

"What dreams did you put on hold?" he asks after a moment.

"I wanted to get published." You look down at your half-eaten food. "When I was a kid, I loved reading and making up stories… I was studying for my degree in English – I planned to teach writing while working on my novels, because it's hard to make money doing it at first, and… Now it's too late."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'd have to go back to school and—"

"Yeah? Would you have to start over completely?"

"No." You can't remember how many credit hours you have left, but it would only take a phone call or an email to find out. "I wasn't too far from my degree."

"Then what's stopping you?" he challenged softly.

You don't have an answer. Nothing but the fear of failing, and you don't know him well enough to admit that.

"I don't read." He winces a bit at the admission. "Dyslexic, yeah? It's a miracle I finished school. But anyway. You write a novel and I promise to read it."

A smile pulls at your lips. "You'd do that for me? Someone you don't even know?"

"Of course." He grins. "I believe in supporting the arts."

He drives you back to the hotel in his sleek sportscar and for once you understand the allure of a purring engine and soft leather seats. There's no impending pressure when he offers to see you to your room, only the heat of his hand at the small of your back and the enticing scent of his cologne.

At your door, he hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"

Has anyone ever asked your consent for a kiss? You don't think so and the realization makes you sad, but you push that away because you've wanted him to kiss you since halfway through dinner.

His lips are a lighted match to kindling. The heat and desire are immediate and you're leaning into him, frightened by the strength of your want but craving more. It's been an embarrassingly long time since you've felt this way and you're aware that it may be even longer before you feel it again. So when the door finally clicks open you don't hesitate to step inside, pausing and reluctantly breaking the kiss to look up at him.

And wish you'd googled how to invite a man into your hotel room without sounding desperate.

But you don't have to ask.

"Okay to come in?" he whispers.

"God yes," you gasp.

His lips are on yours before the door closes behind him. Wrapping your arms around him, you sink into the kiss, snatching in breaths as his hands cradle your head. A soft whine is muffled against his tongue as you grip the front of his shirt, knees nearly forgotten as the tenderness of his touch wars the ferocity of his kiss.

"Fuck," he mumbles against your lips, his hands beginning to wander, molding you closer against him, his breath hitching as he clutches your hips. He pulls his head back slightly and you can feel his harsh breathing as he stares at you before crashing his lips to yours again.

The need grows stronger, almost primal, and you're backing towards the bed, gasping as his hands pull at your dress, nearly ripping it. Craving the feel of his skin, you do the same to his shirt, barely noticing the trail of clothing on the floor, too focused on his touch and his smell and the decadence of his kiss. He guides you down, swallowing your gasp as your bare skin touches the cool sheets.

Breaking the kiss with a harsh moan, he braces his hands on either side of you and lifts up slightly. He's panting, lips parted, and he gives a soft chuckle of surprise. "I didn't plan on this."

You lick your lips, still tasting him. And only craving more. "Neither did I."

He blinks, eyes almost wild as they dart from yours to your lips and back again. And all you can think—

Beautiful. Breathtakingly so. You know it'll never happen but the romantic inside you wishes you could wake up to his eyes every morning.

He leans down, and his kiss sends every coherent thought away. His skin is warm beneath your fingers, his hair softer than you thought it would be. His hands are rough but gentle at the same time, in your hair and trailing down your sides. Your name is a longing moan vibrating against your throat as you trace the muscles of his back.

"Lando," you gasp, arching beneath him.

"I know… I know." Hot breath at your ear, fingers digging into your thigh. Guiding your leg over his hip.

"Please." It's a soft moan.

"Fuck." His lips move to yours, his gasping whimper muffled.

The frantic need is still there but he's unhurried, as though he's trying to memorize every breath, every touch. When your hand flies out to grasp the sheet his hand follows, fingers threading between yours and gripping tightly. You're lost in the haze, sweat forming between you, sheets twisting. Ecstasy rises, peaks, and it's so sudden and delicious your cries ring out.

"Y/n." A desperate whine that only increases the bliss.

Rolling, twisting, arching. It's feverish and needy and so good so so good.

You both collapse, your hands in his sweat-damp hair. Panting, tingling, you wait for the awkwardness that never comes. His touch is tender, his lips gentle on yours before he's pulling away, murmuring that he'll get a towel. He's back before you can catch your breath, and by the time you can breathe he's kissing you again.

The sky outside is turning gray when you both breathlessly agree to get some sleep. You half expect him to leave, but he's there when you wake up, sleeping on his stomach next to you, his arm slung across your waist, his gentle snores telling you he's fast asleep.

And though you distinctly remember him saying he was going back to Monaco that day, he sticks around. Blushes and shrugs when you ask him about it over lunch, then suggests borrowing a friend's yacht for the night. The days bleed into the nights, a blurred span of time of sightseeing, swimming, and Lando.

When it's time for you to pack up to go home you feel a little bereft. But the vacation can't last forever. You've got to go back to real life, figure out how you'll live as a completely free woman. And he's got to get back to his life, jetting around the world and undoubtedly breaking hearts.

You exchange numbers and he promises to keep in touch, but you know you'll be forgotten before your plane takes off. You've been a pleasant distraction for his summer break, nothing more.

You're about to board when your phone buzzes with an incoming text. From Lando.

- You dropped your ring in my car.

As you stare at the words, you realize you haven't rubbed your ring finger in nearly a week. A picture appears on the screen, the ring – that he bought – resting in his palm.

- Hold onto it for me?

He won't. He'll give it away or sell it or take it back to the shop.

But, when you're back home and have exchanged texts with him and even a couple phone calls – yes I promise I contacted an advisor, I'm signing up for classes – and he lets you know his break is over and he's getting back to work, you cave and pull up footage of him in an interview.

He looks different on the screen of your laptop. Good, but different. And you can only focus on the necklace that's just visible under his (hideous really) orange shirt. When he leans, it shifts, and you see it.

Your ring.

"Are you still hung up on her?"

Lando's head snaps up at Max's question. "What?"

His friend gestures to the phone in Lando's hand. "That American?"

He feels his cheeks heat and realizes Max knows he's looking at your Instagram. "I'm not hung up."

Max just looks at him.

"I'm just checking on her," he mutters.

With a sigh, Max softens and sits next to him. "It's okay to like her, you know."

He huffs, his hand reaching to fiddle with the ring on his necklace. "She was just supposed to be a fling."

"But she wasn't," Max says after a moment.

Lando shakes his head. "I don't know," he whispers.

Silence lingers, stretches as his thumb hovers over your most recent post.

Then, softly. "Am I stupid?"

Max shoots him a look.

"For thinking it was special," he adds before his friend can insult him. "For thinking she thinks it was special."

"Was it special?"

He swallows hard, rolling the ring between his fingers as he looks at the post, a photo of a cup of coffee next to a laptop. Up past my bedtime parsing Austen. Liking it, he closes the app and locks his phone.

Was it special? Or was it just the great sex and no strings that had him thinking it was? At first, in those days immediately after you'd left, he'd only thought about the sex. How freeing it had been, knowing he wouldn't see you again and could let inhibitions go. But with each week that passed the sex wasn't the only thing he thought about.

Laughter and sunshine. Salty air and sweet conversation. Honeyed voice and understanding eyes.

He lifts his head, meeting Max's eyes. He doesn't have to say it. Max has known him for more than half his life. But he answers.

"Yes."

Taglist:

#f1 #lando norris #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #my writings > ln #did i probably forget to tag some people? yes but it's 4:30am so

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goldsbitch · 17 days ago

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Twelve Grapes

chapter 4 - Cute, sometimes shy

Charles throws a lavish yacht party, dropping hints like confetti, but Max remains blissfully oblivious.

or - Charles’s love language is invitations Max doesn’t know how to read.

9k words warning: minors DNI, oral sex, m/m, hints of cum kink - this is the first time i found myself blushing while writing smut whoops

The weird phone call from Pierre comes just as Max is about to go for a run. He's been locked inside his apartment practically since they came back from Monza, few days at this point. He figures some space and distractions might put a stop to his Charles-related micro obsession.

The last thing Max wants right now is to see racing related people. Jesus, do these people not have anything better to do than see the same seventeen faces all the time? He figures Charles might be there. But, the thought of destroying his hard earned peace of mind, however fragile, was not an appealing one.

Did he need another awkward stare down? Charles doing everything in order to avoid him? No. Plus, he has his hairdresser appointment with Pascale in the morning. He's grown strangely fond of their little meetings. She is a true professional and knows how to talk to people while cutting their hair.

Maybe she is the one Leclerc that is meant to be his friend, and not her erratic son.

Peace. Max wants peace.

So, he ties his running shoes and embraces the lovely Monaco sunset vibe.

There is an intrusive thought, that creeps in, just when he is reaching the harbor. Maybe, if he just stops to say hi? He does like boats.

He pauses and stretches. Examines the vessels and searches for the one that might be the place of the celebration.

Nah, he's in running gear anyway. All sweaty and messy, not the proper way to show up to a party. Especially one he has no idea why or who is organizing.

Max happily jogs home. Looking forward to a pleasant, calm evening in.

Now, Charles - proud renter of one of the biggest boats in the harbor, for the night at least - is expecting anything but a quiet night in.

He arrives early and sets the place up with Pierre. Wonders when Max will show up.

First people start coming in and Charles is having casual amount of fun. When is Max coming?

He vows not to get drunk tonight, because disasters happen when you're drunk and have a crush. This he knows from past experience. When is Max coming?

Okay, one cocktail is fine. He will limit himself to one cocktail per hour. When is Max coming?

The secret is out and everyone on the yacht now knows he is a confirmed Ferrari driver. When is Max coming?

Is that Max? No, that's just some random guy someone brought as a plus one. When is Max coming?

You must be fucking joking, he swears loudly, when it hits him. He throws a fucking party for him and this asshole stays home. A yacht party.

Could Max do a headstand? He, probably could, right. It can't be that hard. He watches many videos and after some time he's nearly got it. Max's evening is consisting of post-run attempts at yoga. He is a simple man, really.

He certainly isn't someone who expecting unannounced visitors at midnight, on a Wednesday. The insistent knocking does not stop even after he shouts that he is coming to the door. He wonders if the concierge has fallen asleep again, while he's trying to put a t-shirt on. He's not gonna open the door shirtless, he has manners.

He is about to encounter a person who has his own, twisted, definition of manners. When he opens the door, none other than Charles Leclerc barges in, disheveled, red-faced, and moving with the frantic energy of a man late for something important. Max winces, processing and checking whether he's actually awake, or if this is another of his weird dreams involving the Monegasque driver.

He is trying to recall of Charles has ever been in his apartment and can't remember that time. He does remember ever giving him his address. Or the apartment number. The concierge must have also fallen to the Leclerc charm. Max is the last person who can blame him. But, by the way how he just waltzes in, one would think Charles is the one living here and Max is just crashing on his couch.

“You!” Charles announces, pointing overly dramatically.

Is this the new normal? “Me?” Max blinks, because what else is there to do. He's not even breathing at this point.

“Yes, you! We need to talk!” Charles gestures wildly, already pacing the small apartment.

Max closes the door slowly, bewildered. “Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something?” Can't help but ask.

Charles spins on his heel, looking genuinely offended. “No, I did not hit my head! This is serious!”

Max figured there is only one way of doing this, and it's the Leclerc way. “Okay, what’s serious?”

Charles looks like he’s going to combust. “You! And the party! And—and my mom’s salon tomorrow!”

Max stares blankly, trying to understand how any of what he stated is connected. “...This is about a party?”

“Yes!” Charles throws his hands up, his frustration boiling over. “You didn’t show up, Max! I threw an entire yacht party! For you!” His gestures are proving the Italian ancestry allegations.

Max is about as confused as they come, taking a second to process that. “What? For me? When?”

Charles ignores the last question, probably considering it a joke, based on his look. “Well, not for you,” Charles backtracks quickly, pacing around. “It was... general. Celebratory. But also, yes, for you!”

So - to sum up. In the last fifteen seconds, Max learns that his crush has organized a party, seemingly for him, without informing him of it, and is now mad that he did not show up. Right. It shouldn't, it really shouldn't, make him feel weirdly warm inside.

Max leans against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. “Charles, I didn’t even know it was for me. Pierre just said something about a yacht and drinks. How was I supposed to know it was some kind of elaborate scheme to... what, make me talk to you?”

Charles freezes mid-pace, his eyes narrowing. “It wasn’t a scheme.”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You had Pierre invite me. After you mysteriously avoided me the whole race weekend and now you're walking into my home at midnight. How exactly was I supposed to figure this out?” He'd never say it out loud, but Charles Leclerc can make crazy look so hot. Max is aware that it should be a warning sign. But, when is he ever following the rules 100%?

“I didn’t avoid you!” Charles argues, but even as he says it, he winces. “Okay, maybe a little. I'm sorry. But it was Monza! I had to meet almost every person that ever worked in Ferrari! And I did try to apologize....”

Max shakes his head, still baffled. “Just so that we're clear. You threw a yacht party that was kind of for me. But also not for me and now you’re mad that I didn’t... read your mind?”

Charles stares at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“That’s because it is ridiculous!” Max exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Charles, I don’t have some psychic connection to understand your cryptic plans!” He wishes he did.

Charles glares at him, crossing his arms. “It wasn’t cryptic. It was obvious.”

Max snorts. “Obvious? Charles, the only thing obvious was Pierre trying to get me drunk on a boat.”

Charles stares out of the window, as if to gain some clarity, his cheeks flushing. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best way to go about it.”

“Maybe?” Max repeats, astonished, but amused on the inside.

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine! It was a bad plan. But you still could have shown up!”

Max stares at him for a moment, his expression softening slightly. “Why didn’t you just talk to me directly?”

Charles looks at him, wide-eyed, as if the suggestion is completely foreign. “I wanted to, but when was I suppose to that? I had the busiest weekend of my life, could't do it there. Then, it's like you disappear from the planet, nowhere to be found. So...I just. You know. A yacht. You like those." His accent keeps getting thicker with every sentence and Max is trying his best not get distracted by it.

It has dawned on Max that asking him why didn't he just call or text him to meet up, is completely pointless and wouldn't help at the moment.

Charles pauses, as if to dig a little deeper than basic manic mad, and speaks again. "And because...I didn't know what to say! I wanted to properly apologize, but then it was getting weirder with every missed opportunity and I saw you getting more and more mad at me!”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Max says, his voice quieter now. “I was... confused. You kissed me and then ran away.”

Charles flinches, his bravado crumbling. “I panicked.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Look,” Max finally says, running a hand over his face. “If you want to talk, just talk. Don’t throw a yacht party. Don’t storm into my apartment like a crazy person. Just... talk to me.”

Charles hesitates, his shoulders sinking. “I don’t know how.”

Max softens, a small, almost invisible smile forming on his lips. “You’re doing it right now.”

Charles looks at him, his eyes searching Max’s face for something he can’t quite name. “I’m sorry. For the kiss. For everything.”

Max shrugs, his voice steady. Here goes nothing. Here goes everything. Time to grow up. “I’m not.”

And just like that, Charles is back to glaring. His chest is rising up and down. Max takes a moment to appreciate just how handsome he looks. Once again, or maybe as ever. There is part of him worried he crossed the line. But Charles has crossed so many today just to get to talking to him. He must care at least a bit. “You’re impossible,” Charles responds finally.

“And you’re exhausting,” Max shoots back, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

Charles groans, throwing his hands up, bringing back the frantic act. “Fine! Tomorrow, at the salon, don’t talk to my mom about any of this.”

Max's back to being fully confused. "Please, tell me how you managed to involve your mom into this." It is only now he is truly becoming scared.

"Me? What have I done? Oh, I don't know," he pauses dramatically to take a deep, deep look at Max. It has the opposite effect of what he's probably intending. Charles is adorable. “You’ve been going to her for months! Months!” Charles throws his hands in the air, chasing flies that don't exist. “And now, with everything that’s been going on, you’re going to walk in there and - what?

“I promise I won’t tell her about the yacht party. Or the kiss.”

Charles points a warning finger at him. “Not funny.”

Max chuckles, leaning against the counter, hands crossed over his chest. “A little funny.”

Charles mutters something in French that Max is pretty sure isn’t complimentary.

Max stares at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “A yacht party,” he mutters, taking a deep breath, touching back on the peace of mind he had when doing his yoga. Something Charles took, crumbled up and threw out of the window. “You're going to kill me.” Who needs peace anyway.

"Do you want me to open some wine and sit on the balcony? So that we can, you know, talk like adults?" He suggests, trying to steer this ship - no pun intended. He is, after all, the older one. Physically, about three weeks. Mentally (in his opinion exclusively) about five years.

For all the fuss Max made about "talking like adults", he is now awfully quiet. To say Charles finds it frustrating is an understatement. He is still riding some sort of high, a state of mania that possessed him and had him storming out of his own party that he orchestrated. Max took his time, brought a bottle of red wine, nice glasses, the only thing missing is a candle. Oh yeah. And him saying something!

Charles sits slouched in the comfy chair, one leg tucked under him, staring into his glass like it holds the secrets of the universe. In the corner of his eye, he observing Max, mapping his every move. He leans forward on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the wine bottle like it’s somehow going to save him.

This was such a mistake, coming here, Charles thinks. He should have just stayed home and drown in the bathtub.

“So,” Charles starts, swirling the wine in his glass. His voice is sharper than he intends, but the silence is unbearable. “This is what adults do? Sit around and stare at things?”

Max glances at him, looking briefly offended. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking for twenty minutes.”

"You have no perception of time, it's literally been a minute."

"Shall I set a timer?"

“I’m trying to get it right!" Max snaps, more frustrated than actually angry.

Charles rolls his eyes, taking a sip of wine. “Just say what’s on your mind. You’re not exactly the subtle type, Verstappen. We need to start somewhere...” In his mind, when Max was suggesting "talking", he'd be the one leading it. Why must Charles do everything?

Max snorts, finally sitting back in his chair. “Says the man who threw a yacht party to avoid a conversation.”

Charles groans, running a hand through his hair. Walking in circles, that's what they were doing. “This is not how I imagined this going.”

Max tilts his head, watching him. “How did you imagine it going?”

Charles frowns, the words stuck in his throat. “I don’t know. Easier than this.”

Max’s gaze softens, and for the first time all evening, the tension between them feels less suffocating. He picks up his glass, taking a long sip before speaking.

“You kissed me,” Max says quietly, the words falling between them like a stone.

Charles stiffens, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. “I remember.”

“And then you ran.”

“I know,” Charles repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

Max looks at him, his expression unreadable. “Why?”

Charles exhales shakily, staring out at the water. He’s never been good at this - talking about feelings, admitting vulnerability. He can face a room full of journalists or a track full of competitors, but this? This is terrifying. And also - this is Max Verstappen. His rival, a guy and someone who can ruin his life with few funny words uttered to the right kind of reporters. But then again - Max was in the exact same position.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Charles admits, his voice raw. “I just... panicked.”

Max nods slowly, as if that answer doesn’t surprise him. “And now?”

“Now...” Charles hesitates, meeting Max’s gaze for the first time. “Now I’m here.”

Max studies him, his blue eyes searching, and for a moment, Charles wonders if he’s about to laugh or yell or walk away. Instead, Max leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees again.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Max confesses, his voice low. “But I know I don’t want you to run again.”

The words hang in the air, fragile and honest, and Charles feels something shift inside him. The mania, the frustration, the fear—it all fades into something quieter, softer.

“I won’t,” Charles says, and he means it. He is not quite confident in himself yet, does not trust himself. As he keeps calming down, it dawns on him just how tired he is.

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of everything finally settling between them. Max picks up the wine bottle, pouring a little more into each of their glasses. He lifts his, raising an eyebrow.

“To not running,” Max says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Charles laughs, the sound light and genuine, and clinks his glass against Max’s. “To not running.”

There is a brief break from the awkwardness of it all. One would actually think this is sort of nice, sitting on balcony, late summer night covering the shores of Monaco.

Charles's mind goes back to spiraling real quick. Okay, so they got the whole running thing out of the way - and now what? His heart is beating as if he just completed the Singapore GP. Hyperaware of just how close Max is sitting. He wonders if he feels the same magnetic pul as he feels for him. Charles leans back in his chair, one leg propped lazily on the table, pretending to be more relaxed than he feels. Needs to keep moving and shifting, because otherwise, he's just end up staring at Max endlessly.

"Can you not put your leg on my table?" Max groans casually.

Hah. As if Charles is ever going to do what he's asked. Locking eyes with Max, cheeky smile on display, he pops his other leg up the table as well.

"I'm going to tell your mom that you're growing up into a rude person," he threatens, but Charles knows him too well to recognize an empty threat.

"Oh, yeah. She mentioned you ask a lot of questions about me. Anything specific you wanna know?" He figures teasing might be the way to go about this whole thing. He swears there is a slight blush in Max's face. It feels exhilirating, to have the notion of the upper hand. He is dead set on keeping a stern eye contact, the goal being shaking Max of his high "let's talk like adults" horse.

"I only ask her about your racing," he reacts, probably not realizing how mad that makes him sound. Charles is finally having some fun. Watching Max stifen up, so vulnerable, yet still so keen on keeping his closed of image. It makes Charles proud to know he is the one who can crack him.

"Relax a little, Verstappen. We’re not in the paddock."

Max doesn’t bite. "And you’re an expert on relaxing?"

Charles lets out an exaggerated sigh, throwing his arms over the back of his chair. "I’m trying. But it’s hard when I’m sitting next to someone who looks like he’s mentally building a strategy for our next race."

"Maybe I am," Max retorts, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Ah, see? Always thinking. You’re exhausting just to watch," Charles teases, leaning forward now, elbows on arm of his chair. "I bet you even sleep with your hands at ten and two, ready to steer."

Max’s jaw tightens just slightly, a tell that Charles zeroes in on.

"You’re ridiculous," Max mutters.

Charles grins, sensing an opening. "Ridiculous? Coming from the man who spent months going to my mother, desperate for information? That’s rich." He knows he is dancing very close to the edge of cliff that might result in him getting kicked out of this very nice balcony. But, when has that ever stopped him before.

Max’s lips press into a thin line, and Charles knows he’s pushing it. He knows he should stop, but there’s something electric about nagging Max like this, like tapping on a electric wire just to see the sparks. It’s distracting, exciting - and, most importantly, it keeps his own nerves at bay.

"Careful, Leclerc," Max warns, his voice low as he tilts his head, kind of like a cat would.

Charles leans in further, his grin widening. "Or what? You’ll analyze me to death? Oh no, Max Verstappen is going to give me a stern lecture on fuel consumption. Terrifying."

And then it happens.

Max stands abruptly, the movement so sudden that Charles startles, his grin freezing. Before he can process what’s happening, Max steps closer, his eyes locked onto Charles with an intensity that makes his breath hitch.

"You talk too much," Max mutters, his voice barely more than a growl.

"You were the one dead set on the whole talking thing," the words come out, without any editorial from Charles's brain. It's automatic, because he has other problems to deal with. The proximity of Max being most of them.

"Hm," he hums instead of saying anything, as he stares into Charles eyes, as if he lost his favorite trophy in them. Charles swallows and does not dare to move. Unlike Max, who towers over him and locks him in by putting each of his arms on the arm rests. Instinctively, Charles pulls himself back a bit, his hands now resting on his thighs, eyes mapping Max's moves. He gets all up in his personal space, as if he stopped believing in that concept. How rude, Charles thinks. And extremely hot. He can feel Max's breath mixing with his. Max has one, very specific half-smirk, where he tilts his head a bit and one corner of his lips moves up. It's been haunting Charles for months. And of course, that's exactly this smirk Max pulls out from his arsenal right now. If the Dutch lunatic does not stop with these moves, Charles will lose control again and then they'll have to do the whole "apologize" dance all over. Charles gulps. Max's eyes flash between his lips and his eyes.

I wonder, if you dare. Max wets his lips, gaze locked with Charles's. There is one final spark in his eyes. "Get your running shoes ready," he whispers and then - as if to test how much more flustered Charles can get - he slams his lips onto Charles's. There is no room for doubt, shyness or second-guessing. Max moves with deliberation, something that Charles finds so characteristically him. Max’s mouth is warm, firm, and demanding, moving against Charles’s with a rhythm that is almost overwhelming. It's all new. Nothing compared to the light brush of their Belgium affair. Charles’s breath hitches as Max’s tongue brushes against his bottom lip, teasing, testing, before diving deeper. Their tongues meet and the insides of Charles start to spin out of control. Max slows down a bit, as if giving them both space to catch up with what's happening. Few lazy breaths later, Charles's lips are meddling with Max's again and the sensation of the light brushing, tongue licking and lips squeezing each other is one that he knows would be impossible to burn out of his memory. Max’s hand finds the back of Charles’s neck, his fingers threading into his hair and pulling just enough to send a shiver down Charles’s spine. The other hand presses against the chair’s armrest, anchoring them both in the chaos of the moment. For once, it feels like they’ve found the same rhythm, and for the first time in weeks, Charles feels like he can rest again.

He tilts Charles's head back a bit and as if his mission was to destroy any last hope of dignity, moves his lips over to Charles's neck to kiss, bite and suck.

Charles's mind goes blank immediately, all and any complex throughts exiting the conversation. Charles’s brain short-circuits. His hands fly up, grabbing at Max’s shoulders, the fabric of his shirt twisting between Charles’s fingers as if Max might disappear if he lets go - just like the small moan that leave his mouth, unfiltered.

After few more of those, Max is back on his mouth, his lips wet and suddenly feeling more familiar than before. Oh dear God, it's just so, so, so good to feel their lips brushing over each other. His whole body is on fire, spinning and drowning, all at the same time. There is absolutely no was back for Charles.

“Fuck,” he breathes out when Max pulls back just enough to let them catch a fraction of air. Max’s eyes are dark, stormy, and locked onto him with a ferocity that makes Charles’s chest tighten.

“You started this,” Max mutters, his voice rough and laced with something dangerously close to desperation. Charles finds that ironic, given the fact Max is slowly but effectively ruining anyone else for him. “You don’t get to look at me like that, talk like that, and not expect-”

“Oh, this is my fault?” Charles interrupts, his lips still tingling from the kiss, his voice shaking but defiant. He’s clinging to the last threads of control, but his teasing nature wins out, even now. “You’re the one with the whole ‘let’s talk’ charade. Très adulte, Max.”

Max’s laugh is low and breathy, his thumb brushing over Charles’s jaw. “Yeah, real mature,” he says before diving back in, cutting off whatever retort Charles might have had.

And just like that, they are back where they were. In the middle of a make out session worthy of all of the teenage dreams.

As if Max decided he is not close enough, he puts his legs on each side of Charles, effectively strandling him. The sudden force of it knocks Charles back slightly, his head hitting the chair’s backrest as Max leans further into his space.

Max tongue in Charles's mouth. His hand pressing them together, noses touching and lips dancing the dance of the devil. Charles was aware of what this was doing to his dick few minutes ago, but having Max nearly sitting on him is making the situation probably obvious to the Dutch man as well. Will this freak him out?

Charles pulls away for a moment, but keeps his hands placed on him. "Max, what are we doing here," he asks slowly and immediately regrets it, because the reaction from his kissing partner is exactly what he expects. He leans his foreheads against Charles's and stops all the movements. Sensing sudden hesitation, brush of the ugly reality that exists outside of their little bubble they accidentally created. If Charles managed to fuck this up for him so quickly, he is throwing himself of the balcony. He leans in, with the intention to continue the kissing and distract Max again. But, as always, he sees right through him and it's becoming incresingly more annyoing when he does that.

"I, um. Maybe we don't need to answer all the questions tonight," he speaks weakly, as if he's not proud of himself. That completely contracts Charles, who feels relieved, like he just received a free pass, shot of encouragement and maybe, just maybe, they can finally just kiss and he does not have to think about what Max is thinking about, because frankly - that requires incredible amount of focus and energy.

"Oh, thank God. I've finally worn you down," exclaims, feeling like things are finally going his way. Charles is so proud of himself, his "crazy schemes" working exactly towards the goal he didn't realize he had. "More kissing, less talking, Max Emilian," he sings happily and plans several little pecks on Max's cheeks.

Max groans, dropping his forehead onto Charles’s shoulder, nearly, just almost, hugging him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Charles quips, his voice a whisper, “here you are.”

They moved inside only because of the colder wind rising. Or at least that's how Max tried to convince himself and has Charles chuckling at the awkwardness of it all. But, Max did hold his hand as he led him in, which worked so much on Charles that he immediately started imagining Max leading him like this into the paddock. Proud and unafraid.

Boy, Charles is going to be wanting to kiss Max every day now. If the hole he dig himself up these past few weeks wasn't deep enough, now he was sitting at the bottom so far down, that if he'd look up, there would be no sign of sunshine. But, that's a problem for future Charles. The currently present Charles is having the time of his life, making out with Max on his bed.

He stopped feeling restrained, not so afraid to touch him anymore. They are lying next to each other, limbs tangled, lips connected and hair messy from all the tossing and pulling.

Charles is horny and couldn't help but notice that Max is too. But so far, they still lie there fully clothed, neither of them confident enough to push further. If it were up to Charles and his decision making only, his hormones-drunk brain would have a very clear vision of what's to happen. But, the fact Max is kissing him back is a blessing enough.

That is until Max, the unpredictable menace he was apparently born to be, slowly sneaks his hand below Charles's shirt and strolls a bit around his stomach, before settling on his hips and squeezing them teasingly. And just like that, Charles is down bad, unhinged again, and tired of being towered by Max. Two can play this game, and if he teases, Charles is going to prove that he is also a force to be reckoned with.

He surprises Max by flipping them over, breaking their kiss and full on sitting up on him. He holds Max's hands somewhere next to his head and examines the surprised and hopefully horny look on his face. It's not exactly easy to make it out in the darkness. Charles does not like that. Charles does take advantage of the fact he has caught Max of guard and looks around, searching for a lamp or anything resembling it. He sees absolutely no reason why they should engage in inappropriate activities in the dark, especially when they are both as handsome as they are. He does, however, have several opinions against Max's interior design choices.

"Max, where do you have lamps?" he asks.

Max blinks up at him, confusion painting his face, keeping him still. "What?"

"Lamps," Charles repeats, gesturing vaguely around the room like he's expecting one to materialize out of thin air. "You know, things that make light? You must have one somewhere."

Max is staring at him. "You're sitting on me, we're like, making out, and you're asking about... lamps?"

Charles does not understand why is he so baffled again. This man really has a strange brain. Must be the Dutch genes.

"Oui," Charles replies, entirely serious. "I want to see your face. It's too dark in here. How do you live like this?"

Max groans and drops his head back against the pillows. "You’re seriously hung up on this right now?"

Charles shrugs, unbothered. "I’m allergic to overhead lighting, okay? It’s too harsh. It makes everything look ugly." He pauses, his fingers brushing Max’s wrist absentmindedly. "You’re not ugly, though. You’re… nice."

Frozen Max looks like he is fighting a teasing comeback. His brain is short-circuiting from the casual, unexpected compliment and the fact that Charles said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He huffs, trying to regain control of the situation. "Fine. There’s a lamp on the shelf in the living room. Over there."

Charles twists around, squinting in the direction Max vaguely gestured. He sees nothing resembling a lamp. Because of the darkness and Max's obvious lack of talent regarding interior design. But, it's fine. Nobody's perfect. "I don’t see it."

"It’s there!" Max insists. "You just need to...ugh, let me..." He tries to sit up, but Charles pins him back down, grinning.

"Stay," Charles says, a little too smugly. "I’ll find it."

"Unbelievable," Max mutters as Charles quickly climbs off him, moving to the edge of the bed and fumbling around in the dark. Max props himself up on his elbows, watching with equal parts amusement and frustration as Charles feels his way along the shelves.

Finally, Charles finds the perfect spot on the nightstand, and a sharp glow fills the room. He turns back to Max triumphantly. "Much better. But, I am buying you a warmer lightbulb, this is too white for a bedroom." In a second, he is climbing back onto the bed with a self-satisfied smirk. He shakes his head in disbelief, like it's not the most obvious thing in the world. Max is a silly guy. It's more than clear he will need Charles's guidance.

Max raises an eyebrow, his expression half annoyed, half fond. "You paused making out with me for a lamp." He's probably not aware that is mimicking Charles's gestures, brushing his wrist like he did earlier.

"I paused making out with you so I could appreciate how handsome you are," Charles clarifies. "Big difference."

Max rolls his eyes, but the faint blush creeping up his neck gives him away. "You’re ridiculous."

"You keep saying that," Charles replies, settling himself back into Max’s space. "But at least now I can see you blush."

Max doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, he pulls Charles down by the collar of his shirt, their lips meeting again, and this time, Max’s hands slide back under Charles’s shirt with a little more purpose.

Charles decides the lamp was an excellent investment. And - it's now him who puts his hands on Max's chest and without hesitation starts slowly, cheekily, working on getting his shirt off.

Getting devoured by Max feels like having sugar shot directly into Charles's veins. They're both shirtless now, boxers only. They've been like this for a while. Charles does not need to fight his tiredness, not even in that deep dark late hour, because his serotonin levels are keeping him up (just like his dick). His lips are hurting, after Max discoveres that light biting makes him especially weak and has him melting in his arms. Charles is pretty sure he has a hickey on the right side of his neck and is proud of his own creation reflected above Max's collarbone.

Each kiss feels like a tiny claim, a mark of trust that neither of them has fully put into words. But the intensity is starting to overwhelm him. He wants more. Greed and lust driving this car where he's a mere passenger. Max’s hands are everywhere - skimming over his ribs, the small of his back, fingers trailing just enough to make Charles forget his breathing.

Max speaks first. "We should, um..." He avoids looking at Charles and rubs his head, looking bit like a lost puppy.

Charles pauses, anticipating the worst. He tries to search for answers in his face. "Max..." he says, deciding on not adding any particular question.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his cheeks flushing. “I just...I’ve never really…You know, with a guy.” He is bright red all of a sudden, his suave long gone. It is at this point where Charles feels like he's granted the permission to see Max in his rawest form. He remembers feeling this way once. When everything was new, fresh and scary. It's not like he himself has fucked hundreds of guys, but there have been one or two. Max's eyes sparkle and Charles recognizes that look very well. He's seen it many times, staring back at him from a mirror. It's this look that he puts on before he bolts. His mind is racing and he tries to recall what it felt like to be in this situation for the first time. What words would have he wanted to hear. He can't fuck this up.

"Max," he speaks and cups his cheek tenderly. He gives him a deep long look, a soft one, before he continues, carefully picking every word. "Thanks for telling me." The Dutch driver rolls his eyes before Charles can continue - God, he is infuriating. He is about to protest, surely, but Charles is faster. "I want us to both enjoy this, whatever it is. No pretending, no rushing or trying to push away. We can do everything tonight, we don't have to do anything. We can like, figure it out, together. It's not like I'm the Mr. Expert in this either - I know, I know. Surprising, usually I know everything," he adds in the end jokingly, in his typical style, putting his hands up defensively, to lighten the mood. It works. Max reaches for his hand and squeezes it, smile replacing his concerned frown. "My main point is...," he pauses, to make sure it comes out right. "I think this is about having fun? Enjoying it. And we can figure out what that looks like together."

Max seems to be taken back by sudden Charles's maturity. It was written all over his face - his mind was spinning like a wheel caught in a loop, and Charles could almost see the effort behind his silence.

"Okay," Max finally whispers and Charles feels like popping a victory champagne. Their fingers entangle each other and it serves like a nice grounding.

"It's like talking. And you're sooo good at it, remember?" he teases and as a reaction received a playful hit in his chest.

With newfound energy and confidence, Max snaps out of his temporary insecurity and continues on playfully fighting with Charles. The Monegasque is sitting on the Dutch and they fight a bit, until the latter one let's the other win.

When they stop, it's the intense stare down again. Max bites his lip and carefully eyes Charles up and down. They stopped hiding their erections a while ago, but it had gone unacknowledged. Until now. Charles rolls his tongue, watching the interest spread over Max's face.

"I mean, if you’re the expert," Max says, his voice dipping into a teasing tone, but there’s still a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. His hand lingers just above Charles’s waist, as if waiting for permission to move closer. "Maybe you could…show me?" It's not him dive bombing head first and asking questions later. He is careful, still a bit shy. However, the curiosity in Max's eyes is undeniable.

"Show you?" Charles mocks, his voice coming out steadier than he feels. His gaze flicks between Max’s face and where his hand resides. "What exactly are you asking for, Verstappen?" It is maddening, being on edge for hours. Without breaking eye contact, Max's fingers travel just a little bit further, slowly, until he is full on tracing Charles's cock up and down. Charles is doing his absolute best to stay somewhat normal about this, fighting the urge to literally grab his cock and shove it up Max's talkative mouth. Patience. He is patient for the first time ever.

"You said we could figure it out, right?" he says, not even trying to hide that he is trying to push him over the edge. Just like he's testing his limits verbally, he's now adding circular motions at the tip of Charles's dick.

He is pretty sure it's been years since he was this hard. It's almost lame, Max hasn't actually even done anything yet. Talented boy he is, either intentionally or accidentally, he brushes over Charles's sensitive spot. He tries to mask his reaction with a playful scoff. "I didn’t think you’d actually listen to me for once."

Max huffs a laugh, and the sound is warm, elegant. "I listen sometimes," he counters, his grin growing and he bites lip down. "When it’s important," he winks and squeezes Charles for the first time ever. Shives sent through his whole body. Max's nose perks up at his reaction. He puts up the signature "I just won a race" smile and Charles would smack him, if he wasn't so focused on whatever it was his hands were doing.

"Max," he semi-moans, temporarily giving into the effects. He takes a deep breath in and out, desperate to push Max into more action.

"Important?" Charles arches a brow, attempting to deflect the way Max’s touch has his thoughts spiraling. He shifts closer, testing the waters himself now by slowly tracing the lines of Max's lower abs. "So, you’re admitting I’m important?"

Max freezes for half a beat, and Charles sees it—the momentary flicker of panic, like Max didn’t mean to reveal too much. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by a faint smirk, but the moment stays with Charles, making his chest feel tight.

"You’re not bad company," Max says finally, his tone deliberately light, but his hand tightens just slightly on Charles’s waist, anchoring them together.

It’s not exactly a confession, but it’s enough to make Charles’s melt. He leans in, his breath mingling with Max’s now, the space between them vanishing with every second.

"Not bad company?" Charles echoes, his voice quieter now, but there’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I’m flattered, Verstappen. Truly." He literally has his hand on his dick. If this is his definition of "not a bad company" Charles is sure as hell interest what a "good company" entails.

Max chuckles, the sound soft and almost shy again. "Don’t let it go to your head." Chéri, all of the blood has left my brain a while ago. He finally squeezes him properly and Charles hates the fact he's wearing the damn boxers. The air shifts between them, less playful now, more charged.

"If you’re going to do it," Charles whimpers, his own boldness surprising him when he's just about to finally lose it, "stop overthinking it."

Max’s brows furrow, his hesitation cracking. "Do what?"

"Whatever you’re thinking about doing," Charles replies, his voice teasing but edged with something raw. "It's not that different from what you're doing when you're alone, thinking of me," he rolls his lips and hopes he is at least little bit right.

He knows Max well enough to know it might take years for his to admit something like that. But, Charles is winning away. The best way to get through Max is a challenge - and that's how he finally got to say goodbye to boxers.

Charles is now fully naked in front of Max Verstappen. There really is no going back. He is sitting on him, while he lies below him, getting ever-so-more curious about Charles's dick. Being able to watch Max exploring him carefully is something worth dying for. Every touch burns in the best way possible.

Charles sucks in a sharp breath when Max’s fingers wrap around him again, the sensation sending a shiver up his spine. His body responds immediately, heat rushing through him in a way that feels almost overwhelming. Max is watching him, studying him, like he's the data from FP3. Charles is more than happy to be Max's muse. He has the perfect grip, uses right force and touches the right spots. There is a shiver and a loud sigh.

Max freezes, his grip light butting steady, watching Charles intently. “Is this…?”

“Good,” Charles interrupts him breathlessly, his hips swaying forward instinctively. “It’s good. Please don’t stop.”

There is a tiny bit of precum, but Max goes on licking his hand wet before touching him back again. Charles would love to shift his focus fully on Max's hyper-fixed frown, but it's too much to ask of him right now. His dreams are coming true in a way he thought is impossible. The first strokes are slow, exploratory and too careful for Charles's liking. When he feels like can't take this slow teasing anymore, he puts his hand on Max and squeezes three times harder.

"Faster, please. You've teased me so much today," he growls, not even worried about scaring Max away anymore. He asked him for guidance. There it is.

Max looks happy to receive some feedback and delivers exactly on what Charles demands. And it - oh God - it is...

Yeah. It's like that.

Charles's body and mind fly into dimension unexplored by most people and his whole body hardens, every muscle in his body tensing up. He's pretty sure his heavy breathing is turning into moans. But, Jesus, the sensation is just too good. He opens his eyes for a moment to glance at Max, who is fully focused on holding his tempo and the right grip. And he's doing a damn good job at it. Every nerve in Charles's dick is alive, Max's hand sliding up and down with increasing speed. Charles is getting lost in the electric pleasure waves. He reached over for Max's shoulder to support his balance and he's pretty sure he's saying some words, but has no idea which language he's using. Oh, yeah. There is it. He can almost see it, the line leading to the ultimate release. Usually, he has to focus hard to get there, but Max does not give him any moment to hesitate or even remember there are other things in this world than his hand on his dick. The throbbing starts and he knows it's close, because it just feels so heavenly.

"Max, I'm-" he wants to warn him, but before he even gets to that, Max does something, something different that catches Charles of guard and he is losing control over his release. His heartbeat echoing like thunder in his ears as he lost himself completely to the feeling.

Oh. Dear. Jesus. Max. Heaven, ecstasy, rush, pure warmth in every part of his brain. He is hit by a wave of buttery bliss.

He feels Max's movements slowing down and that's when he sort of comes back to Earth and opens his eyes again.

Charles blinks a few times, his breath still coming in short, uneven gasps as he leans back on his hands. The post-orgasm haze wraps around him like a warm blanket, but it lasts only seconds before he catches sight of Max’s chest and - fuck. Oh no. The sight he comes back to is so bizarre he manages to laugh even through the last waves of his orgasm.

"Uh..." Charles starts, his voice still raspy. His gaze darts from the mess on Max’s chest and stomach to the small drops on his forehead and parts of his hair. Oh, how utterly adorable. Sweet summer child. "Max... you missed the part where you’re supposed to block it." He would have expected to feel shameful for shooting himself all over Max. His high is however still so strong, he brushes over that.

Max follows Charles’s line of sight, glancing down at himself. His brows furrow, and then his face breaks into that crooked, infuriating smirk. "What? You didn’t exactly give me instructions."

Charles lets out a breathless laugh, still somewhere between mortified and amused. He can't be blamed, he's still riding his bliss. "You managed to avoid your eyes, right?" he asks, concerned because of his own similar mistake once. That kind of pain is not something he wants Max to associate with their first sexual encounter.

He nods his head and Charles relaxes again. He seems totally unbothered by the situation. Charles reaches over to entangle his sticky fingers with his own. "That was...really amazing, Max. That thing you did at the end-" he wants to continue, but a giggle stops him.

"Yeah, I wanted to see if it works on you too," he interrupts Charles nonchalantly, implying that this is something he himself enjoys. Charles's head was still cloudy, even through his brain fog, he recognized that what is making his blood race again, is the fact, that Max is having fun.

Intrusive thoughts. Charles was never good at suppressing or pushing them down. The sight in front of him is like from a heavenly painting. It's nearly dawn and he's still in his post orgasm high. These will be the excuses he is planning on using in case Max protests against what he's about to do next.

It's feral expression painted over Max's face that is the driving force. Charles has probably never felt this urge to act bordeline deranged for anyone else.

He locks eyes with Max, dead set on not braking the contact. The familiar electricity is back in the room, bouncing between them and Charles is sure. By the look of his face, Max is feeling it too. Only this time, Charles will be driving force. He smirks, wondering if Max already knows he is dealing with a petty, competetive sex partner. Neither of them speaks as Charles leans over to Max's abs and almost theatrically explores the pools of his own cum. He starts with his finger, gently dipping it in, slowly and with his usually touch of dramatiqué. He smirks, as he takes his wet fingers over to his mouth and covers his lips with the residue white liquid. Max's eyes are glued on his moves, he is hard and to Charles's amusement, somewhat hypnotized by his actions. Charles goes on and sucks on his own finger. Then he bends, still sitting on Max, close enough that his wet lips hover just above Max's. He stops just as close as he can without actually touching him. And the he digs real deep into his arsenal of killing smirks and whips out the one he considers to be the most alluring one. Max is tense underneath him, hands gripping his arms with a much bigger force than he used before. He is the one who reaches over to kiss his dirty, wet lips. Charles swears that he heard him grunt before that. The kiss is messy, raspy and aggressive. Their tongues are roaming inside each other's mouths, as if they'd done it thousands of times. No remorse. Cum mixing with saliva. Max grips Charles's face with such a force that he has almost fight him to get him to release it. Charles pulls away again and licks his upper lip. Max's hand reaches back to grip him down, but Charles shifts back and point a warning finger. This stops Max and he lies down, slowly, giving fully into whatever it is Charles is doing. He nods lightly, it's almost desperate. His pupils so enlarged that there is barely any blue left. Charles decides this is how he likes Max the most. Finally, bringing back his signature smirk, he bends down, tongue out, intending on looking as graphic and vulgar as possible. Max has undeniable anticipation written all over his face, which only encourages him more. He places his tongue on the skin just above the shaft of Max's throbbing cock, does a few little circles, mapping his lower abdomen before he looks up and locks eyes with him once again. Then, with the now signature cheeky grin, her grabs Max's hips tight and slides his tongue away from his cock - but towards the little pools on Max's chest. All while making sure not to avert his gaze from Max's face. His moves are quick and determined. Like he can' t get enough of licking his own cum from Max's body. He roams around for a moment and then swallows, making dirty humming noise. His cheeky right hands rolls down over to brush Max's cock. Charles loves being watched by Max. He wants to challenge every part of him. This is just the act one. There are thousands of things he wants to do to him or with him.

He makes a quick move over to Max's hips again. The shiny, precum covered cock staring back at him. He maps it out, explores it, literally stares at the beauty of it. This is it. He finally gets to suck of Max. The word "blessed" does not quite cover it. He kneels down and makes himself comfortable before gripping his cock for real this time. Immediately, there is a flinch from the Dutch man. Charles, drunk on the soft whimper, wants to - no, demands - to hear more.

As he strokes him, ever-so-lightly, he tilts his head down and starts brushing Max's cock on his face. Cheeks, chin, forehead, the whole deal. All while making sure Max can see just how excited he is to do so. There are some words coming out of Max's mouth, but Charles is entirely concerned about his lower body. He quite literally snuggles his dick for a while and then proceeds to get his tongue again and carefully starts to place little pecks. Then he presses the dick so much into his own face, that there is nowhere else to go. It is at that moment he finally opens his mouth and takes him in. He licks him all over, mapping the shape, the veins and the light tilt. Burning it into his brain, like was planning to making a life size drawing after they're done. His hand is working the bottom of the shaft, where it meets the little light hairs covering the skin. Underneath him, Max stiffens, his thighs are arched and he can feel his breathing getting heavier. Before Charles proceeds to bob his head up and down, with the intention of fully destroying anything remaining of their dignity, he reaches over to one of Max's hands and positions it on his own head. Max responds immediately and holds onto Charles's hair. A shot of smugness hits Charles - he is the one who can make Max melt and do exactly what he wants. That is a rare thing to see, he had observed him long enough to know that. With that, he starts moving his head up and town and twirling his tongue around. He keeps a steady, fast rhythm, testing whether this is something Max appreciates. By the whimpering sounds he hears, he figures he is on the right track. It all gets more salty and sticky real quickly. This is not Charles's first rodeo and he is really glad about that, because the way he makes sure to breath through his nose, so that he does not have to pause, is coming in naturally. He can fully immerse himself into the experience that is sucking Max Verstappen off.

"Ah-shit-Charles..." he hears and it sounds like a prayer. Charles keep on moving up and down and opens his eyes to have a quick look at the partner in crime. To his absolute ego-boosting-pleasure, Max's eyes are glued on him, mouth slightly open and he has this look on his face that confirms what Charles figured before. That is the look of someone who is having the time of his life. He does not hesitate and ups his speed. Determined to drive this train into it's destination. He closes his eyes again. For a moment there are only wet sounds cutting the silence of the night. Inevitably, Max's body starts to stiff even more and Charles knows well enough what that means. Max's hand is now nearly pulling his hairs out, that's how much his hand is gripping and he is absentmindedly guiding Charles's moves.

"I'm-Charles," he barely gets out of him, lungs full of air. "Charles, I am," he mumbles and make an attempt on removing himself from Charles's mouth. That crazy man thinks Charles is going to let him cum outside of his mouth. This bizarre idea motivates him to push down on Max's hips and all the strenght in his neck comes in hand. He manages to keep his position. On Max's cock. They share a little look, Max searching consent, while trying to hold himself back. Charles winks at him, hoping he understands, because he would get really mad if he had to stop now and tell Max verbally that he can come. It's unknown whether Max gives in or if he's over run by his own release. The salty liquid gets shot directly into Charles's throat, accompanied by a rather loud moan from Max. He swallows, making sure to catch all of it. Few big gulps and he is there, licking the residue that he didn't manage to catch clean.

He pops up to a seated position and stretches out his neck.

"You taste good," he says as he cleans the corners of his mouth. Almost as if to make a point. Max is lying there, eyes glued to the ceiling, steadying his heavy breath. What a beautiful sights, Charles thinks.

"You can’t just say things like that," Max mutters, his voice cracking in the process.

"Why not?" Charles grins now, swinging his leg over, sitting on his knees next to Max. "It’s the truth."

Charles feels like the king on the world. Sparing one more look at the mess Max is, he pops up and heads over to the bathroom for a towel, walking naked, as God intended anyway.

Don’t move,” he says, smirking like he’s in charge now. “I’ll clean you up. Can’t have you looking so... helpless.”

Max’s face burns red, but he doesn’t argue. Charles flicks the towel at Max’s chest, laughing softly when Max fumbles to catch it. “Relax,” he says, leaning in closer, snatching the towel back before Max even uses it. He swipes at Max’s collarbone with exaggerated care, his grin infuriatingly wide. “You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m not helpless,” Max grumbles, glaring half-heartedly.

“Hmm, sure you’re not,” Charles hums, tilting his head as if examining his handiwork. “You look like you’ve just been through a wind tunnel. A very satisfying one.”

This earns him a very heart-felt eye roll. All of the fatigue from the previous day, the several runs around the town, then the whole party and hours spend at Max's apartment are catching up. He throws the towel somewhere next to the bed and flops himself down.

“And for the record,” Charles adds, ignoring Max's confused looks, “I’m staying over. Too late to head back, and you don’t get a say.”

“You’re staying?” he echoes dumbly, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. Silly man, he must be still high from the amazing blow job, Charles figures.

"Obviously. Don't worry, I don't snore. And, you can snore however much you like, it won't wake me up," he remarks as he reaches over to shut off the awfully bright lamp he himself put on the nightstand.

"Goodnight, Max Emilian," he announces, ending the night. There is something truly enjoyable in being so confident in his action. It's not often it happens, but when it does, Charles makes the most out of it.

chapter 5

------- @chezmardybum

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