Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Lewis, two seconds behind,” Bryan’s voice crackled in Charles’ ear. “He will push next lap, so give him a tow, please.”

“Copy,” Charles responded, eyes flicking to his rearview mirror as he negotiated the final corner. Sure enough, he caught sight of Lewis, his matching Ferrari flashing like a red arrow as it closed in behind him.

He wasn’t completely happy with being asked that, after Lewis had hung him out to dry in the Miami post race debrief, but it was still too early in the season to start having games with his teammate. He and the older Brit had a much better working relationship than he’d had with Carlos, and Charles planned to address what happened with Lewis in Miami when he had the chance.

The roar of the Tifosi in the grandstands was a constant hum in the background, an almost tangible energy that vibrated through the car and into his bones. This was Imola, Ferrari’s home turf, and the weight of expectation weighed on him as it always did during any race in Italy. But Charles thrived under pressure—or at least, he tried to.

“Next car pushing is Norris. Three seconds behind,” Bryan informed him, the precision in his voice keeping Charles razor-sharp.

The Monégasque smoothly pulled off the racing line just before Turn One, the sound of Lewis’ car growing louder as it zipped past him, hitting the braking point at the perfect moment. He glanced briefly in his mirror again to see Norris approaching next. Timing was everything now, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus or catch a penalty for impeding.

On his next push lap, he locked in, attacking the circuit, hands steady on the wheel as he navigated the undulating curves of Imola. The track felt alive beneath him, every bump and groove intimately familiar. As he rounded Rivazza, his car felt light yet firmly planted, the fresh set of soft tires gripping the asphalt like glue.

“Sector times are good, Charles,” Bryan updated him. “You’re through to Q2.”

“Copy,” Charles replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips beneath the helmet. Q2 breezed by in much the same way, and soon enough, he was in the fight for pole in Q3.

“Box, Charles. Box,” Bryan called out, calm efficiency cutting through the adrenaline pumping through Charles’ veins.

“Box box,” he repeated, guiding the SF-25 into the pits with precise control, the crowd’s cheers deafening as he slowed into his garage.

The pit crew swarmed the car, a blur of red and black as they worked to swap out his tires and snap on the dry ice blowers to cool the engine. Charles scanned the screens in front of him. Max had tentatively taken provisional pole, .03 seconds faster in Sector 2.

“Are you happy with the front wing?” Bryan’s voice cut in.

“Yes,” Charles replied without hesitation, his focus narrowing. Max was ahead, but only just. It was close—so close that every fraction of a second would matter.

He felt his jaw tighten as he thought about that gap. He could beat it. He would beat it.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” Bryan said. Taking a deep breath, Charles revved the engine and exited the pits, ready for his final flying lap. It was time to give everything he had to claim pole for Ferrari. “You have margin. Focus on your out lap,” Bryan’s voice crackled in his ears, calm and steady as always.

Charles inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly as he weaved his car back and forth, pushing the SF-25 hard to generate heat into the fresh softs. The crowd roared in the background, but it was white noise to him now, the world narrowed to the track in front of him and the voice of his race engineer.

“Gap to Norris behind is eight seconds. Clear for push lap,” Bryan confirmed just as Charles rounded the last corner.

Putting his foot down, Charles felt the surge of adrenaline as the Ferrari came alive beneath him. He threw the car into the first corner, keeping his lines tight, feeling every ounce of grip the fresh tires provided. Navigating the circuit with precision, he pushed the car to its absolute limit, flying through each sector like a man possessed.

He reached the Variante Alta chicane, threading the needle perfectly, narrowly keeping his tires inside the white line as the car skipped over the curbs. His hands were steady on the wheel, his focus absolute. As he powered down the main straight, every fiber of his being was concentrated on shaving off those last few thousandths of a second to Max.

Crossing the finish line, he held his breath until Bryan’s voice came through his headset.

“P1, Charles.”

“Yes!” Charles yelled, punching the air inside the cockpit, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Grazie mille, ragazzi! Grazie mille!”

“Good boy, Charles,” Bryan replied, the words catching Charles completely off guard.

His brain went fuzzy for a moment, a soft groan slipping past his lips before he could stop it. Blue eyes flashed in his mind’s eye, a Dutch voice praising him in a way that sent heat spiraling through him. Heart skipping a beat, Charles bit down on his lip, trying not to whine.

“Everything alright, Charles?” Bryan asked, tone laced with mild concern.

“Yeah,” he answered quickly, shaking his head and forcing a neutral tone into his voice. “Just pressed the drink button on accident.”

He focused on his breathing, trying to calm the rush of thoughts and emotions swirling in his chest. The satisfaction of pole, the exhilaration of the lap . . . and the utterly inconvenient thoughts of Max’s massive hands inside him.

On his cool-down lap, Charles allowed himself a moment to bask in the cheers of the Tifosi. Pulling up to parc fermé behind the P1 spot, he felt a surge of pride. Tomorrow’s race would be crucial, especially here in front of Ferrari’s home crowd.

But as he climbed out of the car, waving to the ecstatic crowd and pumping a fist in the air, another thought crept into his mind—a thought that made his cheeks flush under his helmet.

He wasn’t only excited for the race tomorrow. He was just as excited—if not more so—for what came after.

Since their recent conversations, he and Max had decided to deepen their dynamic, pushing things into more serious territory. Max said he’d been holding himself back in their sessions, and he told Charles he was taking the training wheels off for their next one. 

The thought of what new things Max had in store for him made Charles’ pulse quicken, and the promise of new experiences burned in his veins. The Red Bull driver had a way of turning every nerve in his body into a live wire, and Charles couldn’t wait to feel that electric charge again during their next planned session before Monaco.

There was no telling what surprises Max had in store for him this time. All he had to go on was the Dutchman promising to start pushing him more. 

_____

Max sat alone in his driver’s room, the sting of missing out on pole position still simmering. The ice-cold bottle of water in his hand did little to soothe the frustration as he stared at his phone, watching Charles’ pole lap for the third time.

He analyzed every corner, every braking point, every fraction of a second where the Ferrari seemed to eke out an advantage. God their car was so much better than last year.

Charles had been perfect through sector two, finding time where Max hadn’t expected. But it was the final chicane where the Monégasque had truly sealed the deal, his braking late but precise, threading the car through the curbs with a finesse that had Max begrudgingly impressed.

Charles had always been incredible over one lap.

Furrowing his brow, Max tapped the screen to rewind the footage. He watched Charles’ line into the Variante Alta chicane again, fingers twitching like he was gripping the steering wheel himself. If he could replicate that entry tomorrow, he might have a shot at taking back the lead before the end of lap one.

Setting his phone down beside him on the lounge, the Dutchman let it play, leaning back and ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to focus on his own performance until something caught his attention. 

He’d left the audio playing after the lap finished, and Bryan’s voice crackled over Charles’ radio in the background.

“Good boy, Charles.”

Max froze mid-movement, his hand still tangled in his hair. His eyes snapped back to his phone, and he quickly picked it up, rewinding the footage. He turned up the volume, listening closely.

There it was again: “Good boy, Charles.”

Max’s head tilted slightly, lips pursing. Right after the praise, there was a faint sound—a groan, maybe? It was barely audible, but unmistakable. A smirk tugged at the corner of Max’s lips as he replayed the moment once more, leaning closer to the screen. He closed his eyes and focused on the audio, the subtle hitch in Charles’ voice as he responded ostensibly to Bryan, but likely to something far more visceral.

“Interesting,” Max murmured, smirk deepening into something more mischievous.

Rewinding the footage yet again, he listened to the entire exchange, the gears in his mind already turning. The way Charles groaned—it wasn’t frustration or even exhaustion. No, it was something else entirely. 

Max recognized that sound all too well, the Monégasque’s training settling deeper into his subconscious than he probably realized. The thought of Charles responding like that to anyone other than him had his hand twisting in his unzipped suit.

On live radio no less.

He leaned back into the couch, thumb hovering over the replay button again, a faint heat building in his chest. Charles had come a long way since their initial conversations, that much was clear. The Monégasque was more receptive, more eager, and—Max grinned at the thought—more pliable than he’d anticipated.

Switching to WhatsApp, Max typed a message. If Charles was going to be a praise whore, then Max figured the least he could do was reinforce better behavior.

Max

I need one of my helmets to have a blacked out visor this weekend

GP

 ?Planning on driving blind are you 

Max

Something like that

The hotel room was dark, the soft hum of air conditioning the only sound as Charles settled onto his knees in the center of the room. The plush carpet cushioned the Monégasque’s legs, but Charles’ focus was entirely on him, as Max moved across the space. Max listened as the Ferrari driver’s bare chest rose and fell, trying to steady his breathing. 

“Collar position, Charles,” he instructed, voice smooth and commanding. 

Obediently, Charles slid his hands behind his head, elbows wide, chest slightly arched. The position left him exposed, breasts perky, but there was visible comfort in the familiarity of it for him. His thighs spread just enough to maintain balance as he sank deeper into the position, awaiting further instruction. 

Max had prepared meticulously for this session, far more than usual, but he wanted to make sure they were taking a step forward without overwhelming the younger man. He also hadn’t been able to get Charles’ soft groan over the team radio out of his mind, etched deep into his thoughts.  

Only he was to hear sounds like that fall from Charles’ lips, and he planned on making that clear tonight. The Ferrari driver had been exclusive to him, even in their casual dynamic, but now that they had a deeper Dom/sub commitment, Max took it upon himself to re-enforce that idea.

Charles hadn't brought up any changes to the rules list he provided other than asking about the redacted lines, and Max took that as acceptance for the rest. The few pieces he’d redacted pertained to discussions that were better had in person, and Max reassured Charles there was nothing nefarious about wanting to wait on those conversations. The Monégasque of course knew they could discuss them at any time if he changed his mind.

Walking slowly to his bag, Max retrieved their play collar—the same simple black leather band with gold hardware, polished to perfection. He held it in his hands for a moment, the weight of the piece a symbol of the trust Charles had placed in him, and of the younger man’s desire for a permanent one. 

Maybe he should look into something new? Max had been thinking about it over the past few days, and done a little bit of research into options.

Setting it down briefly, Max checked the rest of his prepared items, ensuring everything was in place. GP had come through for him, extending his own hotel room for an extra night when Max eluded to the need for privacy. Obviously he didn’t give him the details, but GP knew enough about Max’s private life to not ask too many questions.

With both of their motorhomes already enroute to their next destination, Max was left in a bit of a situation. Thankfully, this space was ideal—neutral, comfortable, and free from prying eyes.  

Max turned his gaze to Charles, who sat motionless in the center of the room, his dark lashes lowered, lips slightly parted as he focused on his breathing. The soft light cast a warm glow over his tanned skin, accentuating every sharp angle and soft curve of his body. He was utterly breathtaking like this, stripped of pretense and ready to submit. 

“Good,” Max murmured, more to himself than to Charles. 

They’d worked on more positions together this week, correcting posture and adding new wall stances for Charles to practice. With the ridiculous amount of "plans” Ferrari gave the Monégasque to memorize on a race weekend, the few more sub positions should've been no problem.

He picked up the collar and stepped forward, socked feet soundless on the carpet. Charles didn’t lift his eyes, staying true to his more rigorous training, but Max saw the subtle shift in his posture, the way his body reacted to Max’s proximity.  

“Head up,” he instructed, and Charles complied instantly, tilting his chin just enough to make space for the collar. The Monégasque’s green eyes met Max’s briefly, wide with anticipation, before dropping back down in deference, a light smile on his lips when he saw the play collar. 

Max leaned in, wrapping the leather around Charles’ neck with practiced ease, the gold buckle clicking softly as he fastened it in place. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against the sensitive skin of Charles’ nape, feeling the slight tremor beneath his touch.  

“Color, Charles?” Max asked, voice low.  

“Green,” Charles whispered, the single word carrying a weight that made Max’s chest tighten.  

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Max’s lips, and he straightened, taking a step back to admire the sight before him: Charles, collared and kneeling in perfect position, looking ready to be devoured. The anticipation thrummed between them, and Max could already see the Monégasque responding, heat blooming across his chest and neck, settling into his numb mindset, free from all worries.  

Max kept his footsteps soft against the carpet as he moved slowly around Charles. The Monégasque stayed perfectly still in his collar position, hands clasped neatly behind his head.

“Look at me,” Max said softly as he rounded in front of Charles. “Look into my eyes, baby.” Tilting his chin, Charles met his gaze with parted lips. “Do you want me to play with you?” 

The Monégasque nodded eagerly, collar clinking in the silence, green eyes shining up at him, open and wanting.

“Yeah? You want me to touch you?”

“Yes, Max,” Charles rasped, eyelids sliding down half way.

“I want to. But you’ve been bad, Charles,” Max said, voice low and deliberate, the accusation cutting.

Charles gasped, eyes getting bigger for just a moment before lowering again. He swallowed hard. “No, Max. I’ve been good. I haven’t used my toys again without permission and followed all my new rules.”

Circling behind him, Max let the silence hang heavy in the air before speaking again. “While that may be true,” he said, fingers brushing lightly over Charles’ shoulder as he walked, “I think you’ve been bad in other ways.”

“I—” Charles started, but Max silenced him by pressing a single finger to his lips, the touch firm but not harsh. The Monégasque’s mouth closed instantly, body going rigid under Max’s watchful eye.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, Max unlocked the screen and quickly found the video he’d watched over and over again since qualifying. Charles’ groan had been burned into his mind—the way he’d reacted to Bryan’s words, the faint flush that had undoubtedly spread across his cheeks under his balaclava.

Much like the flush he had now.

Max stepped in front of Charles, holding the phone out just far enough for the Monégasque to see, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before pressing play. The familiar sound of Bryan’s voice filtered through the speaker, calling Charles a “good boy,” followed by the telltale blush that bloomed across Charles’ face in response.

Charles’ breath hitched as he stared at the screen, shoulders tensing as the memory played out in front of him. Max didn’t miss the way Charles’ thighs clenched slightly, or the way his lips parted like he was about to speak but thought better of it.

“Were you thinking about Bryan while he praised you?” Max asked, tone sharp but calm. “Was that what made you react like this? Were you imagining him pleasuring you the way I do?”

Charles’ head snapped up, hands falling from behind his head, green eyes wide and desperate as he replied, “No! Never. Only you.” His voice was firm despite the flush creeping up his neck, and there was no hesitation in his words.

“Hold position, Charles.”

Quickly, the Monégasque put his hands back behind his head, collar jiggling softly as he straightened his back again.

Max smirked, satisfied with the answer but not yet ready to let Charles off the hook. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and crouched slightly, bringing himself eye level with the kneeling driver. With one finger, he tilted Charles’ chin up, forcing the Monégasque to meet his gaze, D-ring on his collar clinking softly.

“Good girl,” Max murmured, voice like velvet, and Charles’ entire body seemed to melt at the praise. His knees wobbled slightly, and he swayed forward, leaning instinctively into Max’s touch.

“Arms out in front of you,” Max instructed. “Wrists together.”

Charles complied immediately, his arms extending out, delicate wrists coming together as he balanced on his knees, sitting back on his heels. His breathing was steady, but Max noted the faint rise and fall of his chest quicken ever so slightly as the Ferrari driver waited for what was next.

Straightening, Max padded back over to the bag he’d brought with him, retrieving a coil of thin, red cotton rope he’d picked specifically for this occasion. The color stood out vividly against the monotone black of his gear bag, and he ran the bundle through his palm briefly before turning back to Charles. The Monégasque knelt exactly as he’d been instructed, his arms still extended, body perfectly still except for the slight quiver in his fingers. 

Max allowed himself a small smile as he approached.

“This will be tight, but not enough to hurt,” Max said, letting the words hang in the air as he began to unravel the rope, the soft swish of the material against itself the only sound in the room. 

Charles shivered at the promise and Max opted to take this nice and slow. Working methodically, the Dutchman’s hands moved slowly as he wrapped the red rope around Charles’ wrists and forearms. Each loop, and junction point was smooth, knots tied with care. The subtle tremors in Charles’ arms were impossible to miss, though Max didn’t look up, sensing Charles’ eyes flicking toward him, watching his every move despite trying to keep his gaze lowered.

The Dutchman’s fingers grazed over Charles’ skin as he secured the binding, threading the rope in an intricate pattern that crisscrossed over the younger man’s forearms, giving him enough room to keep them comfortable, but not enough to come apart. The vivid red of the rope stood out starkly against Charles’ tanned skin, the contrast mesmerizing. 

Max hadn’t had much time in Charles’ drivers room the first time he’d restrained him, phone cord all he could find in his own driver’s room, but here the older driver really let his talents shine.

He paused for a moment, tugging gently at the finished binding to test its security. The rope didn’t budge, and he nodded to himself, satisfied with the snug but comfortable restraint. The dips where the cable pressed against Charles was just enough to get his pulse racing, but not tight enough to leave serious marks or be a risk to circulation on the younger man. 

Straightening, Max turned and walked back to his duffle bag, moving with an unhurried confidence. He unzipped another section of the bag and reached inside, his fingers brushing against the cold, smooth surface of the item he’d prepared for this session. 

When he pulled out his helmet, the blacked-out visor gleamed under the soft light of the room, and he cradled it in both hands.

He had a hard time not getting hard just thinking about his plans.

Turning back toward Charles, Max’s sharp eyes caught the subtle shift in the Monégasque’s posture. Still kneeling with his arms bound in front of him, Charles was doing his best to keep his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor, but Max noticed the moment Charles caught sight of the helmet out of the corner of his eye.

The change was immediate. 

Charles’ lips parted in a silent gasp as his body tensed with recognition. Max’s chest swelled with satisfaction at the reaction, though his expression remained neutral, calm. He walked slowly back toward Charles, the sound of his footsteps muted against the carpeted floor, drawing out the anticipation.

Stopping just a few feet away, Max tilted the helmet slightly, letting the light catch the smooth curves of its surface. “Look at me,” he commanded softly, voice low but firm.

Charles hesitated for only a moment before lifting his head, green eyes wide with uncertainty and something deeper—something Max knew all too well. The Monégasque’s gaze darted from Max’s face to the helmet and back again, lips pressing into a tight line like he was trying to suppress the small whimper that threatened to escape, not really succeeding.

“This session will be sensory focused,” he said quietly. “You’ve read about it in your research I’m sure.”

“Yes, Max,” Charles whispered.

Max crouched slightly to bring himself to Charles’ eye level, holding the helmet just inches from the younger man’s face. “Good girl,” he said, watching as Charles’ pupils dilated at the praise. Leaning closer, Max let the moment stretch, his eyes locked on Charles’. “I won’t have you thinking about anyone else praising you, inside your helmet or out,” he said, voice dropping to a near growl. “This is mine,” he lifted his helmet, “And so are you.”

The flush on Charles’ cheeks deepened, and he nodded almost imperceptibly, his bound hands clenching slightly in his lap.

“Keep your neck straight for me,” he said, lifting the helmet above Charles, holding onto the chin straps. 

Tilting his head up, Charles kept his neck firm and straight as Max worked his helmet down over the Ferrari driver’s head, tugging it firmly into place and doing the chin buckles. The visor was still open, and Max caught Charles’ eyes, strange flutters flipping in his stomach at the sight of the Monégasque in his Red Bull helmet. 

“On the bed,” Max ordered, leaving the visor open so Charles could see. 

He watched every movement Charles made as he stood, the tight binding on his arms making him shift and balance carefully. The Ferrari driver’s lean body moved with a controlled grace, even restrained, and the sight of him wearing Max’s helmet sent a bolt of pride straight through the Dutchman’s chest. 

His eyes followed Charles to the bed, taking in how the red rope complemented the skin of his forearms and the way the blue stripes of the helmet caught the light. It was intoxicating to see something so distinctly his own marking Charles as his.

Dutch flag marking its claim on the Monégasque’s body.

Charles climbed onto the bed slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight as he knelt in the center, his bound arms resting lightly on his lap. The soft hum of Max’s breathing filled the room as Charles turned his head slightly, the open visor allowing Max to see his green eyes shining with curiosity and a flicker of vulnerability.

“Good,” Max murmured. “Now, lay down. On your back. Arms above your head.”

Charles obeyed immediately, the tension in the room thickening as he shifted into position. He stretched out across the bed, his knees slightly bent to account for the lack of mobility in his bound arms. His breathing quickened just slightly as he raised his wrists above his head, framing Max’s helmet against the soft bedding. It was a tight fit, but Max made sure he left enough room for Charles’ arms to bend around the helmet with his bindings.

Stepping closer, Max’s eyes scanned the entire scene in front of him, committing every detail to memory. The neat knots showcasing Max’s precision, skill, and care, the contrast of the Red Bull helmet—his helmet—against the plain white of the bedding sent a thrill of satisfaction through him.

He’d always wanted to see the Monégasque in a Red Bull.

Tilting his head, Max adjusted the open visor slightly so that he could see more of Charles’ face. The tops of his flushed, squished cheeks were visible beneath the helmet, lips slightly parted as he gazed up at Max, anticipation clear in his expression. Max smirked, running his hand over the top of the helmet, a gesture both possessive and tender.

“You look so good like this,” Max said, voice softer now. 

He let his fingers trail down from the helmet to Charles’ collarbone, brushing lightly over the exposed skin. Charles shivered under his touch, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“Not Bryan, or anyone else will get to see you like this,” Max continued, tone leaving no room for doubt. “And I want you to remember that every time you put on a helmet. Every time you get in the car.”

“Yes, Max,” Charles whispered from beneath the helmet, voice slightly muffled but no less full of conviction. His bound hands shifted slightly above his head, the faintest pull on the rope sending a subtle ripple down his arms.

Max leaned forward, hands bracketing either side of Charles’ head as he loomed over him, checking in one last time before they got started. “Are you okay like this?” he asked.

“Yes, Max,” Charles replied once more. 

Max’s smirk deepened as he reached forward, fingers brushing the edge of the helmet’s visor. With one last look at the younger man's green eyes, he closed it, the soft click echoing in the room like a final seal.

The moment the visor was shut, Charles visibly tensed before letting out a soft exhale. He tilted his head side to side, testing the limits, likely confirming that Max had left no slivers of light, no gaps for him to peek through. The Monégasque was fully in the dark now, completely reliant on Max for every touch, every word, every sensation.

“Removing one of your senses will heighten the others,” he explained, tone dropping to a velvety murmur. “You’ll feel everything more intensely. Just try to relax for me.”

Charles nodded, the motion causing Max’s helmet to wobble slightly. A soft smile curled at Max’s lips, satisfaction swelling in his chest. Charles was so eager to please, so responsive, and Max was ready to push just a little further.

On the boundary sheet, Charles had marked “maybe” next to the items he'd brought, and Max was hungry to see if those maybes could turn into, “Yes.”

Getting the final items from his prepared bag, Max reached in and retrieved the bundle of wooden clothespins wrapped neatly with twine and the small leather riding crop he’d brought. Both items were simple, nothing too intimidating, but effective in their purpose. 

Max didn’t like a lot of overly fancy toys, tools, or pieces of oddly shaped furniture. If you needed those things to control your sub, you didn’t know what you were doing as a Dom, in his opinion. There was a time and place for special equipment, but an effective Dom should be able to make simple, ordinary objects serve a higher purpose, leaving the opportunity for a session to happen anywhere, using anything.

He carefully set them down at the foot of the bed, making sure the light reflected off the smooth, polished surface of the crop. Even if Charles couldn’t see them, Max wanted to enjoy the sight of his tools ready for use.

“Open your legs wider,” he instructed, voice sharp but calm.

Charles hesitated only a fraction of a second before complying, thighs parting farther to expose himself completely. The openness of the position made Max’s pulse quicken, but he maintained his composure, observing how the Monégasque laid there, naked and trusting.

Testing Charles’ sensitivity and resolve, Max started by trailing his fingertips along the inside of the Ferrari driver’s left leg, down by his ankle. The touch was feather-light, tracing the lines of his taut muscles, raising goosebumps on tanned skin. Max’s fingers danced higher, brushing over his hipbone before swirling in lazy circles around his chest.

Charles gasped softly, body arching slightly at the touch. 

Max’s fingertips grazed the sensitive skin just above his nipple, and the Monégasque squirmed, bound arms pulling faintly against the rope securing his wrists. Max smirked as he shifted to Charles’ other side, repeating the journey, fingers gliding down the right leg this time, slower, more delicate.

More goosebumps bloomed in the wake of Max’s touch, and Charles shivered beneath him, breaths coming quicker now. The gentle tug of his restraints made the muscles in his arms flex, and it was obvious how much Charles was holding himself together, how deeply he was trying to surrender.

“Just breathe, Charles,” Max murmured. His hand lingered on Charles’ thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze before sliding down to the bundle of clothespins at the foot of the bed. “I have a few items I'm going to use.”

Unwinding the twine holding the pins together, Max picked one up, running his thumb over its smooth wooden surface before pressing it gently against Charles’ skin, just below his hipbone. The Ferrari driver tensed slightly at the cool touch but didn’t move away.

“This is just a clothespin. I’m going to place some on you,” he explained, voice soothing. “Each one will have a light pinch at first, nothing unbearable, but enough to make you aware of where I’ve left my mark. If it’s too much, you’ll tell me. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Charles replied, voice muffled by the helmet but still clear.

Max took a deep breath at the use of his referenced Dom name from the rules, tongue running over his full bottom lip.

Leaning in closer, his free hand steadied Charles’ leg as he clipped the first clothespin into place on his abdomen. Charles gasped sharply and Max thumbed over his thigh to soothe the initial sting until it would dull into a warm ache. He waited, knowing Charles was ready for more when his head tilted slightly against the mattress, arms relaxing.

“Good girl,” Max praised, tone laced with pride as he moved to the next pin, this time attaching it to the sensitive skin of Charles’ inner thigh. Another gasp escaped the Monégasque’s lips, followed by a quiet whimper.

Max took his time, placing each pin carefully, creating a few rows of lines over Charles’ thighs and abdomen. With each one, he observed the subtle shifts in Charles, the way he arched into the sensation, the faint tremor in his legs as he adjusted to the pressure.

“You’re doing well,” Max said with a low purr as he picked up the riding crop. He traced the flat leather tip over Charles’ skin, teasing the edges of the clothespins without applying any pressure yet. “So beautiful, Charlie.”

Tapping one of the pins clipped to Charles’ inner thigh again, he watched the Monégasque’s reaction intently. Charles jolted at the pressure, a sharp yelp spilling from his lips before it melted into a soft whimper. Smirking, Max repeated the motion, testing Charles’ limits, before letting his fingers drift to the Ferrari driver’s soaked folds.

Charles gasped at the contact, body instinctively jerking as Max’s fingers slid through the slickness pooling between his thighs. A loud, unrestrained moan escaped him as he spread his legs even wider, offering Max full access. His breaths were quick and shallow, a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck.

“I think you can take a bit more,” Max said calmly, fingers circling slowly over Charles’ swollen heat.

“Yes, Max,” Charles replied, breathy yet eager, head turning to the side, Max’s helmet pressing into the mattress. 

But when Max suddenly withdrew his fingers, Charles let out a desperate whine, hips arching in search of the contact. Raising his hand, Max brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, moaning softly at the taste of Charles’ arousal. It was intoxicating, divine, and the Dutchman couldn’t get enough. 

He’d noticed earlier when the Ferrari driver undressed, with satisfaction, that Charles had meticulously shaved for him—a clean, enticing display that made Max’s blood run hot. This had been something that Charles was hesitant about, but Max only insisted that he try it once. If the Monégasque really didn't like it, he could keep himself groomed however he liked.

Max’s rules were about leaning on their shared trust. Charles had to trust him enough to at least try something new, but the Dutchman wouldn’t heartlessly force him into anything the Ferrari driver didn’t want to do or made him uncomfortable.

“Good girl,” Max murmured, savoring the flavor of him on his tongue. “I’ll have to reward you for this later.” Reaching for the remaining clothespins, Max stood off the bed, looking over Charles’ bound and trembling form. “I have a few more pins to place,” he said, voice low and steady.

Charles’ chest rose and fell rapidly as he braced himself, but Max knew nothing could prepare him for his next move. Carefully, Max leaned down and brushed his fingertips over Charles’ chest, teasing the soft buds of his nipples until they hardened under his touch. Charles squirmed beneath him, gasps turning into quiet whimpers as Max clipped a pin onto each nipple.

Charles arched off the bed slightly, the sting no doubt sharp but oh so delicious, bound arms pulling at their restraint above his head. 

“Ah—Max!” he cried out, head tilting back.

Sensory play was one of Max's favorites, and he couldn’t be more pleased with the Monégasque's reaction to it. There were a lot more items he wanted to try on the Ferrari driver, but this was enough for now. Humming approvingly, Max ran his hands down Charles’ sides, grounding him with a gentle touch before his eyes landed on the final, most sensitive placement. 

“One more,” he hummed, voice almost a whisper.

Sliding lower around the bed, Max reached between Charles’ legs, touch featherlight as he gently spread Charles’ folds, exposing the delicate bud at the center of his arousal. Charles gasped sharply, body tensing in apprehension, but he didn’t resist.

“This will sting, baby,” Max warned, tone soothing yet firm. “But you’ll handle it for me, won’t you?”

“Y–yes, Sir,” Charles whispered, voice trembling but filled with trust.

With the utmost care, Max positioned the final pin directly over Charles’ sensitive nerve center, closing it just enough to create a pinch without causing too much discomfort. Charles cried out, his hips instinctively bucking against the restraint of the clothespin.

“Beautiful,” Max said, voice heavy with praise, hands caressing Charles’ trembling thighs as he admired his handiwork. The younger’s skin was flushed from head to toe, pins trembling as Charles breathed. “You look absolutely stunning, Charlie. So perfect for me.”

Charles’ chest heaved under the weight of the sensations clearly overwhelming him, breaths uneven. “Fuck, Max,” he rasped through the helmet, voice shaky, hands twisting and fingers squeezing tightly. “Jaune—jaune. Yellow. I'm yellow.”  

Max’s expression immediately shifted to one of concern, the warmth in his gaze replaced by a calm, grounded seriousness. His hands stilled for a moment before they resumed, this time with a firmer, more deliberate touch, massaging Charles’ quivering thighs. 

“You're okay, Charlie,” he said softly, trying to sound reassuring. “Take some deep breaths for me. Do you want to stop?”  

“No,” Charles whispered, the helmet amplifying the tremor in his tone. “No. I just—fuck. I feel on fire everywhere.”  

“Deep breaths, baby,” Max soothed, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the inside of Charles’ trembling thigh beside a pin. His lips lingered against the warm, slightly damp skin, and he continued his slow touches, rubbing gentle circles over Charles’ hips. “I'm right here with you. Focus on me, okay?”  

Charles nodded, the edges of the helmet shifting slightly with the movement. His breathing was still uneven, but Max noticed the shift as it began to steady. The tension in Charles’ body eased little by little under Max’s care, the quiet hum of the room grounding them both.  

“Good,” he said, the weight of his concern still present but paired with a gentle smile. He brushed his lips along Charles’ inner thigh again, murmuring words of encouragement. “Just like that. You’re doing so well for me.”  

A few moments passed, and Charles exhaled deeply, body finally beginning to relax into the bed. 

“Color now, Charles,” Max asked, thumb brushing small circles over Charles’ hip bone.  

Charles inhaled deeply, the sound reverberating faintly from the helmet before he spoke again, voice stronger this time. “Green, Max.”  

Relief washed over Max, and his smile returned, a glint of pride in his eyes as he leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of Charles’ knee. “Good girl,” he murmured warmly. “That’s my brave girl. You’re safe with me.”  

Charles let out a soft, contented sound, body melting further into the mattress under Max’s praise. 

After giving Charles a few more moments to steady himself, Max reached for the riding crop again, its smooth leather cool in his hand. He twirled it lightly between his fingers as he leaned over the trembling Monégasque, savoring the way Charles’ chest rose and fell with every unsteady breath. 

Tracing the crop slowly up the center of Charles’ chest between the pins, Max let the tip linger just beneath the pin tightly gripping Charles’ right nipple. He tapped it lightly at first, watching Charles flinch, chest arching as he let out a startled yelp. 

Max smirked, utterly delighted by the sound, his own breath hitching slightly at how pliant Charles looked beneath him.  

Sliding the crop across to the other nipple, Max tapped the pin there with more force, watching it wobble and shift slightly while still holding its place. Charles gasped, legs parting as another whimper escaped, the sensitivity of his skin on full display.  

“Your breasts,” Max said, tone almost reverent as his eyes traced over Charles’ exposed form. “They’re perfect, you know. So soft and delicate. It’s a shame you hide them all the time.”  

Charles whimpered again, his hips bucking slightly, as Max pressed the crop against the pin, adding just enough pressure to make him squirm. The Dutchman sighed deeply, a mixture of satisfaction and awe as he took in the sight before him. Charles was exquisite, far surpassing even Max’s most vivid imaginings of this moment. The way his flushed skin glistened, his body bound and adorned with the delicate pins, was nothing short of art.  

Ferrari tried their best to whore Charles out on their socials, but the thought only made Max smirk. 

If only they knew.

“Are you going to moan like this the next time Bryan calls you a ‘good boy’?” Max asked, voice low, dark, teasing. He dragged the crop lower, the leather teasing over Charles’ taut stomach before stopping just above the pin on his clit. “Are you going to moan like a slut for him too?”  

“No, Max,” Charles gasped breathy, panicked, desperate. He jerked violently when Max tapped the crop lightly against the pin resting directly on his swollen bud, the pressure making Charles cry out. “Never.”  

Max bit his lip, free hand running up Charles’ trembling thigh, thumb pressing soothingly into the muscle. “Because you only moan like this for me, don’t you?”  

“Yes, Max,” Charles sobbed, body trembling as Max continued to trace the crop across his sensitive skin.

Taking his time, Max tapped every pin on Charles, savoring the soft sounds and flush spreading on the Monégasque. “One more hard one, and then you can have your reward,” Max said, calm yet commanding.  

Sitting back on his heels, Max lined up the riding crop with the clothespin carefully positioned over Charles’ nerve center, taking care to aim perfectly. With a quick slap, Max brought the crop down hard over the pin. The sharp snap echoed through the quiet room as the pin wobbled violently under the impact before finally stilling.  

Charles’ back arched uncontrollably off the bed as a wail ripped from his throat, raw and guttural. His bound arms instinctively pulled down, trembling fingers curling against his stomach trying to shield himself from further stimulation, desperate whimpers coming from under the helmet. A bright red flush spread down his neck, chest rising and falling in jagged, uneven gasps, arms bumping into all the pins still across his abdomen.  

“Arms above your head, Charles,” Max said sternly. “You get one more for moving.”

A desperate whine escaped Charles’ lips, and for a moment, Max thought he might resist, hands shaking over his stomach. But slowly, painfully, the Monégasque obeyed, trembling hands moving back above his head, wrists crossing as they rested on the pillow. 

His entire body shook with aftershocks, legs quivering uncontrollably, toes curling against the sheets. 

“Last one. Hold position, Charles.” Bringing the crop back down, Max connected with the pin again, Charles wailing once more but kept his arms above his head. Max leaned forward, voice softening as he brushed his fingers over Charles’ thighs in soothing circles. “Easy now. Just breathe, baby. You’re done with that part,” he murmured, touch hoping to ground Charles as he slowly came back down.  

Reaching for the pin over Charles’ swollen, abused bud, Max held it still and looked directly into the blacked out visor of the helmet, proverbially trying to meet Charles' eyes. “I’m going to take this off now,” he said softly, giving the younger man time to process his words.  

Charles whimpered as Max gently released the pin, the sudden relief jerking his legs lightly. His thighs tried to clamp shut after a moment, but Max’s steady hands coaxed them back apart as he worked to remove the remaining pins. 

One by one, the pins were carefully unfastened, leaving light red marks in their wake. Soothing over each one with his lips, Max worked slowly, admiring his markings on the Monégasque’s skin.

By the time he reached Charles’ chest, the Monégasque had calmed slightly, though his breathing was still labored. Max paused, letting his fingers brush over Charles’ flushed skin, tracing the marks the pins had left behind.  

“We’ll do more training with these,” he said, tone filled with quiet authority as he removed the final two pins from Charles’ chest, sucking lightly on the taut peaks to soothe them. “And work on your tolerance. You’ll be able to take more next time.”  

Charles nodded weakly, body limp against the bed, looking completely spent. He mumbled something unintelligible, voice muffled by the helmet, and Max couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.  

He wasn't finished with the Monégasque just yet.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of Charles’ neck, breath warm against the sensitive skin. The Monégasque shivered under his touch, a quiet whimper escaping him through the visor. 

“Too tired for your reward, Charlie?” Max murmured, voice like silk. “I had something special planned for you.”  

Charles’ body reacted before his voice did, the helmet masking most of his expression, but his fingers gave him away—tightly gripped together, flexing slightly in anticipation. He nodded, just a small, eager movement, doing his best to keep still despite the tremors wracking his frame.  

“Good,” Max said softly, lips curving into an appreciative smile as he began his slow descent.  

Trailing soft, lingering kisses along his chest, down to the insides of Charles’ thighs, Max worked his way lower, savoring the way Charles’ body reacted to every touch. A shiver here, a gasp there—every inch of the Ferrari driver was so responsive, so alive beneath him. 

“Can you lift your hips for me?” he asked, grabbing a thin pillow from the head of the bed. Max slid it under the smaller man’s hips, folding it to create just enough lift for his neck not to be at an awkward angle while he devoured the meal in front of him. 

By the time Max settled himself between Charles’ legs, the Monégasque was a quivering mess, thighs twitching as Max spread them apart further, giving himself an unobstructed view.  

It was a sight to behold. 

The evidence of Charles’ arousal was impossible to miss, folds glistening in the low light of the room, flushed a pretty pink while his apex was an angry red from the earlier pressure of the pin. Max's breath caught, though his calm exterior betrayed nothing. He leaned in slowly, letting his warm exhale ghost over Charles’ most sensitive area, a light tease to let him know exactly what was coming.  

And the response was not at all what he was expecting. 

Charles gasped loudly, body jerking violently as he twisted, trying to close his legs despite Max’s shoulders blocking the motion. His movements were wild, almost frantic, and Max froze, brow furrowing as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, holding Charles’ squirming legs.  

“Something wrong, Charles?” he asked, voice steady but tinged with concern. He placed firm hands on Charles’ hips, trying to ground him. “You did such a good job trimming here; I want to give you the proper praise.”  

The Monégasque shook his head, the Red Bull helmet atop it shaking side to side in a blur of motion. His breath was ragged, voice breaking as he rasped, “Non.” He tried harder to close his legs, desperation lacing his movements without the use of his arms and Max fought to hold him still.  

Max’s frown deepened, confusion mounting. Did he mean red?

This wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for—far from it. Shifting his weight slightly, he kept his hands steady on Charles’ hips, applying just enough pressure to keep him still. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said, tone patient. “Use your words, Charles. I don’t know what’s wrong.”  

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Charles’ heavy breathing, chest rising and falling, the D-ring of his collar clinking softly. Finally, his voice broke the silence, small and trembling from the helmet. 

“I've never . . . No one . . . They—you don't have to.”  

Max’s eyebrows shot up, his confusion morphing into something softer, more understanding as he stayed still. No one had . . . ? He blinked, momentarily floored by the response. 

Of all the things he thought Charles might say, this wasn’t one of them.  

“Charles,” Max whispered, shifting closer, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into Charles’ hips. “Has no one gone down on you before?” 

Charles’ entire body seemed to tense, and Max felt the tremor in his legs beneath his hands. The Monégasque remained stubbornly firm, avoiding any attempt to let Max in, shaking his head lightly to indicate no.

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers moving to trail up and down Charles’ sides. “That's okay, Charlie. I don't have to if you don’t want me to.” Charles finally turned his helmeted head toward Max, body still unsteady. Reaching up, Max carefully lifted the visor, catching Charles’ teary green eyes and smiled softly. “But I would like to though. Will you let me make you feel good, mijn liefje? I want to make you feel good.” 

The Monégasque stayed silent, eyes on him and Max leaned closer, placing a kiss just above Charles’ Venus mound, feather-light, a gesture of reassurance rather than lust. “Let me show you how good I can make you feel. You can tell me to stop at any time.”  

Charles stared at him, wide-eyed and vulnerable, and Max waited, patient as ever. When the still bound man finally gave the faintest nod, Max knew he'd been entrusted with something precious. 

He would treat it with care.

“Come on, lie back and just relax,” Max said, voice low and coaxing. “You're going to love how this feels, I promise.” Charles let out a shaky breath, unfurling his legs, muscles slowly unwinding under Max’s steady hands. “Raise your head for me,” Max instructed, undoing the chin buckles and gently cradling the sides of his helmet. 

The Ferrari driver obeyed without hesitation, and Max carefully lifted it off, setting it down on the side of the bed. Freed from its confines, Charles inhaled deeply. Sweat clung to his hairline, a few damp curls sticking to his forehead, and Max brushed them back with care, fingers lingering, sweeping across Charles’ temple, down to his jaw, touch light but firm.

“I want you to watch me,” Max said, voice a quiet command.

Charles swallowed, lips parting slightly, pupils blown wide in the dim light. There was something beautifully defenseless about him in this moment—laid out beneath Max, arms still loosely bound above his head, body open, waiting.

Sliding further down the bed, Max positioned himself between Charles’ trembling thighs again, lifting him back into position on the pillow. The evidence of Charles’ arousal glistened in the low light, a flush high on his cheeks, chest rising with quickened breaths.

He didn’t look away, just like Max instructed.

Not when Max pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, not when he tentatively kissed the place where his leg met his hip, not when the Dutchman flicked his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, and not when his entire body jolted in response.

Charles gasped, back arching slightly. “Merde,” he whispered, voice breathless, hands flexing where they were still bound.

Max smirked against his skin, already eager to see just how wrecked he could make him.

Working slowly, he flattened his tongue against Charles’ core, dragging it upward in a long, smooth stroke. The Ferrari driver twitched beneath him, a sharp gasp escaping his lips, head falling back against his arms, unable to keep up the angle. Encouraged, Max explored different rhythms—soft flicks, teasing circles, slow, drawn-out strokes that left Charles squirming. He listened carefully to each reaction, taking note of the patterns that made Charles tremble, the ones that made him moan louder, the ones that had his fingers flexing in their binds.

There were plenty of techniques to this kind of thing—tricks passed around in whispered conversations, silly mnemonics like tracing the alphabet or following the beat of a song. But Max never relied on those. He preferred instinct, letting his own intuition and his sub's reactions guide him.

It didn’t take long to find what worked best. 

A steady back-and-forth motion with a firm, sharp flick at the end had Charles whining, thighs trembling around Max’s shoulders. He’d also liked a bit of light suction thrown in, but this seemed to be his favorite of the patterns Max tried. The Ferrari driver gasped each time Max repeated the movement, legs jerking like a plucked string, hips canting forward ever so slightly, body chasing the sensation.

Max let him, let him grind against his tongue, let him drown in the pleasure as he worked him open with slow strokes. Sensing Charles was teetering right on the edge, he pressed a single finger inside, sinking in with ease, curving up to put pressure on that elusive horseshoe shaped heaven.

“Putain—!” Charles choked out, back arching clean off the mattress.

Max groaned at the feeling of Charles squeezing around him, adding a second finger to the mix as he curled them inside, keeping that pressure on the perfect spot.

"That's it, baby," he murmured against Charles' slick skin, the vibrations sending another shudder through him. "I think someone is starting to like this."

Charles’ thighs tensed, his body wound tight, and Max could tell he wasn’t far now. Smirking, he pressed his tongue harder against him, determined to pull him apart completely, face a complete mess. Max had him now—completely unraveling beneath him, caught in a frenzy of overwhelming pleasure. The choked, desperate noises spilling from Charles’ lips only spurred him on.

“Can I come? C–can I come?” Charles babbled, voice wrecked, barely coherent, head tossing back and forth.

Max didn’t bother to pull away to answer, too focused on keeping his pace steady, fingers curling just right inside of him, dragging over the inside portion of his clit. He felt Charles already tightening, already teetering on the edge, and he wasn't entirely convinced the Monégasque hadn’t started falling already.

Charles’ body arched, bound arms pulling helplessly against the mattress, his thighs tensing hard around Max’s shoulders. A sharp, keening cry tore from his throat, back bowing off the bed as his orgasm crashed over him.

But Max wasn’t finished.

He used his free hand to press Charles’ trembling leg back down onto the mattress, keeping him spread wide, keeping him open. His tongue never faltered, fingers never slowed, even as Charles writhed beneath him, a garbled mix of curses and moans tumbling from his lips.

Switching to rhythmic suction, it was impossible for Max to tell when one orgasm ended and the next began—Charles caught deep in it, lost in a relentless tide of sensation, every crest pulling him higher, every valley leaving him shaking, only to be lifted again. Max growled against his skin, working his hand more aggressively now, stroking deep, pressing firm with three fingers, determined to pull every last bit of pleasure from him. 

Charles jolted with a strangled gasp, taut before he broke apart again, this time with a gush of liquid soaking Max’s hand and chin, spurts of more forced out by every plunge of Max's fingers. Continuing, Max worked his hand in and out furiously, drenching his palm and forearm as more and more poured out of the undone driver, pinky starting to cramp, breathing hard himself.

“Fuck, Charles,” Max groaned, grinning against his swollen cunt, impressed with how many orgasms the Monégasque had given him, hand still working inside. “Such a messy girl.” 

He closed his mouth around Charles’ abused bundle of nerves, sucking deeply before a sound made him pause. 

“St–stop,” Charles croaked, and Max's hand froze immediately. “Je ne peux pas—rouge. Rouge . . .”

Max pulled back as the Monégasque sobbed openly, body spent, muscles twitching with aftershocks. His chest heaved, tear-streaked cheeks flushed a deep crimson, lips parted in dazed, exhausted bliss. He was trembling, skin damp with sweat and lingering sensitivity, eyes half closed.

Removing his fingers from inside him, the Dutchman pressed soothing kisses along Charles’ trembling thighs, hands caressing the heated skin, grounding him, before shifting up onto his elbows.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice thick with pride. “You took everything so beautifully.”

Moving to grab a soft towel from the nightstand, Max wiped his face first before carefully cleaning between Charles’ legs, moving with slow, gentle motions. Charles barely reacted, eyes fluttering open but unfocused, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath, deep under.

“Can you speak, Charlie?” Max asked, voice soothing as he worked. “Can you hear me?”

Charles made a small noise, barely there, obviously still floating somewhere between reality and the haze of pleasure. Max smiled softly, setting the towel aside before gently untying the bindings around Charles’ wrists and arms slowly. He massaged them carefully, rubbing small circles into the reddened skin where Charles pulled the knots tight, deep red bruises already starting.

Letting out a quiet sigh, his limbs were slack as Max maneuvered him under the covers, moving them away from the wet spot on the bed. Taking off his shirt before sliding in beside him, Max pulled him close, tucking Charles against his bare chest, and ran his fingers through damp curls, pressing a soft kiss to the younger man’s temple.

“You’re safe,” Max whispered. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.” Charles nuzzled closer, breath evening out, a soft, contented hum slipping past his lips. Max continued stroking his back, grounding him, keeping him warm and secure in his arms. “You with me, Charles?” he asked after a moment, brushing his knuckles against the Ferrari driver’s cheek.

Charles blinked slowly, eyes dazed but warm. “Mmmh,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Max.”

“That’s right,” he chuckled, pressing another kiss to Charles’ sweaty forehead. “I’m right here. Sleep, schatje . You’ve earned it.”

Charles sighed again, completely pliant in Max’s embrace. “We can do that again, yes?”

Chuckling, jostling the Monégasque in his arms, Max whispered. “Yes, we can do that again.”

Within minutes, he was asleep, breath soft and steady against Max’s skin. Max held him close, his own body relaxing as he listened to Charles drift off, safe and sound in his arms.

He was so hard it hurt, but that could wait until Charles was deep asleep, able to slip into the bathroom for some relief. This was going to be an uncomfortable wait.

Chapter Text

A soft chime rang through the quiet boutique as Max stepped inside, the scent of polished leather and delicate metals greeting him. The store was small but elegant, tucked away from the usual tourist foot traffic. 

He would need that today, the city a buzz with spectators and guests all getting ready for the Monaco GP this weekend, prying eyes everywhere. Most of the traffic was relegated to the regular areas and track-side attractions thankfully, and Max had managed to travel to this secluded edge of town without much incident, taking his Audi to blend in. 

This was a place for those who knew exactly what they were looking for—those who valued discretion.

A woman with dark, graying hair looked up from the counter, recognition sparking in her eyes as she smiled. “Monsieur Verstappen,” she greeted warmly. “Welcome back. Your private viewing room is ready as you requested.”

“Thank you,” Max said with a polite nod, following her past the main showroom, where various handcrafted accessories were displayed under glass cases.

He’d always preferred this place for its quality and exclusivity. The owners specialized in custom pieces, and the clientele was carefully curated—discerning individuals who valued craftsmanship and confidentiality.

As he stepped into the private viewing area, a few sleek, velvet-lined trays were already waiting for him on the table, displaying a selection of high-end collars.

He exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the options.

He was on a mission: picking out a custom collar that would be fitting for the “Prince of Monaco” or as he knew better, “Princess.”  The thought brought a smile to his face as he browsed.

He needed something that suited Charles perfectly.

Fingers trailing over the offerings—some were too delicate, others too flashy or cumbersome. Charles wouldn’t like anything too ostentatious, but it still had to be special. Something he could wear every day without drawing unwanted attention, yet still significant enough that both of them would know its true meaning.

He picked up one of the pieces—a sleek gold twisted band with a small, subtle white gold clasp in the front. Simple. Elegant. Sturdy. But not enough.

Charles deserved something more personal.

The Monégasque had a certain taste in jewelry with his many APM ads and sponsorships, all of which Max reviewed in great detail before this outing.

Setting the collar aside, the Dutchman examined a few others in detail before turning to the shopkeeper, who'd been watching him with a knowing smile. “I need something custom. White gold, maybe, or platinum—something strong but refined. It needs to be discreet enough for daily wear, but with a bit of . . . sparkle.”

The woman nodded. “I think I have just the thing.”

She disappeared into the back, leaving Max alone with his thoughts.

His fingers tapped absently against the table as he imagined the moment he would clasp it around Charles’ neck. The way the Monégasque would tilt his head to the side, allowing Max to fasten it in an official collaring ceremony. The way his fingers would brush against the cool metal throughout the day, a constant reminder of their commitment.

Max wasn’t just shopping for an accessory. He was choosing a promise.

That thought suddenly made him a bit nervous. He wasn’t sure if he was completely ready to collar Charles fully, but he wanted to be prepared when the right moment came. A few minutes later, the shopkeeper returned, carrying a slim, dark velvet box. She set it on the table and flipped open the lid.

Max’s breath hitched.

The collar was exactly what he had envisioned.

A slim linked chain of polished platinum, understated but undeniably luxurious. Instead of a traditional buckle or a hex-screw lock in the back, the front featured a delicate, integrated carabiner-like clasp—seamless, except for three small engraved dials that would act as a combination locking mechanism. The other side of the clasp had a series of variously sized diamonds with a starburst detail at its center. A quiet nod to Charles’ home, his love for the mediterranean night sky.

“This one is also engravable,” the shopkeeper said and pointed to just beneath the clasp, on the inside of the metal. There was just enough room for a small inscription that would lay concealed against Charles’ neck.

It was perfect.

Max traced his thumb over the space for an engraving, already picturing Charles’ reaction to what he would put there. The slight flush to his cheeks, the way his fingers would brush over the words again and again.

Yes. This was the one.

“I’ll take it,” Max said, voice steady. 

“Would you like to add an engraving?”

Max ran his thumb over the smooth metal again. “I would. And I need it delivered before Sunday.”

_____

Charles let out a breathless laugh, his chest still heaving from the sheer exhilaration of the day. His limbs felt like they were buzzing, an electric current running through his veins, a mix of adrenaline and the intoxicating presence of Max beneath him.

It had been a monumental effort just to make it back to his room, a trail of knocked over things and clothing leading from the front door to his bed, Leo still with his dog sitter. 

The sheets smelled like the sea air drifting through the open balcony doors, mingling with Max’s cologne, the scent as familiar as the man himself. The Dutchman’s hands were firm on his low back, fingertips pressing into his overheated skin as Charles straddled him.

Charles rolled his hips again, a slow, teasing movement, savoring the way Max groaned beneath him, head tipping back against the pillow. God, he was beautiful like this, all flushed and wild, blue eyes dark with something raw.

They'd discussed this, planned everything to the last detail in order to make this work with the chaotic weekend.

Max’s fingers slid up into Charles’ damp, freshly showered curls, gripping gently but firmly enough to tilt his head back, breaking their kiss. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough around the edges.

Charles had never been more sure of anything in his life.

“I’m sure,” he murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the Dutchman's lips, softer this time, less frantic than before when Max knocked on his door. “I want to feel you. Just you, no condom.”

A quiet curse slipped from the blond’s lips, and Charles smiled, tilting his head to nip at Max’s stubbled jawline, hands roaming down Max’s bare chest, nails scraping lightly over hard muscle. The chaos of the day—champagne showers, screaming tifosi, the weight of the top step trophy in his hands—had all led to this. To Max, here in his bed, body warm and solid beneath him.

Charles had won Monaco today. His second win at his home race, but this felt like a victory all its own.

He was loving this, a rare moment where Max let him take the lead, exploring freely with no rules or commands. The Dutchman watched him though, blue eyes laser focused on him as Charles descended further, lips lazily exploring the expanse of Max's stomach, grazing the thin patch of hair below his navel. 

Ever since he saw the Red Bull interview of Max from a few years ago, where the Dutchman struggled threading the mic down the front of his shirt, pulling it up over his belly button, happy trail on full display, Charles had wanted to get up close and personal with it.

The D-ring on his play collar clinked softly against the metal of Max's belt and Charles rose up on his elbows to loosen it. 

Fuck, why did Max always have to wear such insanely tight jeans?

The Monégasque struggled, only for a moment, to undo the belt, before moving quickly to the zipper, nervously pulling it down. Max had on a thin pair of black Polo Ralph Lauren boxer briefs that did little to hide his impressive size.

Charles swallowed, fingers hesitating just for a moment as he took in the sight. Max was already thick and straining against the fabric, the outline of him pressing obscenely against the soft cotton. His stomach fluttered, a thrill running down his spine at the sheer size of him, a mix of anticipation and something almost reverent.

Above him, Max remained silent, watching with hooded eyes, chest rising and falling steadily, but Charles could see the tension in his arms where they rested on the bed. He was holding himself back, letting Charles explore at his own pace, and that only made the moment feel more special.

Steeling himself, Charles hooked his fingers into the waistband of Max’s jeans and briefs, tugging them down just enough to free him, already completely naked himself. The weight of Max’s cock, thick and flushed a deep, needy red, settled against his lower stomach, and Charles exhaled sharply. 

Suspicion confirmed, the Dutchman was much larger than Pierre.

Mon Dieu.

Charles’ fingers traced up the length of him tentatively, brushing over the prominent vein along the underside, feeling the heat of him pulse beneath his touch. Max twitched under the attention, a barely-there grunt slipping from his lips, and Charles smiled, loving the reaction he was getting, no matter how small.

They'd been having sessions for a few months now, and every time, Charles still felt like a fish out of water or a baby deer walking on newborn legs. 

Would that feeling ever go away? He’d thought maybe it would now that they were more serious, but the feeling remained.

"Fuck," Max muttered, voice rough, hands flexing against the sheets, leaning up on his elbows. "You’re teasing me, Charlie."

Pausing his exploring fingers, he hadn't realized he was still just tracing him. Charles flicked his gaze up, meeting Max’s eyes as he flattened his tongue against the head, licking a slow stripe along the sensitive underside. He felt Max’s whole body tense beneath him, a sharp breath sucked in through his teeth, and Charles preened at the effect he was having.

He wanted to ruin Max like he'd done to him in Imola.

That was amazing, and Charles didn’t even know it was possible to come that much, completely lost in the feeling of Max's mouth around him.

Wrapping his fingers around the base, pulling down the foreskin, Charles tried to focus and pressed a chaste kiss to the tip before taking him into his mouth, slow and steady, tongue swirling over the sensitive ridge. He'd done this a few times with his Frenchman best friend, but it had still been a few years since his last real practice—excluding practicing on a few of his toys of course. 

Max cursed again, hips jerking slightly, and Charles hollowed his cheeks, sucking gently. The taste wasn't bad, really just clean skin mixed with a little bit of salt. Not at all as bad as cold silicone with a soapy aftertaste.

“Fuck,” Max groaned, head tipping back against the pillow, control visibly slipping. "You're so good for me, baby."

The praise sent warmth straight to Charles’ core, and he hummed around Max’s length, taking him deeper, eager to hear more.

He could handle most of it, Max not obscene with his size like some of the toys he saw in the adult store, but the last forth or so he couldn't quite manage. Using his hand for the rest, Charles started a steady pace.

The Dutchman groaned, followed by a line of Dutch, before his large fingers came up to caress Charles’ jaw, hands bracketing his face lightly. Charles paused, letting his eyes flutter closed when Max raised up off the bed beneath him, holding his jaw open while he dragged himself in and out of the Monégasque’s mouth.

Doing his best to breathe through his nose, Charles relaxed as much as possible listening to the unsteady sounds of Max's breathing. The speed increased, tears pooling in the corner of his eyes until Max yanked him back by the hair, collar clinking softly against his neck. The burn on his scalp was delicious, a soft whimper escaping him, drool still connecting his mouth to the head of Max's cock.

“On your back,” he said darkly.

Charles barely had a moment to catch his breath before Max was maneuvering him onto his bed, the shift making his head spin. The roughness in Max’s voice sent a tantalizing shiver down his spine, heat pooling deep in his belly. He licked his swollen lips, still tasting the salt of Max on his tongue, and let himself be moved, pliant beneath the Dutchman’s touch as he spread his legs.

Max loomed over him now, eyes dark with desire as he took in Charles’ flushed skin, the glistening wetness at the corners of his lips, the way he was already squirming in anticipation. His fingers ghosted down Charles’ chest, brushing lightly over his ribs before tracing a slow, agonizing path lower.

“Much better,” Max murmured, hand splaying across Charles’ stomach, fingers pressing just enough to make him feel caged in. “All spread out for me.”

Charles whined softly, arching into the touch, desperate for more. He'd practically begged Max to fuck him on several occasions, and he was ready to lose it if Max made him wait any longer. Hands still trembling slightly from the intensity of Max's manhandling, Charles reached up, brushing over Max’s chest and shoulders, looping his arms loosely around the Red Bull driver's neck.

Max hummed in approval before dipping his head, capturing Charles’ lips in a bruising kiss, weight pressing him firmly into the mattress. Charles’ mind went hazy, drowning in the taste of him, the scent of sweat and lingering cologne filling his senses.

If this man didn’t hurry the fuck up—

Without warning, Max’s hand moved lower, slipping between Charles’ legs, fingers teasing at his dripping folds. Charles gasped into the kiss, hips jolting up, but Max held him down easily, chuckling against his lips.

“So eager,” he mused, breath warm against Charles’ skin. “Do you want me, Charlie?” he asked, lips trailing down his neck, behind the Monégasque's ear.

“Yes,” Charles exhaled, the word almost desperate. “Please, Max.”

Max’s fingers pressed in deeper, teasing at his entrance but not pushing inside, other hand coming up to rest against Charles’ throat, thumb ghosting over his pulse above his collar. The weight of it, the silent promise behind the touch, made Charles dizzy.

“I want to hear you beg for it.”

Charles was burning. Every nerve in his body was alight, thighs trembling as he arched up into Max, desperate for more. His fingers dug into Max's biceps, play collar snug around his throat, the metal D-ring cool against his overheated skin. Every brush of Max’s lips, every teasing press of his thighs sent him down a spiral.

“Maaaaaax," he whined. "If you don't fuck me right now—” Charles’ words died when pressure was applied on his throat.

Max tsked softly, humming, “I guess you want to stay just like this tonight,” withdrawing his fingers.

“Non! Please, Max,” he whispered, rolling his hips up, desperate for friction. “I–I want it.”

Max’s grip on his throat tightened just enough to make Charles shudder, the sensation sending a wave of pleasure straight through him. “You can do better than that, baby,” Max murmured, lips brushing against Charles’ ear, pulling it between his teeth, making him tremble. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

Cheeks burning, the words stuck in his throat. 

He whined softly, frustration bubbling up as he squirmed beneath Max’s weight. He tried to roll his hips up, desperate to have any part of Max inside him, but Max just pinned him down harder. With careful slowness, he dragged his fingers back through Charles’ heat, parting his swollen lips just enough to make him gasp, but still not giving him what he needed, slow circles on his clit.

“Max—”

“Use your words.”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, head tipping back into the pillows. He was drowning in sensation, in Max’s voice, in the weight of his body pressing him down. He knew exactly what Max was doing—pushing him to the edge, making him desperate, making him surrender completely.

Like he wasn’t completely Max's already.

“I want you inside me,” Charles finally gasped, voice shaking. “I want to feel you stretch me open. I want you to take me, please, Max—”

A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of Max’s lips. “That’s my good girl.”

Charles barely had time to breathe before Max was shifting between his legs, the thick, hot length of him pressing against his entrance. The anticipation alone had Charles shaking, whole body thrumming with need.

Merde this was really happening.

Max didn’t push in right away, the bastard. Instead, he teased, dragging himself through Charles’ wetness, coating himself in Charles’ arousal. The slow, torturous motion had Charles whining, his fingers flexing against the sheets above him, hands falling off Max's back.

“Max,” he whimpered. “Please—”

“Shhh,” the Dutchman soothed, pressing a kiss to his chin.

And then, finally, Max pushed in.

The stretch was overwhelming, deep and unrelenting, so much more than the Dutchman's fingers. Charles’ mouth fell open in a silent cry, back arching as Max sank into him, inch by inch. The burn gave way to a bone-deep pleasure, the sensation unlike anything else, unlike fingers or toys—this was Max, stretching him open, claiming him completely.

“You’re so wet,” Max murmured against his neck, continuing with unbearable slowness. “Fuck,” Max groaned, his fingers digging into Charles’ hips, holding him still as he bottomed out, legs spayed wide around Max’s hips. “You’re so tight, baby.”

Charles could only whimper, the fullness stealing every thought from his mind. It had been so long since he'd had actual sex, he'd forgotten how overwhelming it could be. Or maybe it was just because he was with Max.

Max didn’t move right away, giving him time to adjust, lips tracing soothing kisses over Charles’ collarbone. “Breathe for me,” he murmured. “Relax.”

Charles hadn't even realized he was holding his breath until Max said that, and he did as he was told, taking slow, deep breaths, tense legs gradually melting into the sensation.

“That’s it,” Max praised. “Nice and full.”

The words sent a shiver straight through Charles’ spine, walls fluttering around Max in response, lazy smile on his lips.

With a low groan, Max pulled back slowly before thrusting in again, setting a deep, measured rhythm. Charles’ eyes almost rolled back, body completely lost to the pleasure, to the feeling of Max dragging against every nerve ending inside him.

It was slow, patient, savoring the moment of them finally being together like this after months of Charles dreaming about it.

Max shifted one of his hands over Charles’ open palm, lacing their fingers together while pressing his arm down into the mattress. Sealing their lips together, Charles’ mouth barely cooperated, devolving into just panting and moaning into each other's open mouths. 

Each thrust sent him spiraling higher, Max’s pace unrelenting but controlled, calculated to drive Charles mad. Every roll of Max’s hips pressed against that devastating spot inside him, the pleasure coiling tight in his stomach, threatening to snap, but not nearly enough.

“Max—” Charles pleaded, head thrashing against the pillows. “Please—Max—fuck, more—”

“You'll take what I give you,” Max murmured, voice dark with promise.

Raising up over him, higher onto his knees, Max brought Charles’ legs up over his shoulders, picking up the pace. Sweat beaded over his pale skin, a trail running down his flexing neck, and Charles wanted to lick it off, drowning in the musky scent of his Dom.

Max was relentless now, driving into him with deep, measured thrusts that stole the breath straight from Charles’ lungs. His fingers curled into the sheets, helpless against the overwhelming ripples through his body and Max dragged in and out of him, tits bouncing every time their bodies connected.

Coming back down, adjusting Charles’ legs back around his hips, the bed rocked beneath them, Max’s weight braced above him with a hand on either side of his shoulders, every thrust pushing Charles further into the mattress, stroking firmly. His thighs trembled, body taut like a bowstring, pleasure coiling dangerously tight inside him.

This was so different from what he was expecting. 

He'd expected Max to tie him down, use some fancy new toys or even blindfold him, taking him from behind. This intense, deep connection that was happening right now caught Charles completely off guard, staring up at blue eyes locked on his.

He couldn't tell what he liked more if he was honest.

This wasn’t just some game of dominance, some carefully structured scene with rules and punishments. This was raw, unfiltered need—Max taking him apart, unraveling every defense, every expectation.

“Move with me,” he ordered and Charles wasn't sure he followed it.

Gasping, he blinked up at Max through pleasure-glazed eyes. The Dutchman was watching him closely, expression something Charles couldn’t quite decipher—possessive, adoring, completely focused. Like he was committing every moment, every sound, every shiver to memory.

And that was what made this different.

Max wasn’t just fucking him—he was with him. This wasn’t about control, not entirely. It was about them.

“Put your legs around me.”

Forcing his limbs to comply this time, a moan ripped from Charles’ throat as Max shifted him, angling deeper, the new position dragging against that devastating spot inside him. Charles’ ankles locked against the Dutchman's low back, and his chest heaved, pleasure so intense it was almost unbearable.

“Max—” he sobbed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers tangled in the sheets.

“Look at me,” Max ordered, voice rough, pulling on the front of his collar, index finger looped through the D-ring. Charles forced his eyes open, gaze locking with Max’s. “You feel this?” Max cooed, slowing his thrusts, making every movement press himself as deep as possible, their hips melded into one. “Perfect for me. So pretty wrapped around my cock. Squeezing me.”

Charles shattered.

The praise sent Charles spiraling, his whole body tightening as his orgasm crashed over him, white-hot and all-consuming. His legs stayed locked around Max’s waist, mouth falling open in a silent scream as he came, walls pulsing around Max in desperate waves.

Max didn’t stop, fucking him through it, dragging out every last tremor until Charles was nothing more than a trembling, overstimulated mess beneath him, tears soaking the pillow. He pulled back, putting his hands on the underside of Charles’ knees and pressed them to the Monégasque chest, chasing his own release, eyes locked on where they were connected.

The sloppy sound of Max’s cock entering him over and over should’ve made him cringe, but Charles just moaned, slipping into a state of overstimulation wrapped in the cloud of the best fucking sex he’d ever had. 

Starting to float, Charles breathed deep when Max slowed, apparently drawing out the moment just a bit longer. Adjusting to pull Charles’ ankles over his shoulders again, Max rocked smoothly, long, full strokes dragging in and out, teeth nibbling on the Monégasque’ ankle. 

He was unsure how long Max continued like that, just along for the ride, mouth open, eyes closed, hands limp against the sheets. Max groaned after a few moments, his rhythm stuttering, fingers digging into Charles’ hips as he buried himself deep, spilling inside him with a ragged moan. Forcing his eyes open, Charles wanted to burn that image into his brain, Max above him, tousled blond hair sweaty, biceps flexing, neck taut.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, both panting, lost in the haze of pleasure.

Then Max dipped down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Charles’ lips, hands suddenly gentle as they traced soothing patterns over his flushed skin, bruises on his legs and hips blooming over tanned skin.

Charles hoped they stayed for a long time, letting out a shaky breath, heart hammering in his chest.

Yeah.

That was different.

The mid-day light filtered softly through the sheer curtains, painting the bedroom in golden hues. The salty scent of the sea drifted in through the open balcony doors, carried by the gentle Monaco breeze. The sound of water lapping against the harbor and the occasional cry of seagulls filled the quiet, a stark contrast to the chaotic celebrations of the night before.

Charles sighed, stretching slightly beneath the warmth draped over him. A solid weight was pressed against his chest, radiating heat, and as he blinked himself fully awake, he realized it was Max.

The Dutchman was sprawled half on top of him, face tucked into the crook of Charles’ neck, one strong arm looped lazily around his waist. His steady breaths puffed against Charles’ skin, the soft rise and fall of his chest matching the rhythmic pounding of Charles’ heart.

Smiling, Charles brought a hand up, threading his fingers through Max’s tousled blond hair, the strands silky beneath his touch. Max made a low, contented noise, shifting slightly, his grip tightening around Charles’ middle before he tilted his head, lips ghosting over the side of his throat.

“Good morning,” Charles murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

“Goedemorgen,” Max mumbled against his skin, lips moving slowly, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive spot beneath his jaw over his collar.

Max had left it on him, true to his word about wanting the Monégasque to wear it when they were together, even outside of sessions.

Charles giggled, squirming beneath him. “Come on, Max, get off. I need to use the restroom.”

“In a minute,” Max murmured, pressing another kiss just behind his ear. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Charles let out a surprised squeal as Max shifted, rolling them so he was pinned beneath the Dutchman’s full weight. They wrestled halfheartedly, Charles breathless with laughter as Max held him down, trailing kisses down his jaw.

A loud thud echoed from the living room, followed by the sharp clatter of keys hitting a tabletop.

“Cha!? ” a familiar voice called from the front of the apartment. “T'es réveillé” [You awake?]

Every muscle in Charles' body locked up.

Pierre.

Oh, merde.

Max had frozen too, his face buried against Charles' neck, grip tight around Charles’ waist, both of them instantly going rigid at the sound of the door shutting.

“Cha?” Pierre called again, voice echoing down the hallway, his footsteps sounding far too close for comfort. “Ne me dis pas que tu n’as pas encore fini de cuver. Toute la ville t’attend pour célébrer. Il est déjà après 14 heures!” [Come on, don’t tell you’re not done sleeping it off. The whole city is waiting for you to celebrate. It’s already past 2pm!] 

The sound of shoes clicking against the tile sent a fresh wave of panic down Charles’ spine.

Max lifted his head slightly, squinting toward the door. “Is that—?”

“Yes! ” Charles whispered furiously, slapping a hand over Max’s mouth. “Get off! You need to hide—”

Max’s eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his still-sleepy blue eyes. He peeled Charles’ fingers off his lips and tilted his head. “You want me to hide ?”

“Yes! You can’t just—” Charles whisper-shouted, frantic. “He doesn’t know I’m seeing anyone!” motioning between the two of their chests.

Max smirked, looking far too relaxed for someone seconds away from being caught completely naked in Charles' bed. “So you weren’t going to tell him?”

Groaning, Charles threw his head back against the pillow. “Of course, I was going to tell him, just—not like this! ”

There was no time to argue, no time to explain, because Pierre’s voice was now just outside his bedroom door. “Cha? Tu dors encore?” [Are you still asleep?] 

Charles barely had time to think before Max suddenly rolled, snatching half of the blanket and yanking it over himself in one smooth motion, rolling into a hilariously obvious lump beside Charles.

The door swung open.

“Putain, Pierre! ” Charles yelped, scrambling to sit up while clutching the sheets to his bare chest. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

The Frenchman already knew about his secret, but that didn’t mean he just let the man have a free look anytime he wanted. He still had his privacy for fuck’s sake.

Pierre leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in suspicion. “Have you ever heard of locking the door?” he countered, shaking his head before lifting a paper bag. “Anyway, get up. I figured you’d be sleeping in, so I brought breakfast.”

The smell of fresh buttery croissants and chocolate wafted through the room, but Charles could barely process it. He was too busy subtly nudging Max under the blanket, his foot prodding the warm, unmistakably solid mass of his Dom, who was hidden about as well as a boulder in the middle of the street. Max was nibbling on his bare leg, and Charles couldn’t help his squeal when teeth grazed behind his knee.

Pierre’s gaze drifted lower, eyes narrowing at Charles’ neck. “What the hell is that ?”

Hand coming up to cover his collar, Charles’ cheeks heated up as he swallowed hard, words failing him. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything but the creeping panic clawing at his throat. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’d completely forgotten he was still wearing his collar— his collar —and of course Pierre had honed in on it immediately.

Eyes snapping down to the lump on the bed, Pierre yelled, “And what the hell is that!?”

Charles forced a too-wide smile, voice cracking slightly. “What’s what?”

Squinting at the large, shifting shape next to Charles, the Frenchman’s suspicion morphed into dawning realization. “No fucking way,” he muttered, taking a slow step closer. “Charles, are you out of your mind!? I thought we discussed this? You were supposed to call me if you needed—”

Before Pierre could finish his sentence or Charles could come up with an excuse, the blanket shifted. Max casually pulled it down, revealing his completely unbothered, thoroughly disheveled self, smirking up at Pierre like this was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Morning,” Max said, voice rough from sleep, thick with something serious. “He’s supposed to call you for what?”

Max’s lips twitched as he leaned back against the pillows, clearly entertained by the unfolding drama. His hair was still a mess from sleep, bare chest on full display, the sheet resting dangerously low on his hips. If Charles wasn’t already dying of embarrassment, he would’ve found the picture of Max looking so effortlessly smug infuriating.

Pierre, on the other hand, looked murderous.

His wide eyes flickered between the two of them, disbelief painted all over his face. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, struggling to form words as the reality of the situation settled in.

Meanwhile, Charles had gone completely rigid, a horrified groan muffled behind his hands. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. Maybe if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough, the universe would take pity on him and rewind time.

It didn’t.

Pierre, regaining his ability to function, stepped aggressively to the end of the bed, shoulders squared, hands fisted at his sides. His glare was directed solely at Max, voice rising with frustration.

“He’s supposed to call me if he needs help getting some creep who can't take a hint out of his bed!”

Charles nearly choked.

Max, the absolute bastard, had the audacity to smirk. “Well,” the Dutchman mused, stretching his arms behind his head in an infuriating display of ease. “That’s very considerate of you, mate. But I think Charles invited me to stay.”

Pierre looked moments away from launching himself across the bed to strangle Max with his bare hands.

Charles, still burning with humiliation, finally snapped his head up, voice cracking as he shouted, “Pierre, stop! ”

It was too fucking early in the day for this, even after 2 o’clock. 

“What is going on here!?” Pierre shouted. “Why do you have that thing on your neck?” 

Charles felt like he was seconds away from combusting. His skin was on fire, every inch of him thrumming with mortification as Pierre’s words echoed through the bedroom.

Max shifted beside him, large, warm hand settling between Charles’ shoulder blades, a steadying weight against the rising tide of anxiety. “It’s none of your business, mate,” Max said, voice firm and calm, but an undertone of unmistakable warning. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d like to get back to our quiet morning. Or did you have something you actually needed?”

Ignoring him completely, Pierre locked onto Charles, chest heaving with frustration. “ Cha, ” he said, softer this time, searching Charles’ face for answers. “ Putain de merde Charles. Qu'est c'que tu fais avec ce connard ? [Fucking hell Charles. What are you doing with this asshole?]

Charles’ stomach twisted, indignation settling at Pierre calling his Dom an asshole. His hands curled into the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as he struggled to find the words. 

How was he supposed to explain this? To anyone, especially Pierre. His best friend—his brother in everything but blood—who’d spent years looking out for him, protecting him, worrying about him.

Pierre wouldn't get this world. He didn’t understand the kind of trust, the kind of need that went into it. All he saw was Max, the man he’d spent nearly a decade locked in fierce competition with, wearing nothing but smug amusement and Charles’ bedsheets.

And Charles? Charles was half-naked, flushed, claimed.

“Je—” His voice cracked, throat dry, but he forced himself to meet Pierre’s gaze. This was what he wanted. “Max n'est pas un connard et je ne te dois pas d'explication,” [Max is not an asshole and I don’t owe you an explanation], he said finally, voice steadier than he felt. “ Mais j'ai besoin que tu me fasses confiance.” [But I do need you to trust me.]

Pierre’s eyes darted between him and Max, something tight in his expression. Charles saw the conflict written all over his face, the fight between protective older brother mode and respecting Charles as an adult who could make his own choices.

For a long moment, Pierre didn’t move.

They stopped sleeping together years ago, but Charles always knew that the Frenchman still had feelings for him, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, he took a step back, running a hand over his face. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. Just—” He pointed a finger at Max, eyes narrowing. “If you hurt him, I swear to God, Verstappen—”

Max kept his gaze serious, tightening his grip on Charles’ back possessively. “That isn’t something you need to worry about,” he said smoothly. “Unless he wants me to of course.”

Pierre huffed, muttering something in rapid French under his breath before spinning on his heel and storming out, the bedroom door slamming behind him.

The second he was gone, Charles collapsed face-first into the pillows with a groan. “Tue moi.” [Kill me.]

Max chuckled, rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back. “That went well.”

Charles groaned louder.

Chapter Text

“So . . .” Max started tentatively, as Charles took a bite of his croissant. Pierre had left the bag of breakfast items from Charles’ favorite Cafe and the Dutchman couldn’t see any reason to just let them go to waste. “I take it Pierre knows about you then?”

Charles chewed slowly, shifting in his seat at the kitchen counter. The Monégasque had thrown on some sweats and an old t-shirt while Max had put on his clothes from last night, barely worn anyway. 

“Yeah,” Charles said around his mouthful. “He's known for a long time. Helped me cover things up when we were younger.”

“Did you two ever . . . ?”

Charles nervously took a drink of his water, light red dusting the tips of his ears. “Only a few times.”

Max hummed, watching him carefully. The Monégasque’s grip on the glass was just a little too tight, shoulders a little too tense. He figured as much, based on the look Pierre was giving him in Charles’ bedroom and not screeching about Charles’ very obvious, perky tits barely covered by the white sheet, but Max tried to push the image of them together from his mind.

Though he still wanted to chuck the Frenchman off the balcony for suggesting Max would ever hurt or use Charles on purpose.

The cunt.

The kitchen was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city in full swing outside Charles’ balcony doors. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow over the countertop where their half-eaten breakfast sat, cups of juice hardly touched.

Drumming his fingers against the white counter, Max let the weight of Charles’ admission settle between them before he pressed further. “And?”

Charles’ gaze flicked up to meet his, green eyes, wary, cautious. “And what?”

“Did you like it?” Max tilted his head slightly. “Did this happen recently?”

Charles exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, voice tight.

“No?” Max raised an eyebrow. He knew Charles wasn’t very experienced, but he was still a bit thrown off by the news he'd experimented with the Frenchman, always having seen them as good friends and nothing more. 

The younger man had been so open and pliant for him last night, taking him beautifully like he’d done so a thousand times before, but from everything Max had learned, Charles had maybe only been with five people . . . tops. It was unbelievable really. Charles was like the most desirable person in Monaco for fuck’s sake.

Max tried to redirect his thoughts off of last night before he got hard again and fucked the Monégasque right over the counter.

Charles shifted uncomfortably, fingers tearing off small bits of his croissant, rolling the pieces between his fingertips before popping them into his mouth. “It was a long time ago and just—” he hesitated, chewing slowly before continuing, “—experimentation. We were young. I didn’t know what I liked yet. Pierre was . . . helping me figure things out.”

Max nodded, absorbing the information. It made sense, in a way. Pierre had been Charles’ closest friend for years, the one constant outside of racing. And if Charles had needed someone to trust with something as big as this, someone to test the waters with, of course it would’ve been Pierre.

But still . . .

Leaning in slightly on his stool next to the Monégasque, Max lowered his voice just enough to get a reaction from the younger man. “And now?” he asked, blue eyes locked onto Charles’ face, reading every tiny shift in his expression. “Do you know what you like?”

Charles swallowed hard, breath hitching, looking like the room suddenly felt too warm. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Max smirked. “Good.”

Finishing his own croissant, he took a breath before bringing up his next question. He’d been meaning to talk to Charles about it anyway, and Pierre coming in this morning actually made bringing it up much easier. 

“How do you feel about him knowing about this?” He asks Charles slowly. “About him seeing you wearing a collar?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” Charles said, a bit red in the cheeks. 

The Monégasque quickly shoved more croissant into his mouth, pointedly ignoring Max’s gaze.

Max frowned a little. “Does it make you feel uncomfortable? Do you want to take it off?”

He watched as Charles’ fingers ghosted over the smooth leather band of his play collar, expression caught somewhere between uncertainty and deep thought, mouth chewing. He wasn’t reaching to take it off—just feeling it, tracing the cool metal D-ring like he was trying to ground himself.

The silence stretched between them, only interrupted by the occasional clink of silverware against their plates. Charles swallowed his mouthful before he started chewing on the inside of his lip, a tell Max had learned to recognize when the Ferrari driver was nervous.

“I don’t know,” Charles finally said, voice quieter than before.

Setting his croissant down, Max wiped his hands on a napkin before leaning in slightly. “Talk to me, liefje ,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Do you want to take it off?”

Charles exhaled through his nose, hands curling against the edge of the counter. “I don’t like that he saw,” he admitted after a moment. “Not because I don’t want to wear it. But because—I don’t know, it feels private ?” His brow furrowed, frustrated little lines pulling between them. “It’s one thing for Pierre to know about me, but this? Us? It’s—I don’t know how to describe.”

Max nodded, watching the way Charles’ fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for the collar again. 

“There isn’t really another explanation for wearing a play collar,” Charles sighed. “It’s clear what it’s for, no? And that it’s for sex . . . ”

Max took his time before speaking, “Are you having second thoughts?” he asked carefully. “About this. About us?”

Part of Max felt like this was bound to happen sometime, that his chance with Charles was always too good to be true. The new day collar he’d ordered for the Monégasque felt heavy in his pocket, tucked in its velvet box. He’d hoped to have a different conversation this morning, but it seemed like maybe he’d misread things a little bit.

Figures.

That was just his luck anyway. By the time he found himself ready to actually try fully collaring a sub, he’d fucked the whole thing up before he even got the chance.

“We don’t have to do this—”

A sharp exhale left Charles’ lips, his shoulders sinking slightly. “No. I just—”

Max reached across the counter, wrapping his fingers around Charles’ wrist, thumb grazing over his pulse point, feeling the faint, rapid beat beneath his fingertips. “We can keep it just between us,” he said simply, embarrassed at the slightly desperate inflection in his voice. “Or you don’t have to wear one if it makes you uncomfortable. We can keep everything just for sessions.”

Charles hesitated, his fingers twitching again. “Can—can we sit on the lounge?”

Max blinked, swallowing a little thickly. “Of course,” the Dutchman offered and stood slowly, pacing to the large sofa in Charles’ living area, giving him some space. 

At least Charles wasn't completely scared off by the incident this morning. 

Patting the box in his pocket, Max felt a bit foolish. Charles clearly had some lingering doubts, and here he was, ready to take steps that maybe pushed Charles a bit too far. He needed to get his shit together, stop jumping one step ahead like an amateur.

He was more disciplined than that. 

Sitting down slowly, in the center of the furniture piece, Max folded his hands in his lap, unsure what else the Monégasque wanted to say. Had Max handled the situation with Pierre poorly? Should he’ve just hidden in the closet or something like Charles asked?

The thought made him frown. 

He’d already told himself after his last sub that he wouldn’t be used or hidden like some dirty secret. 

If they were going to make this more of a full-time commitment, some people were going to know surely. Especially if Max fully collared Charles like the Ferrari driver had said he was interested in. 

Charles would get questions and looks, among a whole host of other reactions. 

Maybe he should better prepare the Monégasque for that?

His thoughts broke off as Charles rounded the lounge. Max shifted slightly making room beside him, but stopped suddenly when Charles placed one knee on the cushion, followed by the other across Max's thighs. 

Max’s breath stilled as Charles settled into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips with an ease that sent a slow curl of heat through the Dutchman’s stomach. The Monégasque’s movements were careful and slow, like he was testing the weight of the moment—of them.

Letting his hands rest on his own thighs, Max just waited and watched. There was lingering hesitation in Charles’ eyes, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly against the soft fabric of his sweats, like he wasn’t sure where to put them. 

But he wasn’t running, wasn’t pulling away. Instead, he was here, settling closer, his warmth pressing into Max’s chest.

The Ferrari driver exhaled softly, shifting until he was fully seated, legs tucked snug around Max’s waist, bracketing his thighs tightly. His fingers found their way to Max’s shirt collar, just barely brushing the skin beneath it before trailing down over his chest, resting lightly against the fabric, palms flat.

“I don’t want to be scared of this,” Charles admitted, voice quiet but firm. “Of what doing this seriously means. I like wearing my collar and I want to wear it all the time. I just—I don’t know how to explain it or what I'm feeling now.”

Huffing, Charles’ fingers fisted in Max’s t-shirt. “I speak three languages and I don’t know how to explain in any of them. Putain d'enfer.”  

Satisfaction curled in Max's chest as he tipped his head slightly, one hand finally lifting to rest on Charles’ waist, thumb rubbing slow, steady circles. He smiled softly, remembering how Charles shied away from him in this same position on his jet, pleased that the Monégasque wanted to talk like this on his own.

“You don’t have to explain it,” Max said gently. “Not to me.”

Charles swallowed, eyes flicking down briefly before coming back up, green irises searching Max’s for something he hadn’t quite put into words yet. Sitting quietly, the smaller man exhaled and leaned in, pressing his forehead against Max’s temple.

Eye closing for a moment, Max savored the quiet intimacy of it—the trust. His fingers squeezed lightly against Charles’ hip, but didn’t venture further from the firm touch.

Pulling back, Charles nodded, but there was still something lingering there—embarrassment, maybe, or the weight of Pierre’s reaction. Max could see it, feel it in the slight tension in Charles’ posture, but he wasn't sure exactly what it was.

So he smirked, tilting his head, deciding to lighten the mood a bit. “Though, I have to say, watching Pierre go that red in the face might have been my highlight of the morning.”

Charles groaned, shoving at Max’s arm around him, cheeks burning hotter. “Don’t even , Max.”

He just laughed, soothing his hands over Charles’ back. If the Monégasque was going to make them both suffer through some misplaced embarrassment, Max might as well enjoy it a little

“I'm sure I have a million texts from him already.”

“Do you know what you're going to say?” Charles chewed on his lip again, and Max squeezed his waist. “I know you talked about wanting to wear a collar full time like Lewis. But have you given any thought to what you will say if someone asks you about it?”

Charles sighed. “I guess I was just hoping people wouldn’t ask” 

“That's optimistic,” the Dutchman chuckled. “If you start wearing a collar full time, you’ll get questions. From friends, family, possibly even Ferrari or the media.”

“What should I say?” Charles asked earnestly. “When I asked Lewis about his, I remember he gave me what seemed like a prepared statement about it symbolizing the relationship with his Dom. Is that like what subs are supposed to say when asked?”

Max hummed, running his fingers up and down Charles’ spine. This position had seemed to relax Charles enough to open up about his fears, and Max wanted to stay in the moment for as long as possible.

He knew Charles had always been the type to worry—overthink, really—about things like this. It was part of his nature, part of why he’d taken so well to their dynamic in the first place. Charles wanted structure, needed to know how to handle things before they even happened, and benefited from letting Max handle the finer details.

From learning to let go.

“Lewis probably prepared a response because he knew people would ask,” Max reasoned. “Especially being someone as high-profile as us. People notice things, Charles. And my collar isn’t exactly something subtle, no matter how simple or elegant it is.”

Charles sighed again, resting more of his weight against Max’s chest, fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt. “I know that,” he admitted. “I just . . . it feels so natural when I wear it. It feels right. I don’t want to have to justify it to people.”

“You don’t have to answer them,” he said firmly, grip on Charles’ waist tightened slightly. “But people will be curious, especially people who care about you. Pierre will probably ask again once he gets over the shock, and I can guarantee your brothers will notice. Even your team might have questions, especially if it starts showing up in pictures and videos.”

Groaning again, the Ferrari driver buried his face against Max’s shoulder, muffling something that sounded suspiciously like Mon Dieu . Max chuckled, rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

“The important thing,” he continued, “is figuring out what you’re comfortable saying. Lewis’ answer worked for him, but this is about you, Charles. What do you want people to know?”

Charles was quiet for a long moment, breathing slow and even against Max’s skin before he shifted just enough to peek up at him, a surprised expression jolting them both. “Wait—You said ‘my’ collar,” he asked, fingers grazing over the leather. “I thought this was just a play collar?” 

“It is,” Max said calmly. 

“Then did you mean this one? Or . . .” 

Looking down at his own lap, Max swallowed. “Well, I've been thinking—”

Max could feel the exact moment Charles processed what he had just said. The younger man’s fingers tensed where they rested at the back of Max’s neck, body going impossibly still in his lap. His wide green eyes searched Max’s face, and Max felt something close to nervousness creeping in.

Fuck, he hated feeling off balanced, but Charles kept pulling the rug out from under him when he’d least expect it.

He'd assumed Charles would be excited—had hoped for it—but instead, there was something softer in his expression, something careful.

“You—You have ?” Charles’ voice was quiet, almost unsure, like he was afraid he’d misheard.

Nodding, the Dutchman kept his hands firm on Charles’ waist, grounding them both. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was actually looking at some custom collar options before Monaco. Something comfortable and subtle, easy to wear in the day without drawing too much attention. Something that suits you.”

Charles’ breath hitched, and Max could see the emotion flicker across his face—disbelief, excitement, something dangerously close to overwhelmed.

He tightened his grip just slightly, rubbing slow, soothing circles into Charles’ hips, trying to keep his voice calm. “You don’t have to decide anything now,” Max reassured him, wanting to make it clear this wasn’t a demand. “But I want you to know I’ve been thinking about it, and I want to reassure you that I want this with you, if you want it too.”

For a moment, Charles didn’t respond. His lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in a way that made Max feel like he was waiting for something—some confirmation, some reassurance that he hadn’t just fucked this whole thing up.

Then, slowly, Charles’ lips curled into a smile, soft but certain, his grip tightening in the hair at Max’s nape. His eyes locked onto Max’s with so much warmth, so much devotion, it sent something deep inside Max tilting off-axis.

“Oui,” Charles whispered against his lips, voice steady. “I want it too.”

Max let out a slow breath, something loosening deep in his chest, the pressure he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding all morning finally lifting. The quiet certainty in Charles’ voice did something to him—cracked open a space in his heart he’d been guarding for too long.

And then he was kissing him—slow, deep, reverent. Not hungry or desperate like so many times before, but with purpose. With weight. It was a kiss that said I’m yours, one that carried every unsaid vow, every unspoken promise they’d been circling since that first night.

Charles shifted in his lap, hips rolling lazily, deliberately, a teasing press that drew a low groan from Max’s chest. He tightened his grip in response, hands bracketing Charles’ waist to still him before things spiraled out of control.

He was dying to take Charles back to bed, but not now.

Not when there was something more important pressing between them—literally.

That’s when Charles’ thigh brushed firmly against the box in Max’s pocket. He pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing as he glanced down. 

“What is this?” he asked, fingers already sliding down to feel the hard shape beneath the fabric.

Max caught his wrist, heart thumping hard. “I—” he hesitated, the flood of nerves rushing back in. “That’s for you.”

“For me?” Charles blinked. His voice dropped a notch, eyes searching Max’s face. “Is it . . . ?”

“I was hoping to surprise you with it,” Max admitted quietly, thumb rubbing over the inside of Charles’ wrist, some light bruising there left over from last night. “I picked it out a few days ago. I wanted it to be ready, just in case you decided you were ready.”

Charles’ expression shifted—eyes wide, jaw slack, excitement radiating from every inch of him. He practically bounced in Max’s lap, an incredulous smile blooming across his face. “Can I see? Can I have it now? Is that allowed, or do I have to wait?”

Max chuckled under his breath, the corners of his mouth lifting. God, he loved Charles like this—flushed, eager, on the edge of something new but still utterly himself.

“There’s no rulebook for us,” Max said, voice soft but steady. “We decide what’s allowed and when.”

He reached into his pocket slowly, feeling the velvet box beneath his fingers, its weight suddenly so much more significant than when he’d picked it up from the boutique. When he pulled it out and placed it in Charles’ hands, he could see the Monégasque’s fingers trembling just slightly as he flipped open the lid.

Max watched every microexpression—the widening of Charles’ eyes, the soft part of his lips, the slow intake of breath—as he took in the collar. Platinum links, sleek and subtle. A clasp like a jeweler’s lock, elegant yet strong, etched with their shared history in quiet details.

The diamonds, the starburst. The spot reserved for an inscription only they would ever know.

Good girl, it read in a delicate script.

Max held his breath. “Do you like it?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

Charles didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked up at Max, something shining in his eyes—something deeper than happiness. Awe. Adoration. A quiet kind of reverence.

“It’s perfect,” he said softly. “You had this made . . . for me?”

Max nodded once. “Only for you,” and let himself feel it—really feel it—the terrifying, grounding, overwhelming truth of what they were becoming.

They weren’t just playing anymore.

“Can I wear it now?” Charles asked, voice soft but brimming with anticipation.

Max’s lips curved into a wide smile, a genuine one that he rarely let slip so easily outside of PR and the top step of the podium. The eagerness in Charles’ tone, the open trust in his eyes—it lit something warm in Max’s chest.

“You want to do this right now?” he asked, not out of doubt but to be sure, to give Charles space if he needed it.

“Yes,” Charles said without hesitation, nearly bouncing again, Max fighting off a groan at the tantalizing image. “Do I just—”

Pulling the collar out of the box, Charles reached around behind him, clearly aiming to fasten the collar around his own neck, but Max’s hand shot out, snatching the piece in his grip.

Charles blinked, startled, hands dropping away from his neck. “What—?”

Max held the collar loosely in one hand, letting the platinum links pool into his palm. His thumb traced over the clasp, feeling the chill of the metal, the small diamonds catching the light. He inhaled slowly before speaking, eyes steady on Charles. 

“An official collar,” he began, voice low and steady, “is to be placed on you by me— ceremonially. It isn’t just for fun, Mijn liefje . It’s a declaration.”

Charles froze, expression shifting under the gravity in Max’s voice.

Softening his tone, Max kept his gaze firm as he tried to explain further. “A sub should never put on or remove their own collar without express permission from their Dom. That’s not about control—it’s about respect. About meaning. A collar alone has no meaning without the two souls it binds together.”

Looking down at his lap, the younger man’s fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his sweats, the casual joy from moments ago dimmed, the weight of the moment settling over both of them.

Max leaned forward, one hand reaching out to gently cover Charles’ clenched fist. “This,” he said, lifting the collar slightly, “isn’t just a pretty thing. It’s a symbol of my care, my devotion and commitment to protect you, to guide you, to always put your needs above my own. Of what we’re building.” Max paused, trying to read Charles’ face. “In some cases, this is as serious as a proposal of marriage, given at a large gathering with a crowd of loved ones, vows exchanged, and if you ever take it off without discussing it with me first, it would be like rejecting that bond. Ending it. Walking away from all of this.”

Charles nodded once, lips parted slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His fingers relaxed under Max’s touch, hand turning palm up so their hands met properly—interlaced. Max let that moment stretch, the silence between them full of unspoken things.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked again. 

He couldn't imagine anything more painful than having a sub reject their collar, and he would be doing them a disservice if he didn't make sure Charles understood it's full meaning.

“Yes,” Charles said slowly, fingers warm against Max's. “I want this with you.”

When he was sure Charles understood, and felt the Monégasque’s pulse steady beneath his fingers, he smiled softly and squeezed his hand.

“Then,” Max murmured, eyes gleaming, “let me do this properly.”

_____

Charles followed Max through the apartment, his heart thudding softly in his chest with each step. Max walked in front of him with the collar cradled in his hand, long fingers carefully curled around the platinum links like it was something sacred.

Which, Charles supposed, it was.

He bit his bottom lip, catching himself and stopping just short of chewing on it—a habit Max always teased him about. Still, the urge to bite at his thumbnail crept in like it always did when nerves took over. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie instead, hiding them away to try and keep them from his mouth.

Max’s broad shoulders moved ahead of him, steady and unhurried. Every so often, Charles saw the glint of metal in Max’s palm and the weight of what they were about to do settled heavier on his chest.

Ceremony. That was the word Max had used.

Charles wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. Was there something he was supposed to say? Something he was supposed to do? Were there rules he’d forgotten or missed entirely?

His mind raced, trying to piece together anything he might’ve read online or seen in the community forums he occasionally scrolled through in the dark hours of the night, but there wasn’t much out there. From what he’d read, collaring was a very private event and people didn’t really talk about it outside of their relationships, or even about past ones.

From what he did find, he’d read that some people knelt, some recited vows like a wedding, others remained completely silent, offering themselves up with nothing but eye contact and breathless trust.

Was he supposed to kneel?

Ask permission?

Say “I accept”?

What if Max had a whole speech written and Charles had nothing to say in return?

As they reached the threshold of the bedroom, Charles looked down at himself, a flush of self-consciousness blooming over his cheeks. He was still in one of his old Ferrari hoodies, the one with the slightly fraying cuff and faded sponsor logo, and a pair of mismatched sweats he’d thrown on that morning after the chaos with Pierre.

God, he thought. 

He should’ve changed. This was a big moment. Their moment, and here he was dressed like a university dropout recovering from a hangover. 

Charles hadn’t even brushed his teeth for fuck's sake.

His fingers twitched again, tugging nervously at the hem of his sweatshirt as Max paused by the bed, glancing over his shoulder. Charles met his gaze and swallowed hard, unsure if he was ready—but also certain he didn’t want to delay this any longer.

Max didn’t speak right away.

He simply guided Charles by the wrist, gentle but purposeful, until they were in front of the full-length mirror tucked into the far corner of his bedroom. The soft Monaco light filtered in through the sheer curtains, and the breeze helped settle him. Everything felt suspended—quiet, still, sacred.

Max stopped just in front of the mirror and turned to him, voice low. “Take off your clothes.”

Charles hesitated only for a moment before nodding. His fingers fumbled with the hem of his hoodie, suddenly feeling the weight of Max’s gaze like a spotlight. He peeled the fabric off, letting it fall to the side before pushing down the old sweats. Everything was stripped away—layers of fabric, layers of doubt—and he stepped out of them, bare on the polished hardwood.

Nodding, satisfied, Max moved behind him, one hand resting on Charles’ hip, the other holding the collar.

“Kneel,” he instructed softly.

Charles obeyed, sinking slowly to his knees, the floor cool beneath him. Adjusting his position just slightly, the Dutchman was careful but firm, until Charles was centered perfectly in front of the mirror, knees aligned, spine straight, hands resting lightly on his thighs.

“Look straight ahead,” Max said, voice quiet but resolute.

Charles obeyed.

He stared at his reflection, fully exposed, heart thudding in his chest. It was just his body—his skin, his hair, his eyes—but somehow it felt like more. Like this was the first time he was really seeing himself, the person staring back at him was new, someone about to become something else.

Max stepped into the frame behind him, still clothed, holding the collar delicately in his hands. His presence loomed like a shield—strong, steady, safe.

“This collar,” Max began, “is a promise. A physical symbol of everything this is between us. Of your trust, your surrender, your belief in me to guide you—and of my responsibility to earn and honor that trust, fulfill your needs and desires, every single day.”

Charles felt his throat tighten, fingers curling slightly against his thighs. He didn’t dare look away from the mirror, wanting to stay locked in this moment forever.

Max’s eyes met his in the reflection. “What does this collar mean to you, Charles?”

There was no hesitation in his answer. “Everything,” Charles whispered, voice cracking at the edges. “It means everything. I don’t know if I have the words—”

“You will find the words in time.”

Max smiled then, just a soft curve of his lips, and knelt behind him. Charles held perfectly still as Max reached up, fingers brushing lightly along his throat as he unfastened the play collar—the one they’d used since their earliest scenes—and slipped it free.

The absence of weight was momentary. 

Max lifted the new collar, the cool platinum brushing against Charles’ skin like a breath. The backside of the clasp had a small inscription on it, one that instantly made Charles wet when he’d read it on Max’s lap.

Good girl, it said.

That’s what he was. Max’s good girl and there was nothing else he'd rather be.

The clasp clicked softly, precise and final, settling perfectly into the hollow of his throat. The diamonds shimmered faintly in the light, the starburst glinting, hiding the secret only they shared.

Max leaned in, giving a soft, slow kiss to the side of his neck, fingers brushing over his new collar with care.

Charles stared at himself in the mirror, not seeing just himself, but seeing someone who belonged. A sub. A partner. Someone who’d given himself freely, wholly, and had been chosen in return. Something inside him melted, raw and tender and full of light—and before he could stop it, tears welled in his eyes, spilling over, tracing down his cheeks.

Max’s hand stilled gently on his neck, eyes meeting his. “Charles?” he murmured, voice instantly concerned. “Are you—did I do something wrong? Do you not like it, baby?”

Charles shook his head quickly, blinking through the blur of damp brown lashes, twisting around. “No I,” he choked out, breath hitching. “I . . . I’m happy. I’m so happy.”

Exhaling, relief was evident in the way Max’s hands curled tighter around him, grounding him, both kneeling on the floor of Charles’ room. Tilting his head softly, Max sealed their lips together, hand drifting through his brown curls, thumb swiping away a stray tear. The moment was passionate, intense, and Max scooped him up off the floor and carried him to the bed like he weighed nothing. 

“I’ve been dying to get you back here since Pierre left,” Max said with a soft chuckle, greedy hands roaming over him. 

Relaxing against the soft sheets, still unmade from this morning, Charles smirked, spreading out in his nude state, unabashedly arching his back. “Now you have me.”

“Present, Charles. Hands and knees.”

Chapter Text

The sun had long dipped behind the hills surrounding the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya. The air still carried the dry heat of the afternoon, but the sky had begun to cool, bleeding into a soft navy as the stars blinked slowly to life.

Charles walked in silence alongside Lewis, their steps echoing along the red and white curbs of Turn 10. They hadn’t spoken much since Miami, not really. Just the usual media pleasantries and brief comments during debriefs. 

Nothing personal. Nothing like before, and it made this walk feel heavier somehow. Having grown closer as teammates over the winter break and the start of the season, Miami felt like a setback.

Lewis had offered to stay behind for a late lap of the circuit, and Charles accepted without asking why. Maybe he was hoping it meant something or maybe he just missed the older driver. Either way, he was glad they were taking this opportunity before the busy weekend got fully underway.

They needed to clear the air, but he wasn't exactly sure what to say.

Sorry I yelled at you? Sorry I fucked up my weekend and didn't celebrate with the team? Sorry I've ignored all of your texts?

Nothing seemed appropriate to start with.

It wasn’t until they'd passed the pit exit before Lewis finally broke the silence, voice soft. “I like your new collar.”

Charles blinked, caught a bit off guard, one hand rising to the platinum band around his neck. “You noticed.”

Lewis gave him a sideways glance, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hard not to, the damn thing sparkles from across the paddock. It suits you.”

Pulling his lip between his teeth, Charles huffed a dry laugh, followed by a pause. He felt whole with his collar, and so far there hadn't been any awkward exchanges about it.

His PR team didn't notice and Andrea just complimented him, assuming it was from APM.

So far, so good.

“As long as you’re happy,” Lewis added. “How's Max? I'm a bit surprised to see you collared so soon with how you said things were going. Max not wanting to have sex among the other reservations he was having.” Giving him an appraising look, “is everything good?”

Charles exhaled, shoulders relaxing just a little. So much had happened since their last real talk and he was bursting at the seams to tell someone who would understand. “It’s . . . good. Better than I expected.”

The Brit nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“Miami changed a lot of things for us.”

That made Lewis stop, sneakers scuffing lightly against the tarmac. He turned to face Charles fully, eyebrows raised in question. “Something happen beyond the atrocious strategy calls that weekend?”

Glancing down at his own shoes, the Monégasque was suddenly unsure where to start. But this was Lewis. If there was anyone who would understand, who wouldn’t judge him for how messy and chaotic everything had been, it was him.

That had been one of their points of discussion about Charles getting into this lifestyle in the beginning, his tendency for messiness and overthinking. His need for complete control. Having a Dom would help settle him, and he did crave that empty feeling in his head when Max took control of things. Being free in the moment, left to feel and not think.

Working up the courage, Charles told him.

About the club—the music and the lights and the crush of bodies, Pierre inviting him out and then abandoning him. About how Max had pulled him away from that creep who wouldn’t take no for an answer, his hands firm and voice quiet, making Charles feel seen and owned in a way that made him wet. 

How Charles had been drunk, angrily demanding Max tell him the truth, unable to express all of his feelings while inebriated and still upset from how his race went. How it had been overwhelming and intimate all at once, even if he only remembered a few flashes of the night after running into Max.

Charles told him about the hotel room. About waking up in Max’s room, thinking he’d ruined everything, vulnerable in a way the Monégasque had never felt before. And about how Max had confessed—softly, without pressure—that he was ready for something real.

Something deeper and not just about the sex.

By the time Charles finished, they were walking again, slower, the silence between them warm rather than cold.

Lewis let out a low hum. “That’s kind of beautiful.”

“You think so?” Charles blinked at him.

Nodding, Lewis glanced over with a grin. “It’s messy and dramatic and complicated as hell, but yeah. That’s what these relationships usually look like. They’re intense and generally much deeper than a vanilla relationship. And knowing the two of you,” he paused, “I wouldn’t have expected anything less than absolutely unhinged.”

Charles laughed, a quiet, breathy thing. “I wasn’t sure if you’d approve.”

“I’m not your Dom.” Lewis shook his head with a scoff. “It doesn't matter what I think.”

“I know, but . . .” Charles looked away, brushing his fingers over his collar again. “You’ve really helped me get into this and I guess I just didn’t want you to be disappointed. I know you aren’t the biggest Max fan after all.”

Fingers rested gently on his shoulder, Lewis stopping them again. The warm twilight cast a soft glow over his features, but his eyes were clear and serious. “As long as you're being safe and are happy, I’m happy,” he said, voice low and firm. “Are you being safe? Is Max—is he treating you well?”

The genuine way the Brit asked made Charles paused. Why would Max not be treating him well? 

“Yes,” he answered. “I feel safe with him.”

“Good, and you can tell me if that ever changes or you just need to talk something through. Though I do hope you two curtail your activities in the paddock. If you want to drunkenly make out in a Miami club feeling each other up, that's your business, but inside Ferrari should be professional.”

Charles flushed instantly, heat rising all the way to the tips of his ears. He ducked his head with a sheepish grin, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the tarmac. “Shut up.”

Laughing, full-bodied and knowing, the Brit squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “I’m serious. You can’t tell me you weren’t distracted in Miami by Max, and I know you weren’t listening to a word of that pre-FP1 team meeting. Everyone else may have been clueless, but your whimpering made me want to cut my ears off.”

Charles groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Yes, yes, don’t remind me.”

But he couldn’t stop the way his cheeks heated even more at the memory—the subtle vibration against his clit just as his engineer started the presentation, the controls buried somewhere in Max’s pocket. The Dutchman had timed it so cruelly, so perfectly, letting it pulse with that toe curling flex feature right as Charles had shifted in his seat.

God, he’d nearly knocked his water bottle over trying to sit still.

He shivered a little at the thought. He really needed to ask Max if they could use that toy again sometime—soon—but hopefully somewhere far from any race weekend meetings.

“We’ve agreed to keep things more out of the paddock,” Charles said, clearing his throat. “But I make no promises that Max won’t get the urge. I’m sure you can understand.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow, lips twitching, but the slight flush creeping up his own neck betrayed him. “Nico and I haven’t shared a paddock in a long time.”

“Oh, come on,” Charles grinned, nudging him with an elbow. “You don’t even sneak some time together when he’s commentating on the weekend? Slip away between FP3 and quali for a little—catch-up?”

Lewis gave him a look, but his fingers idly brushed the slim band of his own collar, the motion subtle but unmistakable. A private touch. A silent acknowledgment, lips curved into a knowing smirk. “We aren’t talking about me and Nico,” he said smoothly.

“Ahuh.” Charles rolled his eyes, already laughing. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes , either,” Lewis countered with a wry grin, chuckle warm and low as they resumed their slow pace down the gently curving stretch between Turns 12 and 13.

The circuit lay quiet around them, the air now cooler with the sun finally dipping below the ridge. The gentle rustle of leaves beyond the fencing and the distant hum of team trucks packing down in the paddock gave the scene a rare kind of stillness—like the whole world had exhaled for a moment.

They walked in a contented silence, their steps falling into rhythm again. Charles tucked his hands into his pockets, the faint breeze teasing at the hem of his hoodie. He was still hyper-aware of the collar around his throat—its weight, its purpose, how it felt against his skin when the world was this quiet.

The weekend had only just started but so far, he hadn’t got any serious questions about it, for which he was grateful. He’d prepared a canned statement, something quick about a new APM collab to tell his team, though he wasn’t sure if Max would be happy with that answer. 

But the Dutchman did tell him he could say whatever he wanted.

Curious, and a little tentative, Charles asked, “How long were you with Nico before you got your collar?”

Lewis glanced over at him. “Years,” he said simply.

That surprised Charles more than he expected.

Years?

It had only been a few months with Max, and yet everything between them already felt so intense—so consuming. Charles blinked, processing that revelation as they continued walking along the empty, winding circuit.

“Oh,” he murmured, the single syllable barely audible. 

He hadn’t expected that answer at all. For some reason, he’d assumed their story had been more linear, smoother, clearer—like it had clicked into place the way his had with Max.

“There isn’t a right or wrong time, if that’s what you’re asking,” Lewis said after a beat, voice gentle. “Everyone’s dynamic and relationship is different.”

Charles nodded slowly, eyes focused on the horizon, the empty grandstands painted in shadow. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, fingers finding the loose thread he’d been toying with all evening and twisting it tighter around his fingertip.

“I didn’t have the smoothest start to things with Nico,” Lewis continued, tone more personal now. “We were on and off quite a bit in the beginning. Timing was always an issue—racing, expectations, growing into ourselves. We had a lot of history, but not all of it was good.”

Charles hummed softly, eyes still downcast, feeling the weight of that honesty settle in his chest. He appreciated the honesty more than he could say.

“We split up in late 2020,” Lewis went on, his pace never faltering, “and I thought that was it for us. For real. I even started seeing other people, but after some time apart, we found our way back again. Both of us had changed. Grown. And when we came back together, we knew this was what we wanted long term.”

Swallowing around the tightness in his throat, Charles didn’t say anything, unable to imagine splitting with Max. Just the thought of it made him sick, hand going for his collar again.

“Nico and I were actually just talking about you two last week.”

Charles turned his head, brows lifting in surprise. “Oh?”

He nodded, glancing over with a casual shrug. “Yeah. He suggested maybe we all have dinner together over the summer break in Monaco. Nothing formal. Just . . . catching up. He also said he’d like to properly apologize for what happened at the party.”

Charles’ lips parted slightly at that. The memory of that night still had jagged edges—Charles feeling so lost in that mansion, going down into the basement, the way Max had ripped that guy away from him in the private playroom. 

“I’ll have to ask Max,” he said carefully, voice neutral, though his stomach fluttered slightly at the thought of them all in the same room, remembering Lewis said Max and Nico used to share Dom notes.

Had they ever shared a sub? Was that something Max did or maybe would do with him?

Lewis smiled gently, the kind that understood more than it let on. “Nico might’ve texted him already,” he said, holding up a hand preemptively, “but of course—you two talk about it. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Charles gave a small nod, appreciating the respect, even if the idea left him feeling a little tangled inside. Still, there was something reassuring about how calmly Lewis brought it up, like he wasn’t trying to smooth things over, just offer the space if Charles wanted it.

And maybe, a part of him did.

“I’ll let you know after we talk about it.”

_____

The late afternoon sun slanted across the windshield, bars of light bouncing off the dashboard as the car glided through the narrow Spanish streets. Charles sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting against the cool blacked out window, watching the unfamiliar scenery blur past.

They were somewhere outside Barcelona, past the congested city roads and creeping into countryside lanes lined with pale stone walls and flowering trees. 

Everything felt quieter here. Slower.

Max hadn’t told him much—just that he'd planned something, and that Charles shouldn’t worry. 

Now, with the race behind them and two weeks before they had to board a flight to Canada, Charles had no real reason to resist.

Still, he didn't know what to expect.

He looked over at Max, one hand firm on the steering wheel, the other resting solidly on Charles’ thigh. His long fingers flexed slightly through the denim of Charles’ jeans every time they turned a corner, thumb brushing absent-minded circles just above his knee.

It was a small thing, but it made Charles feel anchored. Owned and cherished.

The leather seat was warm beneath him, and the scent of Max’s cologne lingered faintly in the enclosed space—amber and spice and something sharply clean that always made Charles want to lean in closer.

They turned down a narrow street lined with small shops, white walls bleached by the sun and trailing vines crawling up their façades, potted plants hanging from window sills. It felt impossibly quaint, the kind of place that didn’t quite exist outside of postcards and romance novels.

“Where are we going?” Charles finally asked, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice.

“You’ll see,” Max smirked slightly, not taking his eyes off the road. 

Charles rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. He shifted slightly, Max’s hand sliding higher on his thigh in response, and just like that, Charles relaxed back into the seat, letting himself be guided. The road, the day, the moment—it was all Max’s now.

The warmth of Max’s palm on his thigh was doing things to him.

It wasn’t just casual contact because it never was with Max. Even when it seemed unconscious, his fingers drifting over to the seam of Charles’ jeans, like a silent reminder of everything that had happened the night before.

And fuck, did Charles remember.

He shifted slightly in the passenger seat, trying to ease the pressure that had started coiling low in his belly the moment Max’s hand landed on him, and failing miserably.

Images played like a fever dream behind his eyes: the hotel shower fogging with steam, his wet hair plastered to his face as Max slammed into him from behind, water splashing across the tiles in rhythm with their bodies. The sound—wet, obscene—echoed off the close walls. Max’s hand gripping the back of his collar, tightening enough to tilt his head, exposing the vulnerable column of his neck, restricting his air just right.

He could still feel the bite of teeth at the curve of his shoulder.

Charles bit his lip, hard.

Don’t think about it. If he kept going down this path, he was going to absolutely leave a mess on the leather seat of Max’s rental car, and he glanced out the window, hoping the shifting scenery might ground him, but all it did was blur against the buzzing heat under his skin.

And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

How could he? Max had been insatiable, a little drunk on champagne and adrenaline after the podium, all smug grins and hungry hands. He’d pressed Charles up against the shower wall like he owned him, like he couldn’t get close enough, deep enough. And Charles hadn’t minded one bit. He’d begged for more— quietly , of course, lips pressed against his own forearm, trying to muffle himself in case someone in the next room could hear, hotel walls not nearly as thick as they seemed.

He spent more than half the year in hotels, enough to know just how much you could hear from neighboring rooms.

Max’s grip had been relentless, hand wound tight through the loop of his collar, arching his back off the tile. His feet had barely touched the floor. It was brutal, precise— perfect.

He was grateful for all the strength training Max had insisted on as part of his submissive positions: wait and inspection , knees bent, toes pointed, back arched. Hours spent practicing posture had made it easier to hold that stretch in the shower, hips tilted back just right.

Flushing even deeper, his thighs clenched, Max squeezing his leg.

That position . . . That exact angle . . .

God, it might be his new favorite thing they’d ever done, not that he would tell anyone he loved being choked. 

And just when he’d felt like it couldn’t get any more overwhelming, Max’s free hand had worked its way between his legs, expertly bringing him to the edge and beyond.

Charles squeezed his legs together again, doing his best not to squirm, pretending he wasn’t soaked, pretending his heart wasn’t hammering every time Max’s fingers slid a little higher on his thigh.

The Monégasque didn’t dare look over, knowing Max could feel it; the tension in his muscles, the flush spreading across his cheeks, and the Dutchman was definitely doing this on purpose.

Pulling up in front of a quiet, unassuming storefront, Max eased the car to a stop and slipped it into park. The building looked old but well maintained, the paint on the shutters fresh, but there were no signs indicating what the place was.

“We’re here,” Max said, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

Charles blinked, leaning closer to peer out the window. “Where is here ? Is this a restaurant?” he asked, frowning in confusion. “Or . . . a garage?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, the Red Bull driver slid out of the driver’s seat, door shutting with a firm thunk , and Charles watched him through the glass, brows furrowing as Max rounded the front of the car with an annoyingly smug bounce in his step.

A quick glance up and down the narrow street confirmed what Charles already suspected—there was no one around. No fans. No cameras. Most of the neighboring shops were shuttered, their “Closed” signs turned out toward the street.

Max reached for the door handle and opened it with a dramatic flourish, sport coat bunching around his shoulders, holding out a hand toward Charles.

“Come on, princess,” he said, grin widening. “We’re late for our appointment.”

He scoffed, but slipped his much smaller hand into Max’s anyway, letting the familiar strength pull him to his feet. As soon as he stood, Max’s hand found the small of his back, warm and steady through the thin fabric of his shirt, guiding him toward a heavy glass door with a crisp CERRADO sign hanging in the window.

“Max, it’s closed,” Charles said, glancing sideways at him in confusion.

Before Max could respond, a sudden rustle behind the curtain caught Charles’ attention. A moment later, a dark-haired woman peeked through the fabric with a bright smile, eyes lighting up when she saw them.

“Señor Verstappen,” she greeted warmly, unlocking the door in quick flourish. “Come in, come in.”

Charles hesitated on the threshold for a beat, then stepped inside. The air was cool and softly scented—something floral and just slightly spicy. And then his eyes adjusted to the dim, ambient lighting and widened instantly.

“Oh,” he breathed as his gaze swept the room in a daze.

Lining the walls and shelves were rows of neatly displayed sex toys in all shapes and sizes—some chrome, some silicone, some leather-bound and glinting under low lights. There were entire shelves dedicated to lubes and massage oils in delicate glass bottles, stacks of silk blindfolds, feathered ticklers, and high-end lingerie hung artfully behind glass like pieces of couture.

Everywhere he looked, there was something new. Something wicked. Something very much not a restaurant. Max stepped up beside him, watching him with barely disguised amusement as Charles’ face flushed deeper by the second.

“Max,” he hissed under his breath, torn between embarrassment and fascination. “You brought me to a—”

“Boutique,” the Dutchman interrupted smoothly, clearly enjoying himself. “A very exclusive , very private one. I made an appointment a few weeks ago.”

Charles turned slowly to look at him, wide-eyed. “You planned this?”

“Of course I did,” Max raised an eyebrow. “You have a new collar now. You need new toys and clothes to match.”

Charles didn’t even have the words. He just stood there, trying to decide whether to die of embarrassment on the spot—or kiss Max stupid for knowing exactly what he needed.

“I have pulled our best sellers and most popular collections for you downstairs, as requested,” the shopkeeper said with a warm smile, her Spanish accent thick but pleasant. She gestured with a graceful hand, beckoning them toward the back of the store. “Please, come with me.”

Max’s hand returned to its familiar place on Charles’ low back, firm and possessive while Charles followed. The press of Max’s palm as they wove through delicate displays of lace-trimmed corsets and gleaming, minimalist toys arranged like museum pieces was the only thing that kept him from falling over.

They reached a narrow set of stairs tucked behind a velvet rope. The woman unhooked it and began her descent, heels clicking softly against the polished wood.

Charles wasn’t sure what he’d expected from this little trip—but it certainly wasn’t this .

As he stepped off the final stair onto the lower level, the air felt cooler and more intimate. The lighting was low and golden, warm against the deep burgundy walls and rich wooden flooring. A plush velvet couch sat like a throne in the center of the room, its deep blue upholstery framed by elegant mirrors on three sides that caught and reflected the soft light.

Surrounding it were countless racks of lingerie. Every possible style, color, and fabric imaginable. From delicate sheer bodysuits to bold, structured corsets, from romantic lace bralettes to daring open-cup designs. 

Silks. Satins. Leather. Straps and bows and buckles. Each piece hung like art, curated with purpose and presented with reverence.

To the right, a heavy curtain hung from a brass rod, partially drawn to reveal a softly lit fitting area beyond. It looked less like a changing room and more like a boudoir, complete with a small vanity and full-length mirrors lined with golden bulbs.

Charles felt his breath catch in his throat. 

He’d never even seen lingerie up close like this, let alone tried anything on before, and anxiety built quickly. 

Why would Max bring him here—

“Take your time,” the shopkeeper turned to them with a smile. “Feel free to try on anything you’d like. There’s a fitting area just over there with the selections you asked for already, Señor Verstappen.”

Charles blinked. Max had requested specific pieces? 

Before he could even begin to process that, the woman gave a polite nod and quietly ascended the stairs, her heels clicking away until the soft creak of a closing door left them in silence. Max stepped forward, slowly turning in a circle to take in the space like he was surveying his kingdom, then turned back to Charles, eyes gleaming with something warm and devious.

“Pick out anything you like,” he said. “The space is ours for the afternoon.”

Charles swallowed hard, heart thudding like a drum against his ribs, hands twisting together so tightly his knuckles turned white. The room was beautiful—lavish, intimate, luxurious—but the longer he stood in it, surrounded by all those delicate, intricate pieces of fabric and lace, the more he felt like he didn’t belong there.

He turned his gaze from one piece to the next, each more elaborate than the last. Corsets with delicate boning, bras strung with sheer panels and barely-there cups, tiny satin thongs paired with lace harnesses. 

Some of them looked like they required an engineering degree of one of his mechanics just to figure out how to get into.

“I—I . . . ” he started, voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea. “Do I have to?”

His question came out smaller than he intended, trembling with the insecurity he couldn't quite shove back down.

Max turned immediately at the sound, closing the space between them in two strides. He placed a hand on Charles’ arm, steadying and soft. His touch was gentle, but the concern in his eyes was sharp. “You don't like it?” he asked quietly.

Charles couldn’t meet that gaze. 

Looking down and away, a hot wave of something like shame flooded through him, pooling in the pit of his stomach, surely messing up this whole plan for the Dutchman. “I don’t think any of these will look good on me,” he murmured, voice thick. “I’m not really . . . I don’t look like that.”

He gestured vaguely toward one of the display mannequins—an all-white form posed elegantly against the far wall, dressed in a structured black piece that looked like something pulled from a Paris runway show. It had a plunging neckline framed by gold buckles, strappy details wrapping around an impossibly slim waist and curving over wide hips and full, round breasts.

Charles stared at it, shoulders tensing further.

He imagined trying to wear that, trying to fill it out. He pictured his flatter chest, narrower hips, and firm muscled torso in ways that felt completely wrong in a world meant for softness and curves. In his mind, the satin straps would gape awkwardly around his less than impressive breasts, the delicate fabric bunched or stretched across a frame it wasn’t made for.

“I will look ridiculous,” he added softly.

He hated how his voice shook, hated that some small, stupid part of him thought Max would be disappointed. And underneath all that? A quieter, more fragile fear—one that whispered maybe this part of him didn’t deserve to be seen after being hidden and locked away for so many years.

A large, warm palm cupped his jaw, guiding his gaze upward with gentleness. Charles let Max tilt his chin, breath catching slightly as those sharp blue eyes met his. They were soft, quiet and patient, with none of the teasing glint that usually accompanied their playful back-and-forth like in the car.

“This isn’t supposed to make you feel like you have to look like that, Charles,” Max said, voice low and steady. “I love the way you look.”

Charles blinked, lip pulled tightly between his teeth.

“You told me how you really liked the pearl panties,” Max continued, thumb brushing lightly along Charles’ cheekbone. “How they made you feel more feminine, softer—how confident it made you to wear something for you, even if no one else saw. I thought maybe we could explore that a little more together. Just you and me. In a place where you don’t have to worry about being seen by anyone but me.”

Charles flushed, the memory of the pearled underwear making his face go hot. He'd liked them—had felt daring and delicate, adored even, when Max had him tossing in his sheets that night, whispering through the phone what a beautiful little thing he was.

He blinked again, nodding slowly.

“Will you try on one thing for me?” Max asked, voice as warm and persuasive as a velvet ribbon sliding over bare skin. “Just one. And if you don’t like it, or you’re still uncomfortable, we’ll leave. I promise.”

The sincerity in Max’s voice was like gravity, calming and constant, impossible to resist. Charles took a breath, then another, letting his shoulders loosen just slightly. The Dutchman had, after all, gone to all the trouble of organizing this. Getting Charles the whole shop to himself, making the appointment and driving him from their hotel. 

One piece. For Max. 

For himself.

“Okay,” he said softly, nodding again, Max’s palm still stretched across his jaw like a tether. “One piece.”

Max’s smile was gentle, and his next words came out in that low, coaxing tone that always made Charles shiver. “Can you tell me your color, Charlie?”

Charles smiled despite himself, the flush on his cheeks deepening to a soft pink. “Green.”

Expression melting into something impossibly fond. “Good girl,” the Dutchman murmured, brushing a featherlight kiss over Charles’ lips. The praise sent a thrill down Charles’ spine, curling low in his stomach like sugar melting in tea, reminding him of the wetness in his briefs from the car.

Stepping back, the Red Bull driver gave him space without letting go entirely just yet. “I’ll sit over here,” he said, nodding toward the velvet couch across the room. “Take your time, baby. Find something that speaks to you. I need to send a quick email to G.P., so I won’t bother you.”

He paused, and then added, softer, “But I’ll be right here if you need me.”

God, he didn’t deserve this man.

As Max moved away, settling onto the couch with his phone in hand, Charles turned toward the softly lit racks of satin, lace, and delicate femininity, heart still beating a little too fast.

He could do this. Just one piece.

Charles moved slowly through the softly lit room, fingers brushing along delicate fabrics as he made his way through the racks. Silk, chiffon, lace—each piece was a different texture, some cool and slippery, others soft and whisper-light under his fingertips. He paused to check tags, not that the sizing meant much to him. 

He didn’t have the faintest clue how women's sizes translated to his frame, but he did know one thing for certain.

No papaya. Absolutely not.

A bright orange lace set on the first rack made him wrinkle his nose, and he quickly bypassed it, mentally eliminating anything too complicated as well. Some of the items looked more like puzzles than garments—straps woven through cutouts and buckles that required serious spatial reasoning. 

If it took longer than a few seconds to get on, it was going back on the rack.

The next display seemed more promising. Simple, elegant slips in soft colors—blush, ivory, navy. Some were plain, others adorned with tiny pearl buttons, or finished with eyelash lace along the hem. A few came with matching panties; others had gauzy over-garments that looked like robes, complete with satin ribbons and delicate bows.

Charles’ fingers lingered on a pale blue slip trimmed in silver lace. It looked soft, drapey, something that would fall to mid-thigh and brush his skin with every movement. It would also cover much more skin than some of the other options, and he figured he could start there and see how he felt. He grabbed that one, and then a few more, grabbing multiples in different sizes just in case. 

The thought of asking for help or guessing wrong made him flush with quiet dread. Better to be over prepared than caught in something too tight or awkward.

The next rack made him pause—bra and panty sets, more traditional but no less intimidating. Some had molded cups with delicate embroidery, while others had no cups at all, only frames of lace and satin strapping. His fingers brushed over a pale pink set that made him freeze in place.

It was . . . cute. Daring, but cute.

The open-cup bra was structured only by satin piping and little pink bows covering just enough to hint. It came with a tiny satin skirt, barely more than a ruffle of fabric, and a third piece Charles wasn’t entirely sure how to wear—some sort of garter or harness, maybe?

His cheeks flamed, but before he could talk himself out of it, he snatched the hanger off the rack and added it to the growing pile balanced on his arm.

By the time he was done, his arms were full of hangers, fabrics of all shades and textures slipping against each other. He glanced over at Max—still seated on the velvet couch, eyebrows scrunched together as he typed something on his phone, oblivious for now.

Relieved, Charles ducked into the dressing area, quickly slipping behind the heavy curtain. His heart pounded in his chest as he took a steadying breath.

He could do this. It was just some fabric for fuck’s sake.

He peeled off his baggy jeans and t-shirt first, then hesitated before slipping out of his damp boxer briefs and chest binder. Naked now under the soft golden light, he felt exposed in a way that wasn’t entirely physical.

Spotting a small black box labeled “Disposable Underwear for Try-on Guest Use” sitting on a shelf beneath the mirror, Charles didn’t want to try on delicate lace pieces without some kind of barrier. 

Grabbing a pair, he quickly stepped into them.

A glance in the mirror made him suck in a sharp breath.

They were see-through. Completely . A thin, stretchy mesh that clung to him like a second skin, showing off his freshly shaved Venus mound, and worse—they were a thong. The narrow, flesh-colored strip at the back disappeared between his cheeks, and he felt the burn of embarrassment creep up his neck as he turned to check himself out.

Mon Dieu.

Charles covered his face with both hands for a moment, laughing nervously into his palms. This was already the most vulnerable he’d felt in a long time and he hadn’t even tried anything on yet.

“You okay in there, Charles?” Max’s voice came through the curtain—low, even, the kind of tone that always managed to settle something inside him.

“Oui,” Charles replied quickly, tugging his hands away from his face, even though his cheeks were still burning. He didn’t want Max to hear the uncertainty in his voice. 

Not yet.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the mirror and reached for the simplest thing in his pile—the pale blue slip dress. The fabric was soft and cool under his fingertips, satin that shimmered faintly in the warm lighting. It slipped easily over his head and down his frame, whispering across his skin as it settled into place, strings of the back not even needing to be undone, neatly tied at the small of his back.

The hem stopped just at the tops of his thighs, deeper slits up the sides to his hips, the delicate lace along the neckline catching slightly on his collar before falling flush just below it in a V-shape. He tugged at the straps gently, smoothing it over his sides, then stepped back to assess himself in the mirror.

It looked . . . fine.

Not terrible. Not amazing. Just—safe.

The color suited him, soft against his skin tone, and it fit reasonably well. It wasn’t too tight in the chest or too loose in the waist, but it felt unremarkable, like something you might wear under something else, not the kind of thing that turned heads or made your Dom look at you like you were the most precious thing in the room.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting to the pile of hangers he’d carefully chosen earlier. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the slip, twisting the lace between them. 

Was he playing it too safe? Was he already letting himself down before he even really tried?

Then something in the mirror caught his eye.

A small rack tucked into the back corner of the dressing room—barely visible behind another velvet curtain. He turned toward it, curiosity tugging at his nerves, and padded across the carpet in bare feet. A sleek black tag hung from the rack’s gold rail, the letters neat and unmistakable: Verstappen, Private Appointment.

Charles swallowed hard and reached for one of the hangers, brushing his fingers over the fabric.

Everything on the rack screamed Max. Leather harnesses with fine gold chains, intricate lace bodysuits with cutouts in daring places, sheer stockings paired with garters he didn’t know how to wear. The colors were rich—deep wine, dark emerald, jet black, even a stunning crimson. 

There was structure here. Drama. Intention.

And they were expensive. He could tell just by the stitching, the labels he recognized from magazine spreads and whispered conversations during fashion week in Monaco, dragged to plenty by his ex-girlfriends.

Suddenly, the pale blue slip clinging to his frame felt juvenile. Embarrassingly simple. His choices looked like something a teen girl would wear to a sleepover—not something that would impress Max.

He stared at the rack for a long moment, heart sinking, thumb creeping back to his mouth as he chewed nervously on the nail. The comparison made him feel foolish and like he’d wandered into something far beyond what he was meant for.

What was he thinking?

He looked back toward the curtain and debated just putting his clothes back on, a twinge starting behind his eyes and in his nose. Maybe he could make some excuse, pretend nothing had fit, or say he wasn’t feeling well. Anything to avoid stepping out in this little slip and seeing disappointment flicker in Max’s eyes.

Because that would hurt worse than anything.

Fingers trailing over his collar, Charles closed his eyes, thumb rubbing over the inscription on the underside resting against his throat. 

Taking a breath that trembled just a little in his chest, Charles decided to just get it over with. He’d agreed to try on one thing—just one—and Max had gone to all this trouble, booking the space, arranging the appointment, driving all the way out here. 

The least Charles could do was follow through.

He slid his thumb from his mouth, wiped the dampness against his thigh, and smoothed his palm over the front of the slip dress. The satin was cool under his hand, clinging lightly to his skin, catching the low lighting in soft ripples. He tugged gently at the hem and reached for the heavy curtain, parting it slowly.

The air in the open room felt cooler somehow, more exposed.

Max was still sitting on the velvet couch, legs slightly spread, phone in one hand. He looked so relaxed—chinos bunched around his thighs, sport coat sleeves riding up just enough to reveal the flex of his forearms. The moment Max looked up and saw him, though, the phone was forgotten. His eyes lifted slowly, taking Charles in with quiet intensity before he clicked the screen off and set the device aside.

He extended a hand toward him, palm open, fingers relaxed. “Come here.”

Taking a hesitant step forward, the plush rug muffling his bare feet. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them and he shifted the hem of the slip with one hand, the other brushing along the lace on the neckline below his collar.

Max watched him closely, but there was no mockery in his gaze. Just warmth and patience. The kind of attention that made Charles feel seen, not exposed. 

As Charles came within reach, Max’s hand slid lightly along the hem of the slip, his knuckles grazing the side of Charles’ thigh with the slit. The fabric glided under his fingers, and he let his palm linger, slow and appreciative.

“This is nice,” Max murmured, voice smooth as silk. “I like the color. Looks good against your skin and with your collar.”

Swallowing, Charles’ eyes flicked down to Max’s hand, more thoughts like that in the car barreling behind his eyes. “It’s comfortable,” he replied quietly. “And—it was easy to put on.”

Max smiled, thumb brushing lightly along the lace trim near his hip. “Will be easy for me to take off too,” he said, a playful glint in his eye as he gave Charles’ hip a gentle squeeze.

That made Charles flush—but also smile, the knot of anxiety in his chest slowly unraveling.

Placing both hands on his waist, max shifted the satin up a few inches before pulling it back down.

“Is this the one you want?” Max asked, tone soft and open. “We can just take this one and go if you’d like.”

Charles shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the satin catching slightly around his thighs. He'd half-expected Max to tease him, to laugh even, and his heart had braced for it. But there was only calm reassurance in Max’s gaze, and the kind smile hadn’t faltered once, the freckle on his top lip stretched lightly.

He wanted more than kind. He wanted to wow Max, to see hunger in those eyes, to feel wanted in the way he did after Monaco and during their shower last night. 

He wanted to try again.

“Maybe I can try a few more?” Charles asked, voice still shy but steadier now. “There were others I liked.”

Max’s smile deepened, his fingers still toying with the edge of the hem. “Of course,” he said, eyes gleaming. “I’d love to see what else you picked out.”

And suddenly, Charles wasn’t so nervous anymore.

With a new rush of energy in his step, he hurried back to the dressing room, drawing the curtain closed behind him with a quiet swish. The air inside felt warmer, charged with something electric that danced just under his skin. He slipped the pale blue slip off over his head and laid it neatly on the bench, smoothing it once with his hand before reaching for the next hanger—the one with the pale pink set and those sweet, daring bows.

A grin tugged at his lips.

He pulled the set off the hanger and reached for the top first, carefully guiding one arm through, then the other. The satin straps felt impossibly soft against his skin, almost like warm water trailing over him. 

The fastening was simple, just two small hooks in the back that clipped together with a gentle click. He adjusted the thin straps over his shoulders, smoothing them into place.

And then he looked up.

The open cups framed him perfectly, hugging the gentle curves of his small chest with unexpected finesse, the little pink bows perched just over his nipples like teasing secrets. He touched one lightly, a thrill buzzing under his skin, cheeks flushing with something giddy and new.

He felt pretty.

Stepping into the matching skirt next, it was a delicate puff of satin that barely covered anything at all, a small thong built in he hadn't noticed. The ruffle hem skimmed just below the curve of his waist, and when he turned in the mirror, he couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter that escaped.

The back was practically nonexistent—just a flicker of fabric and a hint of frill. Completely impractical. 

Absolutely perfect.

He picked up the third piece last—the one he hadn’t quite figured out before. Holding it up, he checked the tag and found a small photo of the model wearing it. The woman in the picture had it fastened low around her waist, like a belt, with soft elastic ribbons draping down to her upper thighs, each one ending in a tiny bow.

Charles studied the placement carefully, then wrapped it around himself, adjusting until it rested where he thought it should. He gave the dangling ribbons a quick pat, then turned to examine the full look in the mirror, and for the first time since stepping into the shop, he didn’t feel out of place.

Still blushing but unable to stop smiling, he squared his shoulders, took a breath, and pushed the curtain aside.

Max’s eyes were already on him as Charles stepped out from behind the curtain—sharp and focused, phone nowhere in sight. He looked like he’d been waiting for this moment, completely still, lips parted in quiet awe before they curved into a wide, appreciative smile.

He stood slowly from the couch, gaze never leaving Charles as he closed the distance between them with a kind of reverence that made the Monégasque’s skin tingle under the delicate fabric.

Charles walked toward the Dutchman with more confidence this time, bare feet sinking into the thick rug, a soft swish of the little satin skirt brushing against his thighs with each step. The way Max looked at him—smoldering, intense, as though Charles had just walked out of a dream—sent heat flooding straight to his cheeks.

Max’s voice dropped, low and fond. “Do a little spin for me.”

Biting his lip, the Monégasque obliged, slowly turning in place, letting Max take in every inch. The bows, the ruffle, the daring openness of it all. His grin broke through as he turned to face him again, heart fluttering at the way Max’s gaze devoured him.

“What about this one?” Charles asked, a little breathless.

“Simply lovely,” Max replied, smirking as his fingers ghosted over the hem of the ruffled skirt, trailing lightly along the satin edge. He hooked one finger around the delicate bow resting just over Charles’ right breast and gave it a playful tug.

“Blush pink might be my new favorite color,” he murmured, and with a gentle pull, the bow slipped free, unraveling like a ribbon on a gift, the satin falling away to reveal soft skin beneath, exposing the small peak of his nipple.

Charles gasped, quickly covering himself with one hand as he swatted at Max’s with the other. “Max!”

The Dutchman’s smirk widened, eyes gleaming with mischief. “A present just for me,” he said, voice dark with delight.

“I don’t even know how to re-tie that!” Charles narrowed his eyes. 

Leaning in slightly, not bothering to hide the hunger in his gaze, Max said, “Even better,” giving Charles a peck on the cheek, followed by a light spank on his bare ass.

Huffing, cheeks flushed to a deep rose, Charles turned on his heel and marched, flustered but smiling back to the dressing room, muttering under his breath as the soft ruffle bounced behind him, ass fully on display.

Max’s quiet chuckle followed him all the way to the curtain.

The next several outfits went by in a blur of flushed cheeks, breathy laughter, and lingering touches. Charles emerged again and again in something skimpier, bolder, more revealing than the last—each time more confident than the one before. And each time, Max sat perched on the edge of the couch, doing his best to remain composed.

But Charles could tell he was slipping.

The way Max’s hands lingered longer on his thighs, the way his fingers trailed higher along the seams of lace, the way his jaw tensed slightly every time Charles turned and revealed just how little fabric was actually covering him—Max was unraveling, piece by piece.

And Charles loved it.

He’d grown bolder, more playful with each change, tossing flirty glances over his shoulder, twirling just a little slower. He leaned into Max’s touch instead of shrinking from it, and the sensation of being looked at—really looked at—made him feel powerful, precious. 

Seen.

Riding the high of that heady confidence, Charles turned away from his personal pile and wandered over to the rack Max had curated in the changing room. His fingers skimmed the hangers until one stopped him cold.

It was . . . red. Ferrari red.

Not the soft blushes or dusty pinks from before—but red. Deep crimson leather, woven into a cage of thin straps, polished buckles, and short gold chains that gleamed under the ambient lighting. There was no hanger tag, no photo model, no helpful “this piece goes here” diagram.

Just raw, unapologetic design.

Charles swallowed hard, and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. This wasn’t lingerie—it was armor. A statement. And after trying on nearly a dozen pieces already, he figured—how hard could it be?

Starting with the collar, he wrapped the thick leather strap around his neck and secured the buckle behind his head, fingers nimble from practice. The front featured a trio of gold rings, stacked vertically with strips of leather connecting them in a descending line that ended mid-chest. He adjusted them so they laid flat, the lowest ring settling just between his exposed breasts, shining like a first place medal.

The second strap fastened just below his shoulder blades, horizontal and snug across his chest—bra height, if he had one. It hugged him securely, pressing the leather flush against his skin. He stepped closer to the mirror, eyeing the lines with a small flash of pride. 

Not bad.

Below that, another strap wrapped around the smallest point of his waist. It took a few tries, pinching uncomfortably at first, but he eventually figured out how to loosen the buckle by a notch or two. It hugged him tightly, framing his torso like a sculptor might define a marble figure.

Then came the lower pieces—two thin leather bands on each side, clearly meant for his thighs. Charles bent to fasten them, tugging the red straps into place around the swell of each thigh, the metal hardware pressing cool against his skin. Gold D-rings sat on either side, glinting with possibilities and straps framed his ass, connecting in the back to the waist strap.

He paused at the last set: two small leather cuffs, delicate and curved with chain attachments dangling like jewelry. They felt oddly familiar until he noticed the tiny embossed letters on the inside: “L” and “R.”

Charles smiled, shaking his head lightly. It was just like his racing gloves—left and right indicators, ensuring everything had its place. He fastened the L cuff around his left wrist and the R around his right, the chains hanging freely from his arms, clinking softly as he moved.

Then he stepped back.

The mirror didn’t show Charles as he’d been when he arrived—shy, uncertain, small. This version of him stood tall, shoulders squared, back straight, expression calm.

The leather wrapped around his frame in sharp, elegant lines—like art forged from restraint. The chains caught the light, casting glimmers across his skin, and the collar hugged his throat with unapologetic pride, standing just over his platinum one.

This was it, he thought, heart pounding as he took in the reflection. 

Sitting on the vanity beside him was a selection of heels, some so tall he couldn’t imagine how anyone could wear them, and some that seemed more reasonable. Wanting to put on the best show possible, Charles grabbed a simple nude pair, sitting quickly to put them on. They were tight on his feet but not impossible, leg training really coming in handy for being on the balls of his feet. 

Taking some tentative steps, he decided he wasn’t going to break his neck if he took it slow.

He could do this.

Making his way toward the curtain, Charles paused only once—just long enough to take a deep, grounding breath, the coolness of the leather around his throat anchoring him in place.

Then he stepped out, head held high, stride smooth.

He didn’t hesitate this time, no shy glances, no lingering at the threshold. Just bold steps across the room, the soft jingle of gold chains and the rhythmic click of the thigh buckles brushing with every motion. The red leather clung to him like second skin, crisscrossing over the planes of his chest, waist, and thighs, highlighting the strength and elegance of his form.

Max sat waiting, elbows braced on his knees, eyes already darkened with restrained hunger. He went to rise, intent on meeting Charles halfway, but the Monégasque reached him first.

Without a word, Charles lifted his leg and placed the ball of his foot against the center of Max’s chest, the thin toe platform of his heel catching on Max’s shirt and pushed him back down into the velvet couch. The Dutchman fell into the cushions with a soft oof, brows lifting in surprise as Charles smirked down at him, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you want to admire your selection from afar?” Charles teased, lips curling. His gaze dropped, pointedly, to the unmistakable crease straining across the front of Max’s chinos and lowered his foot to trace it lightly with the heel. “Seems like you’re enjoying the view.”

Max didn’t answer—at least not with words. But his eyes tracked every shift of Charles’ body as he retracted his leg, like he was memorizing each movement. His jaw tightened, hands twitching slightly where they rested against his thighs before he leaned back, legs adjusting wider, sliding into a more comfortable spread across the couch, propping his cheek on his fist.

Charles reveled in it.

He backed away from the couch and strutted, slow and smooth, turning in a tight circle, letting the overhead lighting highlight the sheen of leather and flicker against the delicate gold hardware. He arched his back slightly as he turned, letting his hips roll just enough to tease, to taunt. 

Each breath came a little deeper now, the pressure building under his skin, but the thrill of control pushed him forward.

Feet starting to ache from only wearing heels for a few minutes, Charles decided the look on Max’s face was worth every second of the discomfort.

Feeling reckless and alive—he climbed up onto the couch, straddling Max’s thighs, the red leather brushing against the fabric between them, making Max's breath hitch.

The relief on his feet was immediate but that was just a bonus for the hungry gaze that met his.

Charles knelt there, still proud and poised, letting Max’s hands roam over the thick red straps hugging his ribs and waist. Max’s fingers trailed reverently along the vertical leather line bisecting his exposed chest, tracing the curve of gold rings. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing soft circles against Charles’ skin.

“Let me finish doing this up for you,” Max spoke, voice like gravel and velvet.

Reaching for the delicate chain hanging from Charles’ right wrist, the metal was cool against Charles as he gently guided Charles’ hand behind his back. With a quiet click, he fastened the clasp to a gold ring positioned at the base of the back harness strap.

The moment the restraint locked, Charles felt his pulse skip. A new kind of tension tightened in his chest—part nerves, part exhilaration.

Then Max reached for the second chain.

“Relax, liefje,” he whispered as he guided Charles’ left wrist back, clasping it with careful tug. Another soft click, and Charles’ hands were now completely secured behind him, wrists bound in the glinting red and gold harness of his own choosing.

A quiet thrill rippled through him.

Here he was—bound, straddling Max in an open room, heart racing, collar gleaming beneath the soft light—and it wasn’t nerves or doubt tightening his throat.

It was power.

He had brought Max to this state, pupils blown wide and hands glued to his skin, erection straining under Charles’ ass.

Max exhaled slowly, hands coming to rest on Charles’ hips, grip firm. “This one is perfect,” he said softly.

Leaning in without hesitation, Max latched his mouth around the soft skin of Charles’ chest, right where the leather straps framed him like a gift. His lips were hot and wet, and his teeth grazed just enough to make Charles jolt with a sharp gasp, hips bucking slightly forward as Max rolled his nipple between his teeth.

The Monégasque’s instinct was to push Max away, muscles twitching with surprise—but his hands only strained uselessly against the leather straps binding his wrists behind his back. He let out a high, breathy squeal, back arching as he writhed in Max’s lap, helpless and so quickly overstimulated with the attention.

Max didn’t let up. If anything, he enjoyed it.

With a low, pleased hum, he released Charles’ right breast with a lewd pop that echoed in the quiet room, saliva glistening where his mouth had just been. He moved immediately to the left, tongue flicking out before sealing his mouth around the soft skin again, sucking harder this time.

Charles cried out, a high, choked sound he couldn’t contain, thighs tightening around Max’s hips as he trembled in place. The leather straps across his chest shifted with each movement, the chains clinking softly, a decadent soundtrack to his unraveling.

His hands twisted desperately behind him, fingers flexing uselessly in the cuffs as his body surged with heat, tension pooling low in his belly, before he froze.

Max’s hand, large and steady, slipped expertly between his thighs, fingers ghosting up along the inner seam of his mesh panties, brushing right where Charles was already aching and wet. Max paused for a moment, two fingers pressing lightly against the soaked material between Charles’ legs, as if confirming what he already knew.

“Well,” he said darkly, voice low and smug, lips still brushing against the flushed skin of Charles’ chest, “I think we’re going to have to buy this one.”

He pressed his fingers in slightly against the mesh, dragging a moan from Charles’ throat as he squirmed helplessly in Max’s lap, cheeks flushed crimson.

“Seeing as how you’ve already made a mess in it.”

Charles let out a half-laugh, half-whimper, hips twitching again, caught between embarrassment and arousal. His voice came out thin, desperate. “Max—”

But Max only smiled, palm flattening against the front of the ruined garment, possessive and claiming.

“Mine,” he whispered.

And Charles—panting, bound, soaking through red leather—couldn’t agree more as he bent down, seeking relief from Max’s hot mouth.

“If you can stay quiet, we can make this quick,” Max murmured, lips brushing the shell of Charles’ ear, voice dark and steady. His hand was already moving between them, fingers tugging aside the soaked fabric with ease.

“Can you stay quiet, Charles?”

Charles nodded quickly—violently—his breath catching as his hips instinctively tilted downward, seeking Max’s touch like a lifeline. He was already trembling, overstimulated and overwhelmed, but desperate for more, metal rattling gently against him.

“Make it quick,“ he repeated and Charles got right to work. 

He started to move, ungraceful and desperate, rising up shakily on his knees and lowering himself back down onto Max’s positioned fingers. His balance was precarious with his wrists bound behind him, thighs already sore from kneeling and the heels, but he didn’t care. He just needed it—needed him.

Max let him try, just for a moment.

The effort was clumsy, stuttering. Charles’ breath hitched with every shallow bounce, his back arching slightly as he tried to find rhythm, to chase the friction. His forehead pressed to Max’s shoulder for stability, the soft leather harness creaking with each movement, mouth parted against Max’s skin, panting hotly, trying to stay quiet.

He couldn’t.

With a strangled whimper, Charles bit down—hard—into the meat of Max’s shoulder, stifling the cry that threatened to escape as Max slipped another finger inside, three of them stretching him further.

Max hissed but didn’t stop, his free arm tightening around Charles’ waist to hold him in place.

Taking pity on Charles’ poor, shaky attempts to ride him, Max shifted his grip and took over. He anchored him still, one strong hand on Charles’ hip as his other hand worked furiously between his thighs, fingers curling just right, wrist pumping in sharp movements that made Charles see stars.

The sensation was delicious, white-hot tension building fast.

“Focus, Charlie,” Max breathed, mouth at his temple now, voice low and urgent. “Only a few more minutes and then we have to stop, finished or not.”

Charles let out a ragged breath, forehead slick against Max’s skin, whole body trembling as he fought to stay quiet. The chains from his cuffs jingled faintly behind him, a delicate contrast to the obscene wet sound of Max’s fingers working him open, filling him completely.

He nodded again, unable to speak, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the edge drew closer.

He was going to come undone—fast, hard, and if he wasn’t careful, loud.

Max kept his rhythm unrelenting but measured, fingers driving into Charles with fierce determination. His voice never rose above a murmur, but each word pressed into Charles like warm honey, thick and decadent, the praise of his Dom dulling his mind.

“That’s it, baby.”

“You like this, yeah? So wet from dressing up for me?”

“Such a good girl.”

“You feel perfect around my fingers—so fucking perfect—”

Charles whimpered against his shoulder, hips trembling, each praise tightening the coil in his belly until he was barely holding himself together. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, skin flushed and slick with sweat beneath the leather straps binding him.

“You're dripping, Charlie,” Max cooed. “You like being seen, like showing off for me don't you?”

Max drove in particularly hard, rolling his wrist just right.

“Maybe I'll take you out in this, go to another party at Nico's. Take you down stairs and let everyone watch how good you are for me. How well you take what I give you—”

A strangled breath caught in his throat as stars exploded behind his eyes, thoughts of anyone else seeing him like this, unable to deny Max and his own need. His whole body went taut before it broke, pleasure crashing through him in a white-hot wave that left him breathless. His mouth latched onto Max’s shoulder again, biting down as the orgasm ripped through him, uncontrolled and utterly consuming. He felt it gush out of him in a rush, soaking Max’s hand, thighs shaking violently. The slick sound of it hitting the plush velvet beneath them was unmistakable—sticky, wet, obscene as Max continued to draw out his climax into another one.

Max didn’t flinch.

“So messy,” he said against Charles’ ear, voice smug and proud, tongue tracing the lobe. 

The fingers finally stopped, pulling out of him slowly before a firm slap landed against Charles’ overstimulated core, the sharp smack making him jolt and yelp, burying the sound into Max’s neck. He trembled in the aftermath, chest heaving, breath coming in shuddering gasps, whole body feeling molten, boneless, strung out and wrecked in the best way.

He couldn’t stop whimpering.

Max’s hand left his waist and moved up into his curls, fingers combing gently through the damp strands, calming him. “Shhh,” he whispered, softer now. “That’s my girl.”

With unreal strength, Max slid his hands under Charles and stood, lifting him like he weighed nothing at all. Charles wrapped his legs around Max’s waist, arms still pinned behind him, cheek pressed tightly to Max’s throat to try and hold on.

His face burned, overwhelmed not just by release but the sudden flush of embarrassment. He hadn’t lasted long—barely a few minutes—and he’d soaked them both, not to mention the damn couch. All because of Max's filthy words, saying they could go to another party together . . . Play together while others watched.

He tried to hide, burying himself deeper into the crook of Max’s neck.

The Dutchman didn’t scold him, didn’t tease. Only cooed gently as he walked them back toward the dressing area.

“Come on,” he said softly, pressing a kiss into Charles’ temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up and take you home.”

Charles was breathless, trembling, completely undone, and could only nod. Max’s voice felt like a tether. Like safety.

Like home.

Chapter Text

The lights in the studio were already a little too bright for this early in the morning, flooding every corner of the white-washed space with harsh, clinical intensity. Charles sat in the makeup chair, posture loose but eyes tired, blinking slowly as the makeup artist dabbed concealer along the side of his neck.

It was criminal to be up before 11am when he didn't have to race.

Even then, he was definitely not a morning person.

“Hold still,” she said gently, patting at his skin with a sponge. “This one’s a little stubborn.”

He winced slightly at the cool touch of the product and the not-so-subtle pressure over what he knew was a very bold, very intentional hickey—one that hadn’t faded as much as he’d hoped it would. The shape of it was still there, Max's full lips, even beneath the beige-toned layers they were using to try and hide it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and almost snorted.

It wasn’t subtle.

Max had made sure of that last night.

The pair had been taking turns spending the night in each other’s apartment when they were home from traveling, and Charles swore he could still smell Max’s shampoo in his hair from this morning. Just the memory made Charles’ skin prickle under the collar of his shirt, the stiff studio air suddenly too warm against his bound chest.

He reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his collar—his real collar. Not his play collar, not the one from APM’s summer line that they’d styled him in months ago for the preview shoot, but the platinum one that now sat snug around his throat every day.

His collar from Max.

“I like your . . . necklace,” a soft voice chimed from beside him, cutting cleanly through the low hum of blow dryers and quiet chatter in the studio.

Charles blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and turned slightly, only to find Kelly Piquet seated in the styling chair next to his.

Not an odd sighting as they’d often run into each other at shoots as brand ambassadors for APM, but Charles simply hadn’t noticed her come in.

She was already slipping off a designer jacket, the kind of effortless, expensive outerwear that whispered old money, and settling into her chair with a graceful ease that immediately set Charles on edge. One of the stylists had begun gently brushing out her long chestnut hair, fussing with its natural waves.

Charles dropped his hand from where it had been idly resting at his collar and offered her a polite, practiced smile. “Thank you.”

“Is it from today’s collection?” she asked, tone light, but there was something behind the question—something just a touch too pointed. She angled her head toward him without turning fully, like she was already measuring his reaction. “I didn’t see it in the lineup.”

“No,” Charles said, keeping his eyes fixed on his own reflection. “It was a gift. I’m not sure about the brand, actually.”

He kept his voice even, nonchalant, but the faint twist in his stomach told another story.

The collar sat snug against his skin, a glint of platinum just visible where the makeup artist had tried to blend foundation under it. It felt heavier now—more present—under her gaze.

Charles wasn’t entirely sure why, but he had the unmistakable urge to shift his chair slightly away from hers.

He knew who she was, of course. Everyone in Monaco did. You couldn’t move through this tiny principality without hearing whispers and name-drops, and Kelly’s name had always carried a certain presence—former model, brand ambassador, socialite, daughter of a three time Formula One world champion, and, until recently . . . Max’s girlfriend.

They’d dated for a few years. Charles had seen her dozens of times around the paddock, hovering by the Red Bull garage, posing with sponsors, slipping into Max’s motorhome with the discretion of someone wanting to be watched.

They’d broken up before the 2024 season began. Quietly. No headlines. No drama. Just . . . over.

Charles had never asked Max for the story. He hadn’t wanted to.

Max had asked him about Pierre, but Charles hadn’t really considered asking Max about his past partners. 

Maybe he should bring it up?

Still, the way she was looking at him now, curious, assessing, and not quite smiling made his skin crawl. Her eyes flicked briefly to his collar again, then to the mirror, like she was lining up puzzle pieces in her mind.

That was just silly though. It was just a necklace as far as anyone else was concerned and they'd been careful, no one suspected a thing. 

Except Pierre of course . . .

“It’s beautiful,” she said finally, voice smooth, almost sincere.

Charles swallowed once and nodded, eyes returning to his reflection. “Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time.

He didn’t owe her anything.

“Charles,” the stylist’s voice broke into their conversation. She was standing just behind him now, clipboard in one hand, a headset slung loosely around her neck. “We’re going to need you to take off your necklace before the first look. It's not APM.”

Charles blinked at her through the mirror, muscles tensing. “Sorry?”

“The necklace,” she repeated, stepping forward slightly to gesture at it. “It’s not part of the collection. We can’t shoot with it on, you know the deal. We’ll take a few clean shots without it and then you can put it back on after the shoot.”

Hand lifting reflexively, his palm closed around the collar. 

Not a necklace. Not to him.

Max’s voice echoed in his head like a phantom from the night he’d collared him: A sub should never take their own collar off. Ever. That would be like rejecting this, walking away.

His fingers tightened around it slightly.

“I . . . I can’t,” Charles said after a beat, voice softer than he meant for it to be, but steady. He cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

The stylist paused, frowning a little as she stepped closer. “It’s just for the shoot? Similar to how we store your watches, we’ll give it back right after, I promise.”

Charles felt eyes burning into the side of his head from Kelly beside him, gaze locked on his own reflection in the mirror. He tightened his grip on his phone in his lap. 

They'd talked about this, that Charles would get questions or even demands to remove it for things, and Max had told him he was not to take it off without discussing it with him first. 

Should he call the Dutchman and ask? Would Max be mad?

“I know,” he said instead, voice a bit firmer this time. “But it stays on.”

Kelly beside him scoffed, looking down at her manicure.

The stylist hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do next. Behind her, the makeup artist had gone still too, sponge hovering midair covered in powder.

“I’m happy to talk to the director if that’s a problem,” Charles added, trying to sound polite, not defensive, putting on his best PR smile. “We have a good relationship and I'm sure we can figure something out. But it stays. It's . . . sentimental.”

The stylist blinked, then slowly nodded, scribbling something on her clipboard. “I’ll let them know. We can adjust your wardrobe to shoot around it if need be, and I think there were some high neck shirts in the dressing room.”

Charles let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relaxing back into the chair slightly. His fingers drifted once more to the collar at his throat, brushing the locking clasp, grounding himself.

He hadn’t needed permission to say no, but he knew Max would be proud anyway.

The stylist hustled off in a flurry of headsets and clipboard mutterings, leaving Charles in the chair as the makeup artist leaned in to delicately brush powder over the bridge of his nose. He had to fight against the gentle tickle of the bristles, the scent of setting spray clinging in the air making a sneeze build.

That was when Kelly spoke again, her tone light but too practiced, too casual to be anything but intentional.

“How are you feeling about the rest of the season? The McLaren is a rocket ship.”

Charles couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped him, glancing down at his hands folded neatly in his lap. A rocket ship was one way to put it. Oscar and Lando had clearly been given the best package on the grid this year—despite whatever modest horseshit Lando attempted in press conferences.

“They’ve done a great job,” he admitted. “But I feel good. The team has been working hard in the factory, and Lewis’ feedback—it’s helped shape the direction of our next upgrade package.”

Kelly’s reflection shifted subtly in the mirror beside him. Her smile was barely there, eyes unreadable as she reached for a bottle of sparkling water.

“Lewis is helpful for all kinds of things, it seems,” she said with a soft laugh, just loud enough to cut through the ambient chatter of the room.

Charles stilled slightly, brows furrowing. Did she spend a lot of time with Lewis? As far as Charles knew, they didn’t really associate with one another, but perhaps he was wrong?

He turned his head toward her, trying to read the look in her eyes. “I enjoy having him as my teammate—” he began carefully, but she cut across him without blinking.

“Max is having a good season too, no? Even with the Red Bull underperforming. But that's just Max, capable of taming even the wildest stallion.”

There it was again . . . that tone. Smooth. Icy. Sharp as a diamond blade under silk.

Charles’ lips parted slightly, words caught somewhere between a neutral PR-ready response and something more pointed. He wasn’t sure what she was getting at exactly, but he felt the iciness behind her words. It was like sitting in a sunny room with the windows cracked open just enough to let the draft crawl in.

He might not know the whole story between her and Max, but he knew she was watching him closely, like she knew something, or maybe just wanted him to feel like she did.

He opened his mouth to respond, but was mercifully interrupted.

A young stylist popped into the prep room, tablet in hand. “We are ready for you in wardrobe, Kelly.”

Charles let out a slow breath, trying not to make it obvious. His hand crept up to his collar again, thumb brushing the clasp. Kelly stood slowly, smoothing the hem of her sleek cream blouse. She didn’t look at him directly, not until she was just about to step past his chair.

Then, she smiled.

Not the kind that reached her eyes—but the kind people wore at the end of a chess match, whether or not they had actually won.

“Tell Max I said hi, will you?” she said airily. “And congrats on his Miami win. He must not have seen my text.”

Charles blinked, lips pressing into a tight line. He said nothing, but his fingers didn’t leave the collar. Kelly didn’t wait for a response, just turned on her heel and walked out, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering behind her like a signature.

The room felt quieter after she left, but the tension she brought with her still buzzed beneath Charles’ skin.

“How was the shoot?” Max asked casually, almost distracted as he chewed on a mouthful of salad. The crunch of lettuce echoed softly in the otherwise quiet kitchen, the two of them perched at the counter in the soft midday light pouring through Max’s windows.

Charles had come straight here after the morning’s APM campaign, still much too early for his liking and filled with too many cameras. Now, all he wanted was to unwind, eat, and maybe coax Max into something a little less public-facing and a little more . . .  private.

He swallowed a bite of his own salad, chewing around some grilled chicken and shrugged. “Fine,” he said, stabbing a cherry tomato with unnecessary force. “Just the usual three or four outfits and smoldering into the camera.”

Max looked up at that, an amused grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, blue eyes sparkling with teasing warmth. “I’m sure you killed it,” he said, tone suggestive.

Charles rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. 

The truth was, Max had no idea how much of a minefield the shoot had been. Kelly’s presence, her look—it was still sitting like a stone in his stomach, but he’d decided not to mention it. Not while they were having a good day.

And honestly, Max looked too good right now to sour the mood. Messy hair, plain black t-shirt clinging to his chest, and those damn sharp cheekbones on full display. Charles always thought it was criminal how little modeling Max actually did for AlphaTauri. With a face like that, he could've owned any camera lens in the room. 

Especially with his smolder.

Max stood from the table, scooping up his empty glass of water. “I’m getting more. You want some?” he asked over his shoulder.

Charles glanced down at his own glass, barely a few sips left, and nodded around his current mouthful of greens, chewing a little too slowly as he watched Max’s back move. The way his shoulder blades shifted under the fabric of his shirt, the lazy confidence of his walk.

God, he hoped they weren’t just having lunch. He had other things in mind.

“Please,” Charles said softly, turning back to his plate, swallowing his mouthful.

Max pulled out a pitcher from a cabinet and started filling it up from the door on the fridge. The Dutchman's phone vibrated on the table a moment later and Max said from across the room, “could you look at that? I'm supposed to stream later and I'm sure it's Crane confirming a time.”

Charles swiped the phone off the table and touched his thumb to the screen, taking another bite.

And then he froze.

It indeed was a discord message from Luke, but that wasn't what caught his eye. There was another message.

Kelly:
I’ll be at the Red Bull Ring. I think we should talk.
I know you still want me.
I miss you.

Charles stared at the screen, stunned. His finger trembled slightly as they hovered above the display, not unlocking it—he didn’t even know the code—but unable to look away.

A hollow, unfamiliar weight began to settle in his gut, lettuce half hanging out of his mouth.

He didn't want to make a fuss. Didn't want to be that jealous, needy sub.

But . . . ?

What the fuck? 

All of her carefully measured words in the dressing room, every sideways glance, every implication, took on a new meaning. “Tell Max I said hi,” she’d said, almost smug. 

Did she know? Did she know about them—about him?

Had Max told her?

Charles sat up straighter, heart hammering beneath his ribs. He stared at the name on the screen like it might morph into something else if he blinked hard enough.

They'd broken up more than a year ago, hadn’t they?

So why was she still texting him?

Why hadn’t Max said anything to him about it?

And why—most of all—hadn’t he cut off contact?

“Is it Luke?” Max asked from behind him, still at the fridge.

“Yeah,” Charles said numbly, quickly locking the screen and setting the phone down with a soft clack.

The water shut off. 

Charles didn’t look up as he heard Max’s bare feet pad across the tile, the soft clink of glass against the table as he refilled Charles’ water. His presence was warm, but it only made Charles feel colder somehow, more hollow.

Max refilled his own glass next, then slid back into his chair. He reached for his phone, tapped out a quick reply and then set it face down without even glancing Charles’ way.

“Looks like we might be streaming late tonight,” Max said, taking a sip of water before continuing. “Will you be staying or do you not have a sitter for Leo?”

Charles blinked, barely registering the question.

He blinked again.

Max looked up at him now, waiting, concern starting to flicker faintly behind the casual calm.

“I have the sitter,” Charles said finally.

Did he just reply to her? Does he talk to her often? 

“Good,” Max said with a grin, reaching for his glass. “I was hoping to try out some new things . . . unless you’re still too sore from last night.”

That—that—snapped Charles clean out of his fog.

The icy spiral of doubt in his chest evaporated in an instant, chased off by the low, teasing edge in Max’s voice and the memory it invoked. He blinked, fully present again, the warmth in his cheeks returning for a different reason entirely.

He was being stupid anyway.

Of course Max hadn’t texted Kelly back. 

He hadn’t had the time. They’d spent the entire night tangled together—Max wrapped around him like a vice, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them. 

And this morning? 

Charles had barely managed to get out of bed in time for his shoot, Max dragging his lips along his spine like he was starved. He’d been half-dressed, breathless, laughing between kisses as Max insisted on just “five more minutes.”

He hadn’t been distant. He hadn’t been distracted.

Max had been his.

And here Charles was, letting one nasty message shake that.

He took a sip of water to center himself, licking the moisture from his lips before answering. “No,” he said. “I’m not too sore.”

Max’s gaze sharpened, blue eyes darkening with interest. He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against the edge of the table, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that always made Charles’ insides twist.

“Even so,” he murmured, “you’ll take what I give you . . . won’t you?”

The words scraped through him like silk over his skin—soft, dangerous and thrilling.

Charles felt the answering heat flare in his stomach and he shifted in his chair, thighs clenching slightly under the table, fingers tightening around his glass.

“Yes, Max,” he said, the words escaping in a breath. 

Max smirked, slow and satisfied, leaning back again with that ever-dangerous calm.

“Good girl.”

Charles moaned into the sheets, the sound muffled but still raw, voice barely recognizable to himself anymore. His entire body felt like it had melted into sensation, mind drifting somewhere hazy and far above him, where only Max’s voice could reach.

“That’s my good girl,” Max rasped from behind him, voice thick and dark with pride. “Soaked, ruined, and still letting me in.”

The words pulsed through Charles like a second heartbeat, breath hitching, thighs trembling where he knelt—high on his knees, spine arched, arms limp beneath him. He wasn’t even sure how many orgasms he’d had. Four? Five? The number didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but this.

Max. Touch. Obedience.

“I don’t need ropes, or cuffs, or chains.” Max moved his hand around to the front of Charles’ neck, fingers slipping under his collar. “I just need my hand around your throat, and my voice in your ear, telling you to stay still. And you will, because you need this more than you need air.”

He gasped, twitching as Max placed a soft, grounding kiss between his shoulder blades, the tender contrast to everything they’d just done nearly sending him over the edge again. 

Max pulled back, leaving behind only the sticky slick of lube and Charles’ own release as a mark of where he’d been.

The loss of warmth made Charles whimper softly, but he stayed in position, just as he’d been taught.

“Now,” Max said, voice low and patient, but carrying that sharpness beneath it that always made Charles’ chest flutter. “Since you were so impatient and couldn’t wait until after my shower . . . ”

Charles flushed, remembering the way he'd climbed into Max’s lap earlier that afternoon, grinding shamelessly in nothing but one of his new slips, whining until Max had bent him over the bed without a second thought.

“ . . . we’re going to work on that,” Max continued smoothly. “I want you to stay just like this, nice and open for me, while I have my shower. And then, we’ll continue.”

His knees ached slightly, and his muscles were trembling, but Charles didn’t move. 

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Yes, Max,” he whispered, the words automatic now, ingrained.

Max leaned in once more, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “Color, Charles?”

Charles licked his dry lips and answered, clear and true, “Green.”

That seemed to satisfy the Dutchman.

Max ran a few more slow, possessive touches over Charles’ thighs and backside, thumbs pressing into the softest parts of him, spreading him one last time like he was admiring his work before finally pulling away.

Charles heard the bathroom door creak open, the muted footsteps over tile, and then the sound of water, steady and loud, somehow so far away and close at once.

He was alone.

But not abandoned.

He stayed exactly where he was, plugged and dripping, ass in the air, cheek to the mattress, heart thudding slow and deep in his chest.

Waiting. Wanting.

Ready.

The ensuite door was ajar, steam starting to curl lazily out into the bedroom, bringing with it the faint scent of Max’s shampoo—fresh and warm. 

The satin of his baby blue slip dress caressed his skin as he stayed still, delicate strings tied behind him against the arch of his back.

He still couldn’t believe Max had actually bought every piece of lingerie he’d tried on in that quiet little shop outside Barcelona. Charles had been doing everything he could not to make eye contact with the saleswoman, cheeks on fire, body wrecked and flushed from their earlier play. 

The mess he’d left behind had been impossible to hide, and yet, Max had remained calm, collected, like casually picking out a basket of bindings and lace was no different than a trip to the bakery.

The Dutchman had even taken his sweet time when they were back upstairs, picking out new toys and restraints for them, Charles flushing hotly when Max ran a flogger over his arm to get his attention.

Charles hadn’t even known Max bought it all until they got back to Monaco. He’d opened his suitcase expecting to find the folded clothes he’d packed himself, but instead found every carefully wrapped item from the boutique laid inside, tissue paper and tags still perfectly in place.

He’d stood there in stunned silence, hand trembling slightly as he pulled out the delicate fabrics, one by one.

Now, he pressed his cheek deeper into Max’s pillow, the flitting memory making his chest warm, mind wandering in his blissed out subspace. 

Max saw him. 

Not just the parts he showed the world, not just the compliant sub or the high-performing athlete. But the soft, secret things. The parts he was only beginning to understand himself, exploring openly with the Red Bull driver.

The slip dress he wore now was simple compared to some of the more elaborate pieces—just satin and a touch of lace, soft enough to wear for hours, but clung in just the right places to make Max stare. 

He rather liked the color too.

Charles exhaled slowly, the tension in his limbs melting further into the mattress beneath him. His body buzzed with the echo of Max’s touch, warm and loose in that delicious, floaty place he’d grown to crave, where his mind quieted and all that remained was sensation and obedience.

He felt good. Used. Wanted.

His thighs still trembled, but there was a glow in his chest, a weightless sort of pride that came from hearing Max’s praise— my good girl. He clung to those words like a tether, eyes closed, the damp heat of the room settling over him like a second skin.

When Max had promised they’d test how easy the slip dress was to remove, Charles knew how it would end with him gasping, moaning, and clawing at the sheets.

He smiled softly at the thought, heart fluttering with anticipation.

The soft chime of his collar echoed as he shifted slightly, swaying gently on his knees. The weight of the plug inside him grounded him, the light roll of the collar around his throat another familiar comfort. Everything was as it should be.

Everything except . . . 

Max sure was taking a long time in the shower.

Charles blinked his eyes open slowly, gaze unfocused, trying to find the sound of the water again, but it was muffled now, distant. It had been . . . several minutes, right?

Was Max almost done? Would he be back soon?

His lips pressed into a thin line as he shifted again, his spine still arched in that perfect waiting posture. The collar rolled slightly again, cool against his flushed skin, and he fought the impulse to lift a hand to touch it, just to hold something.

He didn’t move.

But doubt crept in.

What if Max had changed his mind? What if he didn’t want to continue after all?

Was he stalling in the shower?

Maybe the scene hadn’t been going as well as Charles thought. Maybe he hadn’t been good enough? Maybe he wasn’t arched enough, or quick enough in his answers? Maybe—

A soft whine slipped from his throat before he could stop it, his hips twitching involuntarily.

The warm, floaty space he’d been in—so safe, so soft—began to unravel at the edges. His thoughts started to race, spiraling out into the silence. The stillness of the room, once comforting, now felt too quiet, too still.

He clenched his fingers into the bedding, fighting the instinct to move, to break position and go check, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to.

“Max . . . ?” he whispered, but the sound of the water didn’t change.

And just like that, the calm began to slip away.

Tonight’s session had a focus, and they’d been building toward it all week.

Anal training.

Max had been methodical about it, pushing Charles’ limits with the new toys they’d brought back from Spain. There were graduated sets of plugs, smooth silicone beads, and that one slender, impossibly long depth toy Max had bought with a gleam in his eye. 

It had made Charles squirm the first time, but not from discomfort. 

No, that one . . . that one had earned a permanent place in his thoughts.

He’d never said it out loud, but he loved the feeling of being filled deep, of being claimed from the inside out like that. 

The stretch, the pressure, the fullness. 

Right now, he wore his largest plug, the heavy metal nestled perfectly inside him, pushing deep. It pulled slightly when he shifted, a weighted reminder with every breath. The gleam of the white jewel at its base caught the room’s soft lighting, matching the polished platinum of his collar and its diamonds.

He should’ve been focused.

Should’ve been preening, proud of his position, proud that Max wanted him, desired him, chosen him. Instead, the echo of that message from Kelly started to flash behind his eyes every time he blinked. Her name. Her words. 

I miss you.

Was Max thinking about her in the shower? Is that why he was taking so long? Wishing he was coming back to her , instead of him? 

He heard the water shut off in the bathroom, the glass shower door sliding open with a soft metallic scrape. The steam drifted through the crack in the ensuite door, nudging it wider with a slow creak.

Panic jolted him from his spiral.

He lifted himself as high as he could, spreading his knees shoulder-width apart—just how Max liked. He arched his back deeper, letting the plug settle further as he leaned more onto his forearms, chest low to the mattress. 

His palms flattened against the sheets, fingers splayed for balance, nails lightly pressing into the fabric. The cool air hit his bare thighs, lube starting to cool while the flushed heat rising from the ensuite washed over his back like a ghost of Max’s presence.

He looked perfect. Position memorized like the smooth turns of the Monaco circuit.

But he didn’t feel perfect.

The messages. That name. That line— I know you still want me —kept surfacing again and again like static in his mind.

Should he ask? 

Should he risk ruining the rest of the session? Or should he keep pretending he hadn’t seen it, slip back into the safety of submission, and offer himself as if nothing was wrong?

The bathroom door opened fully. Footsteps padded across the tile.

Charles locked his elbows and held his breath.

Light fingers brushed along the curve of his backside, teasing, slow and confident. 

“Good girl, Charlie. Staying ready for me.”

Those fingers traced the outline of the lace that barely clung to the hem of his satin slip dress, a whisper of fabric that did nothing to hide what lay beneath, still wrinkled and tossed from the rough earlier treatment.

Then a firm squeeze, a claiming pressure that made Charles suck in a breath through his nose.

Unease settled in him, the touch making him want to crawl away instead of settling into it, even though he didn’t understand why he would feel like that about Max

“You know,” Max murmured behind him full of fond heat, “this one might be my favorite.” His fingers twirled lazily through the eyelash lace at the back of the dress, the delicate threads catching slightly between his knuckles. “You always look so sweet in light blue. The Miami suits last year drove me crazy.”

Charles exhaled slowly, willing the tension in his shoulders to melt into the mattress. His head remained bowed, resting just above his outstretched arms, cheek pressed into the sheets. His eyes fluttered closed, trying to steady himself in the sensation of Max’s touch, the cadence of his voice.

He needed to focus. Just relax, just breathe.

The bed dipped behind him, shifting under Max’s weight. Charles felt the warmth of his body, the closeness, as both of Max’s hands smoothed over his back as he gently lifted the satin fabric higher, inch by inch, until it pooled at the small of Charles’ spine.

The air against his now-exposed skin felt cool and humbling, highlighting the flush spreading across his thighs, the heat that lingered between them from before, the unmistakable pressure of the plug still nestled deep inside.

He was ready. Or at least, his body was.

His mind, though, lagged behind, so far away from the space he was in only minutes ago, numb and unthinking.

He couldn’t stop thinking.

He tried to push the thoughts away, will the words off Max’s phone and out of his head. I miss you. I know you still want me.  

He shouldn’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not when he was in position. Not when Max had planned something special. Not when they were in the middle of a session. Not when his Dom was touching him like he was precious.

But it was easier said than done.

There was a slow, deliberate pull on the end of the plug, and Charles jolted slightly, hips tensing in response. The cool metal shifted inside him, making him gasp softly, hands flexing against the sheets.

“Easy,” Max said, voice like velvet now, coaxing him back down. “Just checking if you’ve been practicing with this one.” He leaned in, placing a slow kiss over the round of Charles’ ass, just above the glinting jewel. A kiss of reassurance. A kiss of ownership. “I think your cunt has had enough for today and I have a new toy for us to try here instead,” he continued, tone dark and promising. “I think you’ll like this one. I’ve been saving it.”

Charles swallowed thickly, nodding once, barely able to breathe.

He wanted to ask about being left alone for so long. About what he'd done wrong. Whether it was punishment for something.

He wanted to feel secure again.

Max’s fingers moved lower, slow and steady, trailing just beneath the cool metal base of the plug. Charles flinched at the subtle tug of pressure, still oversensitive from the weight inside him. Max’s voice followed, low and soothing, coiling through him like silk against raw skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, easing the plug free with unhurried care. “You swallow this one so nicely now.”

Charles bit his lip, face turned toward the mattress, voice muffled. “Yes, Max,” he replied quietly, doing his best to get back into the moment, fixing whatever mistake he'd made.

But his eyes drifted—locked on the edge of the nightstand, where Max’s phone sat dark and undisturbed, face down but omnipresent. Like a silent witness.

The plug left him with a soft pop, and the heavy, full sensation disappeared all at once, replaced by a strange hollowness, gaping open with the loss. Max shifted behind him, and suddenly the bed felt too big, too quiet without his hands.

“I’ll be right back,” Max said, moving fluidly off the bed.

What? 

He was leaving again?  

“Wait—” he said, but Max had already left the room, phone disappearing off the nightstand.

Charles’ mind was chaos.

Where was he going and why did he take his phone with him?

Did he get more messages?

Did Max miss her?

Did he think about her when they were together, when Charles was kneeling for him, gasping under his touch, crying out his name?

Did he wish Charles looked more like her? Was softer with more feminine features. Sounded like her? Handled more like her?

The spiraling thoughts tightened their grip, wrapping around his throat like invisible chains. He didn’t hear Max return or register his presence until warm palms spread across his hips again, making his skin prickle in discomfort.

Charles took a shaky breath.

“This one will start out about the same size as the one you were just wearing,” Max said gently behind him. “But it’ll get a bit larger as it stretches. You can handle it for me, can’t you, Charles?”

Charles blinked, the sheets blurring beneath him. “Yes, Max,” he replied, but the words came out flat, mechanical. Shaking.

A cold sensation followed, slick and sudden. More lube, he guessed. Max was prepping him carefully, as always. Yet his muscles refused to relax the way they should. Instead, he braced harder, like he was holding on for something more than just the physical challenge.

Was this a toy Max had used on her?

Had she been better at this? Quieter, more obedient, more experienced?

His chest tightened. Every word from that shoot replayed in a loop—Kelly’s calm, unbothered tone, her sideways glances, that damn comment on his collar . “I like your . . . necklace. It’s beautiful.”

Did she deserve it more than he did?

His breathing turned shallow.

And then Max’s voice came through again.

“—rles? Charlie, are you with me?”

Charles flinched, eyes flying open. He hadn’t heard what Max had said. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been not paying attention.

“Yes, M–Max,” he replied, voice hoarse, thick, and only then did he realize he was trembling. 

Tears had soaked the sheets beneath him, quiet and relentless, unnoticed until now. His whole body shook with the strain of trying to keep it all inside, trying to be perfect.

But the dam had cracked and it was all spilling out.

“ Charles? ”

Max’s voice cracked through the fog like a thunderclap, loud, panicked and urgent. Suddenly, he was there, crouched beside the bed, crowding Charles’ vision, concern etched deep into every line of his face. His eyes were wide, searching, frantic.

When did he get there? Wasn't Max just behind him?

The look of deep care on the Dutchman's face made him want to retreat.

Charles didn’t want to see it.

He turned his face away, burying it in the mattress as fresh tears spilled over his cheeks. 

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be good tonight, obedient, prepared and perfect. Max had been so excited about this new phase of training, and Charles had wanted to give him that. Had wanted to prove that he could take more. 

Be more.

Instead, he was crying. Trembling. Completely unraveled.

She would’ve been able to take it.

His body wouldn’t cooperate. His muscles had locked up, pain radiating in his knees and thighs making him queasy, and now all he could do was whimper softly into the sheets, fingers twisting into the fabric like a lifeline as he tried to stifle the sobs wrecking through his chest.

He’d ruined it.

“Charlie, talk to me, ” Max said, the command gone from his voice, replaced with something softer, almost scared . His hands were firm but gentle as he guided Charles carefully onto his side, away from the presentation position. 

No force, no pressure—just care.

The shift pulled painfully at Charles’ thighs, the ache radiating out as the tension finally released. His slip bunched around his small chest and he suddenly couldn’t stand to have it on him, the satin feeling like ants crawling on his skin.

Charles, almost violently, ripped the dress up and over his head to get it off, throwing it off the bed with a shout. It didn't look good on him anyway, too boxy and square. Hips narrow and waist too wide.

“Charles, what's wrong baby?” Max asked wide eyed, still trying to get on the bed next to him. 

He whimpered again, curling inward but Max was already there, pulling him gently into his arms.

Charles collapsed against Max’s chest, boneless and embarrassed, cheek pressed to the heat of damp skin still warm from the shower. His body shook with quiet, uncontrollable sobs, breath catching on every inhale like it hurt to breathe.

What was happening?  

He felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't stop the tears, body completely a mind of its own.

Max held him tighter, cradling him like he was something fragile. One hand cupped the back of Charles’ head, the other spread over his trembling back, thumb tracing soft, grounding circles just beneath the collar.

“What hurts?” Max asked, voice barely above a whisper now. More concerned than Charles had ever heard it. “Can you tell me where it hurts, baby?”

The tenderness in his voice shattered something in Charles and he sobbed harder, choked and desperate, as the words he hadn’t dared to say rose up like bile in his throat.

Maybe Max should go back to Kelly.

Maybe he deserved someone who didn’t break down in the middle of training over absolutely nothing. Someone who didn’t fall apart over a stupid text message he shouldn’t have even looked at. Someone who wasn't so needy, they could be left alone for a few minutes. Someone elegant, composed, effortless, the way she’d looked at the shoot. The way she seemed to know exactly how to unnerve him with just a smile.

And here Charles was. Falling to pieces in his Dom’s arms. Ruining the moment. Ruining everything.

A failure.

Max held him tighter, shifting his weight just enough so they were lying more comfortably, Charles tucked against his chest. He adjusted the sheets around them with one hand, the other never stopping its soothing pattern of slow strokes through Charles’ curls, fingers gliding from scalp to nape, again and again.

Everything was uncomfortable, cold and hot all at once, until everything just felt and sounded like white noise.

“I’ve got you,” Max murmured, lips pressed to the crown of Charles’ head. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Charles still trembled in his arms, hiccupping soft, broken sobs, but they were no longer frantic. Just lingering like aftershocks in a stunned state.

“I’m s–sorry,” Charles whispered.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Max said gently, voice low and steady like the tide. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I don’t care about the scene. I care about you, Charlie.”

He didn't believe that for a second.

Max was just being nice, tolerating him and his messiness like he had in the Miami club.

He wanted to push Max away, but the thought of that was unbearable. He just wanted to feel safe again. 

Charles curled in tighter, clinging to Max’s side like he might disappear if he let go, fingers fisting in the sheet between them, jaw tight.

“I’m not angry,” Max whispered, brushing the pads of his fingers behind Charles’ ear. “I’m not disappointed. You didn’t ruin anything, Schatje. You just . . . needed me. And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed Charles’ temple, slow and lingering, letting the silence settle between them like soft snowfall. No pressure to speak. No expectations. 

Charles was trying to pull himself back together, willing the tension behind his ribs to ease, trying not to break again, and Max didn’t rush him. He just kept running his fingers through his dark curls, steady and patient.

“Good,” he said softly, when Charles felt his chest inflate for the first time in what felt like minutes. “That’s it. Breathe, baby. Just like that.”

Charles nodded against him, finally. Just once.

Would they ever do scenes again? Would Max not want to try anymore? 

Would Max be done for real this time?

Max tucked the edge of the blanket tighter around them and kissed his temple again, whispering, “I’m right here, Charlie. Always.”

It took several more long, quiet minutes for Charles to pull himself back together. His ear was pressed against Max’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat like a metronome pulling him out of the chaos. That simple, rhythmic sound was something real he clung to.

His breathing had finally slowed, no longer the shallow gasps of a boy falling apart, but measured, deliberate, though each inhale still felt thick with exhaustion. The trembling had stopped, replaced with a heavy stillness that sank deep into his bones. His whole body felt like lead—like he’d run endless laps with his trainer at full speed and then been dropped into the sea.

His eyes stayed closed and he didn’t have the energy to open them. Didn’t want to open them. It was easier like this, tucked under the blanket of Max’s warmth, letting the outside world blur behind his lids.

But there was an uncomfortable slickness between his legs, cool air on wet skin, lube smeared across the back of his thighs, the inside of his cheeks sticky and slick. It was unpleasant, reminding him of where they’d left off before everything had crumbled.

He shifted slightly, trying to adjust his position, to ease the sensation. A soft, involuntary whine escaped him, half discomfort, half embarrassment.

Max immediately tensed.

“Please tell me what hurts, Charles,” he said, voice suddenly sharper with worry. “Do I need to call someone? I have a private doctor, I can—”

“Non,” Charles cut in, voice small but certain.

And there it was again, that bitter self-loathing clawing its way up through his throat. 

God, how pathetic could he be? 

Max thought he'd actually hurt him.

He almost wished he was hurt. That would be easier to explain. Simpler. Cleaner. Anything would be better than the truth: that his brain had betrayed him, that his body had locked up, that being told to wait and a text message had unraveled him like cheap thread.

If he was honest, he wasn’t totally sure what had just happened, brain on fire, unable to stop the cresting wave of an unexplainable feeling that took over his body. It was almost like he had no control, like his head was under water and he was never going to find the surface again.

“Nothing hurts,” he whispered, ashamed.

Max exhaled slowly into his hair, the warmth of it brushing over his scalp like a balm. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Charles said again, a quiet sniffle betraying the last of his tears.

Max didn’t press. Instead, he ran a broad, comforting hand down Charles’ back, over his cool skin. His touch was soothing and unhurried, just the weight of his hand .

“We can just stay like this,” Max said gently, his thumb brushing lazy circles across Charles’ spine. “As long as you want.”

Charles nodded into his chest, eyelids heavy again.

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go.

Chapter Text

Max woke to the pale glow of early morning spilling through the edges of the blackout curtains in his bedroom. The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the steady breathing of the man curled up beside him.

Charles was still asleep.

Tangled in the sheets, one hand tucked under his cheek, the Monégasque’s soft curls were a mess across the pillow. His face was peaceful, serene almost, but Max couldn’t stop watching him with a weight in his chest he didn’t quite know how to carry.

Last night had been a disaster, Max failing to put all the pieces together.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Charles as he turned onto his side, propping his head against his hand, elbow buried in the mattress. His other hand drifted gently to Charles’ back, resting there, protective and still.

He knew what was coming. 

Charles would wake up today with the fog of sub-drop still clinging to him—slow and vulnerable, emotional in ways he wouldn’t want to talk about and probably wouldn’t even understand. Max had seen it before, just not like that. 

He hadn’t seen anyone drop as bad as Charles had.

Scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face, Max sighed.

Fuck.

He should’ve recognized it sooner. Stopped it faster, never even started the rest of that damn scene in the first place.

He should’ve noticed the signs—how distracted Charles had seemed when he came back from the shower. How his breathing had been just a little off, how his voice had sounded thinner than usual when he'd answered, “Yes, Max.”

It had all played over and over in his mind while he’d struggled to fall asleep last night, like making a mistake on a quali lap. Every breath and quiver, every gasp and tear. Max reviewed them all in his head like he was watching his onboards late into the morning.

Every single detail had been analyzed to the point of exhaustion.

The problem, he decided, was that he'd been too excited. Too caught up in the new toy he’d kept tucked away since Barcelona. He’d been eager to test it, and Charles had seemed ready, perfectly in position, beautifully dressed, obedient down to every detail, floating in his trusting space.

Until he wasn’t.

He wished he could forget the moment he’d noticed—Charles, still and shaking, not from pleasure but from something else. Max had called to him and gotten no response. Not even asking his name or his color got a reply from the trembling man. 

He’d felt it in his gut then. Something was wrong.

When Max had turned Charles onto his side and looked into those red-rimmed, glassy eyes, he’d felt his own panic soar through the roof.

He’d crossed a line he didn’t even see, but more damagingly, he didn’t know it was there. He’d misread the whole situation, let his own excitement blind him to the headspace Charles was really in. Max prided himself on being attentive, on reading his partners well, and last night had reminded him that even the most intuitive people missed things sometimes. Even the best drivers could misread a corner or take too much curb on an exit.

Still, the guilt lingered.

He was so worried Charles was hurt and trying to hide it from him. The Monégasque had denied it, but Max wasn’t fully convinced, fearful he’d removed the plug too fast, or made Charles wear it too long after lunch. 

What if Charles had developed a tear or a fissure and didn’t know any better? 

What if he thought he was just sore or not supposed to say that something hurt him? Too embarrassed to admit anything?

Was that it? Did Charles lie and say he wasn't sore when he really was?

He thought back to the way he’d doubled down, said that they would be playing anyway even if the Monégasque didn’t feel like it at lunch. A throwaway line in the heat of the moment.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Max chewed the inside of his cheek. He was such an idiot.

Charles was going to need more than just aftercare today; he would need a lot of patience, reassurance, and maybe even space or silence. Maybe just Max, quietly present, without expectation.

Leaning in, he brushed a soft kiss to the top of Charles’ head.

Beside him, Charles stirred with a soft, broken groan, barely more than a breath. His lashes fluttered, and Max watched as his eyes blinked open slowly, the green of them still glassy and red-rimmed from the night before. 

There was something distant in them, the haze of not being fully awake yet.

He blinked a few more times, gaze drifting unfocused across the room—past Max, past the window, past everything—and then he let his eyes slide closed again, curling just a little tighter into himself.

Max didn’t move.

He stayed exactly where he was, one hand resting lightly on the mattress between them, close enough to touch but not pushing. Crowding Charles would be a mistake. Letting him wake up on his own terms was important and he needed space to come back to himself. To settle.

So Max waited, eyes never leaving him.

Charles breathed slow and shallow, chest rising and falling under the crumpled sheets, body still curled in tight. He looked small. Tired in a way that went deeper than lack of sleep, like his soul was worn thin around the edges.

Finally, Max leaned forward just enough to speak, keeping his voice low and warm, soft as a sunrise.

“Charles?”

The younger man turned his head slightly toward him at the sound of his name, and Max felt a small knot of tension release from his chest. 

Good. That was something. He was present enough to hear him.

Max’s voice remained gentle, careful not to pierce the fragile calm.

“Can I get you anything? Do you want some water?”

Charles didn’t answer right away, just blinked again, slower this time, brows slightly pinched. But the fact that he turned toward him, even just a little, was a win.

“Water,” Charles said slowly, and Max was on the move in a hurry. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Quickly, Max paced to his kitchen, filling up a glass with cool water and grabbed some pre-sliced fruit from a package. Charles would need something not too heavy on his stomach Max remembered reading somewhere. 

After confirming the automatic feeder for cats was full, Max crawled back into bed beside Charles, who was now sitting up, knees pulled up to his chest, back against the headboard, not looking at anything in particular. 

Handing him the cool glass, Max sat on the bed, folding his legs under him, unsure what to say.

Sitting awkwardly holding a small plate of sliced strawberries and apples, he watched Charles just stare at the sheets on the bed. The heavy silence between them wasn’t hostile, more like a porcelain cup with a fine crack in it, still intact but one wrong move from breaking.

This part was hard for Max. 

The later stage of the sub-drop when the tears had dried and the trembling had stopped. What was left was the soft, uncertain quiet of someone trying to piece themselves back together, numb to everything around them.

Disconnected from themselves.

It wasn’t like he was uninformed. On the contrary—he'd done hours and hours of research into the topic after he'd first witnessed it years ago, reading all the articles and forum posts about what to do, and how a Dom should support their sub. 

He’d read everything he could find, underwhelmed with the sheer lack of information out there.

One site had been particularly helpful though, called “Arcane Advice.” It was a free newsletter practically that provided tips, lessons, and general community notes. 

He’d pulled up one of their posts from 2021 that he remembered reading and reread the entire piece last night on his phone. It talked about how drops were a real part of this dynamic, sometimes unavoidable and influenced by things you couldn’t always control and how being prepared was the best thing he could do.

That was the truly frustrating part of all this, Max couldn’t completely control them. Used to having such a fine touch and complete command over parts of his life like racing, these moments were akin to break failures or a tire puncture. 

Just part of the territory. 

He’d read on a few forums that both parties could experience them as well, with Dom-drops and sub-drops each having their own unique symptoms and needs.

By definition, according to one article he’d reread last night, they were categorized by a rapid change in mood and a decline in the endorphins and adrenaline a sub experienced during a scene, either after it finished or while it was still happening. A quick “drop” out of the headspace and back into reality and where the phenomenon got its name.

The article had gone on.

“Life comes with all kinds of responsibilities and stress that melted away while in subspace, and being thrown out of that can be almost traumatic to some. Drops can be violent and explosive in nature—a sub ripped out of their safe space—or they can be subtle, a sub trying to deny their real feelings or push through them to continue. It’s important for a Dom to recognize the difference and when their sub has reached a limit.”

Even the articles he’d read were mocking him for his carelessness.

Either way, all subs needed support and aftercare while regulating their mood again, but Max never knew how much was too much—hovering, fussing, coddling. Or how little was not enough, not wanting to be distant, cold or uncaring. Finding that middle ground felt impossible sometimes, especially when the person on the other side meant something to him. Really meant something.

And God, did Charles mean everything.

Max’s jaw tightened slightly, fingers curling a little tighter around the edge of the plate. 

He wanted nothing more than to wrap Charles up in a big hug and make it all go away, but that would probably do more harm than good.

The last time he’d mismanaged this kind of moment, it had ended badly . . . really badly. Lewis had pulled away from him completely, and Max still wasn’t sure if they were friends or just polite shadows of the friends they used to be.

He didn’t want that to happen again.

Didn't want to lose this.

“I brought some fruit,” he said. The words fell awkwardly in the space between them, clumsy but hopeful. “Some strawberries and apples?”

Charles didn’t look up. He just stared at the wrinkled sheets, eyes distant, his shoulders hunched.

Max chewed on his cheek, awkwardly withdrawing the plate and setting it on the nightstand. Shifting a little closer, he asked, “Are you cold? Can I get you some clothes? Maybe a robe or—”

Charles flinched.

Expression shifting, his forehead scrunched as he looked down at himself. A flash of discomfort passed through his eyes, and then he quickly tugged the blanket up, covering his bare chest, arms tight around himself like armor.

Max’s stomach dropped.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, but cut himself off. 

Fuck.

He was so bad at this.

It wasn’t about the nudity, not really. It was the vulnerability and the exposure, or so he’d read. This wasn’t his confident, flirty Charles, who preened in lingerie and teased him with every sway of his hips. This was the quiet, raw version. The version that needed gentleness, not Max saying stupid shit like that.

“I can go grab something,” he said more softly this time. “Something soft. Maybe that hoodie you like?”

Still no words from Charles, but he did give the tiniest nod, barely more than a twitch.

Max exhaled through his nose and nodded back, even though Charles wasn’t looking at him. His chest ached with how much he wanted to fix it all right now.

But he couldn’t rush this.

He could only be here.

After a moment of quiet searching, Max found the hoodie he’d been looking for—the old AlphaTauri one, faded just slightly at the edges from too many washes. It still smelled faintly of the cologne he used during the 2023 season and Charles had worn it a handful of times, usually when he came over late at night or after a long day at the paddock. Max had always liked how small Charles looked in it, sleeves too long, hem brushing the top of his thighs, the logo stretched gently across his back.

He grabbed a pair of loose joggers too, something soft and worn, and padded back toward the bedroom barefoot, the fabric bundled under his arm.

Max was still just in his boxers and soft sweatpants, torso bare, goosebumps trailing along his skin from the slight chill in the flat. But he didn’t mind. He remembered reading somewhere—some article on aftercare, maybe from a psychology site or a Dom’s forum—that said physical touch, especially skin-on-skin contact, could help during sub-drop. Something about instinct and trust and re-regulating the nervous system.

Whatever the science, he trusted his gut more, and this felt right. Like it could help.

So Max stayed bare-chested, careful to keep his own energy quiet and noninvasive as he approached.

As he stepped around the foot of the bed, his eyes caught on the pale blue lingerie still crumpled on the floor, thin satin, lace, and ribbon twisted like shed skin. His chest squeezed. The memory was painful, Charles practically tearing it off, panic rising fast, breathing shallow and wild. Max hadn’t really even touched him yet before everything shattered.

Pausing for a moment, Max questioned if he should've even bought the stupid pieces in the first place, if surprising Charles with them made him feel uncomfortable or forced to wear them. Swallowing around the knot cloying at his throat, Max felt a bit sick about it.

He made a mental note to not suggest anything else like that for them anytime soon, at least not before discussing it first.

Ignoring the tightness behind his ribs, he set the clothes gently at the edge of the bed, speaking softly, “I found these for you, if you'd like them.”

He paused, not wanting to assume.

“Would you rather I leave while you get dressed?”

There was a pause, heavy and silent. Charles—still curled in on himself, blanket clutched tightly at his chest—shook his head softly.

“Stay,” he whispered.

Max’s heart cracked open at the sound.

“Okay,” he said quietly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed without touching him yet. “Take your time.”

Charles dressed slowly, first sliding on the joggers, then working up the hoodie over his head, but he got his arm tangled in the sleeve, tugging and jerking it to try and free himself. His head hadn’t quite threaded through the neck hole either, a whine of discomfort leaving him.

Gently, Max helped straighten the front, easing his head through the rest of the hole and adjusted the arm until charles’ small fingers popped out the open end. Every motion looked like it required conscious effort and Charles settled himself into the fabric, putting the sleeves down to cover his palms, baggy middle billowing around him.

Max scooted back, giving him space to settle until Charles reached out and tugged on the leg of his sweats with an almost childlike gesture, making grabby hand motions.

Max went easily, but not without hesitation.

He laid down beside Charles, curling naturally around his smaller frame, arms gathering him close like it was the only place he was meant to be. Charles immediately buried his face into Max’s bare chest, the fabric of the hoodie clinging slightly to his skin as he pressed in, hiding under the hood a bit.

Relief unfurled in Max with Charles’ desire to be close to him, and the way he rubbed his face against Max's chest let the Dutchman know he'd made the right call about no shirt.

Max wrapped one arm around him and let his hand drift into Charles’ curls, fingers moving in slow. “Let me put something on to watch,” he murmured softly. “We can just stay in bed today.”

The thought tugged at the edge of his responsibilities—meetings with Red Bull marketing, sim work he’d promised to check in on, sponsor updates he’d planned to skim before Monday. But all of that faded into background noise. 

None of it mattered right now. Not when Charles still felt so raw in his arms.

With his free hand, Max fumbled for the remote on the nightstand, flipping through Netflix until he found something light-hearted and forgettable, one of those cheerful shows his sister had raved about. It wasn’t really his taste, but that wasn’t the point.

He pressed play and settled back, keeping Charles close, the cats eventually finding the open door and coming to join them on the bed.

Sassy nudged her head against Charles’ arm and the Monégasque scratched lightly behind her ears until she settled curled against his leg with a quiet purr.

The Monégasque didn’t say a word through the entire first episode. He didn’t react to the jokes and didn’t flinch when the laugh track kicked in. His breathing was steady, but he never fully relaxed. Max felt him doze off once or twice—brief, fitful rests—but each time Charles jolted lightly awake, face burrowed even deeper into Max’s chest, like he couldn’t let himself drift too far.

Max didn’t try to fill the silence. 

He just stayed with him, rubbing slow, gentle circles on Charles’ back, fingertips moving in lazy patterns over the soft fabric of the hoodie. Every so often, his hand would drift up to card through Charles’ hair again, coaxing comfort through repetition.

He reached for the plate of fruit on the bedside table and popped a slice of apple into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. A few moments later, he held one up, silently offering it to Charles.

Charles didn’t even look at it.

Max let it drop back onto the plate with a quiet sigh.

As the credits rolled on the next episode before switching to another one, Max glanced down at the top of Charles’ head and decided to try a different approach, something small, low-pressure, a gentle shift toward the normal.

“Let’s order some lunch,” he said. “We can eat out on the balcony, enjoy the sun a little. Is there something you feel like eating?”

Still pressed tightly against him, Charles shook his head.

“Come on,” Max said, peeling himself away a bit. “I'll order from that cafe you like. The one you stop at with Leo on walks.”

That got his attention, Charles turning a bit, eyes meeting Max’s own. 

“After we eat, we should go and check on him, yeah? He's been with the sitter since yesterday morning.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, and Max was so relieved just to get even one word out of the man. 

Max carefully pulled out the food he’d ordered, unwrapping café bags and arranging them neatly on the small table set between the two lounge chairs on his balcony. The air was warm, but the light breeze off the sea softened the heat. 

The Dutchman had no idea what Charles might feel like eating, having already turned down food twice, but Charles wasn't going to go hungry on his watch. 

So Max had just ordered a spread. A bit of everything: a couple of salads, some grilled sandwiches with different fillings, and a small collection of pastries and fruit parfaits, the kind that always looked too pretty to eat.

Diet be damned, he eyed one if the jam filled ones for himself.

To Max’s quiet relief, Charles had followed him out without much fuss after a quick trip to the restroom. He hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t need coaxing either. He took the other lounge chair, knees pulled up beneath him, and began sifting gently through the food, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to choose or just browsing for Max’s sake.

He eventually picked a sandwich—mozzarella and roasted vegetables—and a simple greens salad, then curled back into the chair with one leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched lazily across the sun-warmed cushions.

It was the most settled he’d looked since yesterday morning.

Max smiled to himself, tension easing in his shoulders as he made his own choices and cracked open a bottle of water. He didn’t want to have to force Charles to eat after they had skipped dinner last night. 

He tossed the cap onto the tray and took a long sip, his eyes flicking to Charles every so often, checking without making it obvious.

It was just after noon. 

The sun was high in the Monaco sky, a golden sheen over the buildings below. The Mediterranean shimmered in the distance, that endless expanse of blue stretching out from the rocky coastline. Boats bobbed far off, white sails catching light, and the salty breeze pushed through Max’s hair, tousling it like a gentle hand.

They didn’t speak. Just ate in companionable silence, the kind of quiet that wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable, just careful. 

Charles nibbled slowly, methodically, like he didn’t quite trust his stomach yet and Max didn’t rush him. Just let him be, chewing slowly through his own sandwich, flicking through some idle thoughts about what else they could do with the day. Or if they should do anything at all.

Just as Max was finishing the last bite of his sandwich, Charles spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Max turned toward him, eyebrows raised. He didn't know what he'd expected the younger man to say, but an apology wasn't on his mental list of possibilities.

Charles looked down at his plate, fingers picking gently at the crust of his sandwich.

“I am being difficult, I think. But I—I don’t know why I feel like this, or what happened.” His voice cracked at the edges.

Setting his salad down slowly, Max wiped his hands on a napkin before reaching for his water again, just to buy himself a second to think.

He watched Charles closely as he pushed his plate away, fingers trembling where they gripped the edge of the table. The half-eaten sandwich lay abandoned, the salad barely touched. 

The Dutchman wanted to understand, wanted to learn what, exactly, had triggered Charles last night into dropping so suddenly. But he knew better than to press. The last thing Charles needed was to feel interrogated when he was still fragile and unsure of how to process what had happened. Almost every article had said the same and truthfully, Max didn’t think Charles had done anything wrong.

If anyone had misread the signs or had gotten too caught up in the moment, it had been him.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Max said softly, leaning forward just enough for his voice to carry clearly over the sea breeze. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Charles’ hands curled into his lap. “I don’t know—” he said, voice uncertain. “I don’t even really understand what happened.”

Nodding slowly, Max took another sip of water and set the bottle down.

“You had a drop,” he said. “A sub-drop during the scene. Do you remember?”

Charles blinked at him, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing in thought.

“I . . . I remember kneeling,” he said slowly, brows scrunched together. “Waiting for you to come back and then it just—my brain wouldn’t stop. Everything got loud. I couldn’t breathe and when you were talking to me, and I couldn’t hear what you said.”

Max reached out, resting his hand lightly on the table, not touching Charles yet, just leaving the offer there between them. “That’s all part of a drop,” he said. “Your body and mind hit overload and fell out of the space.”

Charles looked at him then, like he was trying to gauge whether or not Max was disappointed.

“We don’t have to discuss it now. This can all wait until you’re feeling better.”

“I—” he trailed off, eyes flickering to the table before he rubbed them harshly. “I did something wrong?”

“No. Never.” Max shook his head immediately. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Charles. Not a single thing. Sometimes it can just be a combination of things like stress, overstimulation, emotional release, or even outside factors like hormones and sleep. It doesn’t mean you did something wrong.”

That was probably too much information for Charles right now, but Max was desperate to not let the Monégasque think it was his fault.

“But I ruined it,” he whispered, picking at the skin on his thumb. “The scene. My training . . . And you had a surprise.”

Max exhaled, heart aching a little at how small that sounded. “That scene wasn’t more important than you. I was excited, yes, but not at the cost of your comfort or safety. It’s my job to watch you, to read you, to take care of you when you can’t take care of yourself. If anyone should’ve done better, it’s me.”

Charles was quiet for a long moment, eyes glassy, throat working around something heavy.

“Was it something I did?” Max asked softly. “Was I gone for too long?”

That possibility had been plaguing Max most of the night, worried that Charles maybe even started his drop before Max left him. That was probably the worst case scenario, and Max prayed Charles didn’t confirm his fears. 

“From what I’ve read,” Max went on, “a drop can come from fear, too. Or—or doubt. If something’s lingering in your mind, even if it feels small—like a passing comment, or a stray thought—it can plant itself deep. And in a vulnerable state like sub-space, it can grow fast.”

Feeling a little queasy at that, Max tried to think back to everything that had happened recently, the things he'd said.

Had he said something stupid while he was drunk after Barcelona? 

Had their shopping trip done more harm than good for Charles’ self-esteem?

The memory of the Monégasque ripping off his blue slip made Max chew on the inside of his cheek again, raw and surely starting to bleed at this point. 

“Did I hurt you?” Max asked slowly. “Please, you can tell me, Charlie.”

Charles’ lip trembled slightly, and Max reached across the table fully this time, brushing his knuckles along Charles’ hand.

Looking down at his lap, Charles didn't pull his hand away.

That was it then. Max had hurt him and Charles didn’t want to say. 

Mist gathered at the corner of his eyes and Max blinked rapidly to fight the burn in his nose. “We don't have to talk about it. I never intended—”

“Kelly,” Charles whispered. “It was . . . Kelly. I saw her at the APM shoot and then the text on your phone—”

“She was at the shoot?” Max stilled. 

What the hell? That was the last thing he’d expected.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He managed to keep his voice calm, but only just. “Did she talk to you?”

Of course she’d show up, he thought bitterly. Of course she’d find a way to insert herself, into Charles’ space, into their life.

He hadn’t thought about her in a long time, not in any meaningful way. Their relationship had ended years ago, imploding under the weight of ego, control, and a deep, hollow dissatisfaction Max could never name at the time but now recognized as being used. 

Not loved. 

Just held in the way you hold something expensive—possessively and at arm’s length.

They’d split in 2020, far later than things had really ended for him, and he hadn’t looked back.

She’d reached out a few times in the years since, random texts, an email once, even a forwarded invite to some party in St. Tropez. Max had ignored them all. Deleted the messages without opening them most of the time. 

When he got invites to Nico's parties, he checked around to see if she was going to be there and could usually find out one way or another, avoiding them if confirmed.

A ghost from a past life.

There had been a message yesterday morning, though. He remembered the preview blinking across his screen just before his shower: something about the Red Bull Ring, about missing him. He hadn’t even opened it—hadn’t needed to. 

It was more of the same manipulative shit, and he hadn’t thought about it again.

Until now.

He’d asked Charles to check his phone yesterday. For the text from Luke. A quick, thoughtless request while his hands were under the faucet.

Fuck.

Charles must have seen it then.

“She commented on my collar,” Charles said softly, as his fingers rose, curling around the platinum at his throat like it was a shield. “And . . . to tell you congrats on your Miami win.”

Max’s jaw clenched.

His stomach twisted—not from guilt over anything he’d done, but from the timing and the way it must have tormented Charles.

The Monégasque’s voice was hollow, like his mind was still drifting, the hormone crash still firmly wrapped around him. Like he’d said it just to get the words out, not because he wanted to talk.

“Her text said you two should talk,” Charles added faintly, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the table.

And just like that, Max saw the whole picture—how the doubt had crept in, how it had taken root.

“Charles,” he said gently, but firmly, moving from his seat and settling beside Charles on the lounge, placing a hand on his thigh. “I didn’t respond because I don't care. I didn’t even read it. Whatever she’s trying to stir up, it doesn’t matter to me. You matter to me. This—us—this is the only thing I give a fuck about.” He reached for Charles’ hand in his lap, laying his hand palm-up in offering on the Monégasque knee.

Charles didn’t take it immediately, but Max didn’t pull it away. He just waited, hoping it would be enough to reach him.

“Are you going to see her?” Charles asked, voice small, barely audible over the sound of the sea breeze. “Do you . . . miss her?”

The words hit Max like a punch to the chest.

God, how could he think that?

“Charles,” Max whispered, sliding off the lounge and dropping to his knees on the balcony tiles, uncaring of the cold stone under his thin sweats. He reached up with both hands, cradling Charles’ face gently, fingertips brushing along the curve of his jaw.

“Baby, look at me,” he said softly, grounding every word suffused with warmth. 

Max waited until Charles returned eye contact, green iris so soft and open. “I am not going to see her. Ever. I wasn’t lying when I said you are who I want.”

Charles blinked, eyes wide and still glossy. Max could feel the tension in his face, the slight tremor in his jaw, the weight of hormone-fueled insecurity clinging to him like a second skin.

Max leaned in just a little closer, keeping his touch steady.

“Even without your collar. Even without our dynamic. I want you. You—Charles. You’re not just my sub. Not just my pretty girl in red. You.”

His thumb traced gently over Charles’ sharp cheekbone, smoothing away the crease forming just beneath his eye. For a moment, Charles didn’t say anything, just stared at him like Max had said something completely unexpected and something he hadn’t even dared to hope for.

“You . . . ” Charles started, voice uncertain but curious, “you want to continue? Try again?”

There was vulnerability in the question, but also a spark, something fragile and real, flickering behind his tired eyes.

Max couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. He tried not to laugh, not because the question was funny, but because Charles was just so Charles sometimes—so open and earnest and soft, even in the middle of his uncertainty.

“Yes, Charlie,” Max said with a light chuckle, letting his forehead rest gently against Charles’. “If you want to, we’ll continue. We’ll explore at your pace. Together. And if not, we can just be however you want us to be.”

Finally, that tiny smile.

And it was the first Max had seen from him since the morning before.

Chapter Text

Charles hugged in closer, arms wrapped tight around Max’s waist as the Dutchman leaned them into another sharp turn. The powerful hum of the Harley rumbled beneath him, thrumming up through his thighs and chest, sending sharp spikes of pleasure up his spine as the wind whipped furiously around them. 

The cool Belgian air slid under the edge of his helmet, biting softly at the skin just beneath his collar and down the back of his neck, but he didn’t mind it.

It made him feel alive.

When Max had told him that morning he wanted to take him on a picnic—a picnic, of all things—Charles hadn’t hesitated. Spa was one of his favorite circuits: fast, brutal and technical. A racer’s track, and the weather this weekend was picture-perfect: blue skies, crisp air, just enough breeze to make the leaves along the Ardennes dance.

But Charles had not expected their method of travel.

He was still reeling a bit when he thought about it. Max had texted him to meet by the rear motorhome park entrance, not the usual one , and told him to wear jeans—or leather if he had it.

“Leather?” Charles had typed back, confused.

“Trust me,” came the reply, with a winking emoji. “And don’t forget your toy.”

How could he forget that . . .

The pair had had several long discussions since his drop after Barcelona, and after almost two months, they had eased their way back into regular play. Max was hesitant, checking in on his color more often and handling him with more care than he had before, and Charles appreciated the tenderness.

But his body craved what they'd had before.

The fire and desire in the way Max touched him, claiming him as his own. The burning heat of his palms connecting with Charles’ reddened skin, the embers of their shared desire while Max had his way with him. 

He even missed being punished, too.

The Dutchman had also completely avoided any type of ass play, denying Charles on many occasions, even though Charles could tell he wanted to give in.

He hadn't understood the appeal at first, remembering how confused he felt about why Max would want to use that entrance when he had a perfectly good hole that required far less prep.

A secret that was meant for only them.

But Charles saw it now, the way Max watched him as he walked, hands grazing against his ass in podium photos, eyes always drifting down to the snatched waist of his race suit. 

Yes, Charles understood now, and he felt silly for why it took him so long.

Max was simply obsessed with his ass and seemingly had been since they started racing together.

Having given that revelation considerable thought over the last week, Charles was determined to bring it up over their meal, not wanting Max to see that area as off-limits just because he'd had a drop while they were prepping him there.

It had nothing to do with that.

Charles had read article after article about sub drops after his—some Max had sent him and some he found on his own. He took the time to carefully research as much as possible, learning what his triggers might be and how to stay present in aftercare.

Still a bit wary of them, Charles had accepted that it was likely he'd have another one at some point given how unavoidable they seemed to be, but he trusted Max completely.

Max would take care of him.

Max opened the throttle as they accelerated out of another curve and Charles squeezed tighter, humming into Max's back, rocking against the seat.

He was pleased they revisited this toy.

After discussing that Charles wanted to use the Flexer again somewhere he could openly enjoy it and not have to hide his whimpers in a team meeting, the Dutchman had made “plans.”

So, Charles had prepared for Max’s mystery plans: the remote vibrator nestled in tight, a medium plug was worked in for later, and he wore his new locked panty device over top so he couldn’t control or take the Flexer out—even if he wanted to. 

Charles had slipped into a long sleeve black shirt and fitted jeans, topped with the vintage leather jacket he barely wore anymore, zipping it all the way up like it could shield him from his own nerves. He was surprised to find it still in his motorhome closet, tucked in the back behind other more trendy coats, but after Max’s request he was suddenly thankful for not discarding it.

The paddock had mostly cleared out by the time he'd slipped out the back gate, and when he did, he'd stopped short.

There, like something out of a dream—or maybe a movie—was Max, perched on a gleaming blacked-out Harley Davidson, orange accents racing across the fuel tank, the chrome glinting even in the waning light.

And of course, he had a second helmet in hand.

“You still have the Harley?” Charles had asked, blinking. “I thought you said you’d never ride it until you retired?”

Max had smirked through the open visor of his helmet, the kind of smirk that could probably short-circuit every nerve in Charles’ body if he wasn’t already vibrating with adrenaline. “It just got back from the shop in town. Had the tires swapped, full inspection. Don’t worry, we won't be racing anyone. Now . . . ” He’d leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make Charles shiver. “Hurry up before someone sees you. You’re already turning red.”

That had lit a fire under him.

Charles had fumbled to get the helmet on with trembling hands, cheeks flushed, heart pounding, and in one ungraceful motion, he’d swung his leg over the bike, feeling both toys shift inside him. He settled in behind Max, thighs bracketing his hips, hands quickly moving to find purchase around his waist.

And now, here they were.

After a while, Max pulled the Harley off the winding road and onto a narrow dirt trail that snaked into the dense forest. Gravel crunched under the tires as they slowly coasted to a stop in a small clearing just barely visible from the road. Dappled light spilled through the trees above, golden patches illuminating the forest floor as the leaves rustled softly in the breeze.

Max parked the bike carefully on its stand and turned off the engine, the noise still humming in Charles’ ears after the roar of the ride.

A modest campsite sat waiting: a soft, neatly cleared patch of grass surrounded by old pines and a worn fire ring that had clearly seen use before. A natural cocoon of privacy—the kind of place you’d never stumble across unless someone had led you there on purpose.

Charles blinked in surprise, helmet still in his hands, even as Max climbed off the bike.

He didn’t know why he was surprised.

After the boutique in Spain and the packages sent to his apartment in Monaco. After every perfectly timed, perfectly tailored move Max had made as his Dom, he should have expected nothing less.

“I’ve got a blanket and some things in the saddlebags,” Max said, pulling his own helmet off and shaking out his hair like he did after a race.

Charles swung his leg off carefully, his thighs sore from gripping the bike for the last hour, his core still humming faintly from the vibrations and the tension of holding on tight. There was a delicious ache between his legs, one he wasn’t sure came entirely from the ride or the toys.

He helped Max unpack the saddlebags: a thick woven blanket, neatly folded and surprisingly soft, and a small cooler with finger foods—cheese cubes, olives, sliced meats, a crusty baguette cut into thick slices. Max also pulled out two glass bottles of still water and a pack of wet wipes because, of course, he’d thought of everything.

They spread the blanket over the grass, and Charles sank down onto it with a soft sigh, reclining back on his elbows as Max sat beside him. He stretched his legs out, letting the sparse sun warm his shins, eyes slipping closed for a brief moment.

It was peaceful. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just full of rustling leaves, distant birdsong, and the occasional creak of the trees swaying overhead. He could hear Max’s low chuckle as they started talking, casual and relaxed, about the upcoming weekend. 

Charles offered some salty opinions on tire strategy, and Max complained about McLaren’s pace with just enough venom to make Charles laugh. The new technical directive hadn't slowed them down one bit.

It was all so easy. A moment that felt like it existed outside of the calendar and the championship.

He finished his small plate of snacks and sighed, enjoying the quiet.

Just as Charles lifted his water bottle to his lips, a pulse hit his core like a switch flipping inside of him. Sharp, low, and completely unexpected.

He jerked slightly, nearly choking on the sip of water.

Across the blanket, Max sat calmly, legs stretched out in front of him, phone in hand—impassive, like he was reading the news. Only the smallest quirk of his brow betrayed him.

The remote toy.

Charles’ cheeks flushed immediately, body tightening in reaction as another subtle pulse buzzed deep inside him.

Of course Max had that planned, too.

“You said we needed to talk about Lewis earlier,” Max said, casually swiping his thumb across his phone screen. “What did he want?”

A second later, another pulse hit Charles, sharper this time, deeper. His hips twitched involuntarily on the blanket as he let out a strangled breath.

Max tapped the screen again.

The next pulse was stronger, the toy curling with precision inside him, pressing against that perfect spot that made Charles see stars behind his eyes. His thighs clamped together, the muscles in his legs tightening as he tried to hold still and not squirm. The breeze cooled the sweat gathering at the back of his neck, but it did nothing to settle the heat licking across his skin.

His head fell back on a moan. “Max—”

“Focus, Charles,” Max said coolly, glancing at him from behind his phone, one brow raised in that infuriatingly composed way. 

He tapped again—once, twice, a third time—and then slid his thumb across the screen to trigger a long vibration.

Charles cried out softly, breath catching hard in his throat. He could feel the toy inside him pulse and flex, curling just right against his walls, the stimulation so precise and unrelenting that it made his entire body jolt.

“I asked you a question,” Max intoned, voice low, patient, like he wasn’t passively destroying Charles on a picnic blanket in the middle of the woods.

Charles gripped the edge of the blanket with one hand, the other pressed to his thigh like he could escape the sensations somehow, his hips beginning to rock for any semblance of friction.

“He—He said Nico invited us,” Charles gasped, “f–for dinner over the summer break.”

Another long pulse.

“Said he wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize? ” Max asked, smug now, voice coated in syrupy sarcasm. “Apologize for what? ”

The toy didn’t let up—if anything, it intensified, the flexing motion staying constant now, the kind of relentless internal rhythm that left Charles shaking and desperate.

He folded forward onto his knees, bracing himself with both hands now, body arching slightly to press into the stimulation. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, the pleasure forcing every thought from his brain.

“The—the party,” he finally choked out. “The guy at the party. The p–private playroom.”

There was silence for a beat and Max’s fingers stilled on the screen.

“I see,” he said slowly, no longer smug. “That fuck is lucky I haven’t seen him since then.”

The breeze picked up again, rustling through the trees around them and Charles could do nothing but tremble on his knees, barely holding himself together, held in the palm of Max’s hand.

“Do you want to go?”

Charles nodded his head, biting his lip.

“We can have dinner,” Max said, almost idly. “It’ll be nice to see Nico outside the paddock. We haven’t chatted in a while.”

Charles barely heard him.

The words drifted in like static at the edges of his mind, but his body was no longer tethered to conversation. He was teetering, shaking, thighs burning with effort as his hips rutted helplessly against the blanket. Every movement was shameless, desperate—he was so close, and the toy inside him pulsed with maddening precision, sending sparks up his spine and flooding his brain with white noise.

He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

“Come here, baby,” Max said suddenly, and slid one leg out toward him, offering his thigh like it was his personal throne made for Charles.

“You can grind on this.”

Charles let out a broken sound, half moan, half sob of relief, and nodded, lips parted, hair already sticking to the sweat at his temples. He crawled forward, hips jerking with every breath, until he was straddling Max’s left thigh. The denim under him was thick and unforgiving, but Max’s thigh was real , something to push against.

He twisted his fingers into Max’s blond hair and pulled him in for a kiss, sloppy, heated, all teeth and tongue and gasping need. Max caught him effortlessly, mouth opening to meet his with ease, guiding the rhythm, never letting Charles spiral too far without something to hold onto.

The vibrations grew stronger again, almost moving the plug inside him as well, Max’s free hand clearly still on the controls, and Charles whimpered into his mouth, trembling as Max’s long fingers found his waist, squeezing through the tight stretch of his jeans.

“Do you like your new belt?” Max murmured against his lips, voice coated in a kind of dangerous sweetness that made Charles clench around the toy. The Red Bull driver slid his hand down the front of Charles’ jeans, pressing lightly on the lock for the panty-like device. “I haven’t been one to deny pleasure before . . . but chastity belts have other uses as well.”

Charles let out a ragged moan, dropping his head to Max’s shoulder, grinding harder on the thick muscle of his thigh. His body was shaking now, nearly out of his own control.

“I l–like this,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “Like that I can't take it off.”

“Good girl, ” Max praised, voice dropping into something rich and possessive. 

He set his phone down on the blanket beside them, screen still glowing with the app, now running a set pattern in steady waves.

“We’re out where no one can hear you,” Max said, brushing his lips against Charles’ ear. “Just like you asked. So go ahead, baby. Make all the noise you want.”

Charles didn’t need to be told twice.

Getting back to Charles’ motorhome was trickier than either of them anticipated.

The paddock was quiet now, the motorhome park settled into that rare silence that only came after a long day of prep before the weekend really got started. Most of the drivers and staff had already retired for the night, lights dim behind the tinted windows of the massive, luxurious vehicles. The hum of a distant generator was the only sound that followed them.

They moved quickly, keeping close to the shadows between the rows of parked giants. Charles’ was nearest to the rear entrance, and they took that route deliberately with less chance of being spotted.

He cringed with every step.

The inside of his jeans were soaked through, the seams rubbing uncomfortably against oversensitive skin. Every shift of his thighs sent a low shiver up his spine, the aftermath of the toy still buzzing through his muscles. He could feel the mess slick between his legs, clinging to the inside of his jeans like a secret only Max knew.

And Max—God, Max had been silent the whole ride back, but there was no missing the gleam in his eyes, or the way he kept Charles’ hands tight against him. Possessive. Proud. Charles knew exactly what was coming the second they got behind a locked door.

As they rounded the last row, Charles quickly fished his key from the front pocket of his jacket, fumbling slightly from the adrenaline still racing through his system. He unlocked the door with a soft click, and they slipped inside like two teenagers sneaking into somewhere forbidden.

Max turned immediately, locking the door behind them with a solid click.

And then he was on Charles—lifting him effortlessly into his arms like he weighed nothing, carrying him with confident strides down the narrow hallway to the back bedroom.

Charles squealed and giggled the whole way, arms around Max’s neck, laughter spilling out of him like champagne on the podium. He didn’t resist, not even a little, until Max tossed him onto the bed, climbing after him with a hungry look in his eyes and fingers already tugging Charles’ shirt up.

The fabric slipped over Charles’ head with ease, and Max tossed it aside without care, leaning in, all bunched muscle and dominance ready to devour him again.

But Charles put a hand out.

Right to Max’s chest.

The Dutchman stilled instantly, brow lifting, eyes scanning his face for concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice steady but with a flicker of hesitation. 

He knelt back slightly, giving Charles space.

Max had been overly cautious like this since his drop, but he didn’t want to be treated delicately right now.

He had other plans of his own.

Charles’ lips curled into a grin, chest still rising and falling with soft breathless laughter. “Nothing, I’m okay,” he said between them. “I just wanted to show you something I’ve been practicing.”

And for once—it was his turn to take control.

“Oh, you’ve been touching yourself without permission again, I see?” Max drawled, one brow arched with playful menace.

Charles rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the flush rising to his cheeks. “Do you want to see or not?”

Max huffed a short laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Don’t think this gets you out of being punished.” He drawled before stealing Charles’ lips again. “Where do you want me?”

Quick as a switch, Charles stood, posture tall and purposeful, and pointed at the unmade bed, sheets rumpled and inviting, the kind of careless mess that came from a night of intensity.

“Have a seat and get comfortable,” he said, all mock-authority, though the glint in his eyes was sharp and sure. “I’ll be right back.”

Max stood, eyeing him with curiosity as he moved. “Oh, I see. Going to keep me waiting this time?”

Charles turned at the doorway to his small bathroom, shooting a smug smile over his shoulder. “Something like that.”

And then he disappeared behind the door.

Inside, the quiet buzz of adrenaline that had carried him this far began to pool low in his belly. He braced his hands on the sink and leaned in toward the mirror, forcing himself to meet his own gaze. He took a slow, deep breath, then another, letting the tension bleed from his shoulders.

He could do this.

He wanted to do this.

This wasn’t about drowning in his own self-doubt. This was about offering something. Showing Max what he was capable of. 

Owning his pleasure and submission with intention, not passivity.

Stripping quickly, Charles kept only the chastity belt locked snugly against his hips, the metal cold and familiar, glinting under the overhead light. He reached for the items he’d tucked in his overnight bag earlier: a medium-sized dildo and a small travel bottle of lube. 

Familiar tools now, comforting in their simplicity.

One last look in the mirror.

His curls were slightly messy from the helmet, but in a good way. His eyes were wide, flushed pink blooming across his chest and he looked like someone ready to be seen.

Charles opened the door slowly, the hinge creaking ever so slightly.

Max was seated on the bed, leaning up against the headboard, one leg bent, arm slung across his knee, posture relaxed but gaze locked onto him the moment he stepped out. His blue eyes tracked Charles, calm and deadly focused, but full of unspoken heat.

And Charles felt it—not fear, not hesitation, but the thrilling crackle of power humming under his skin.

He stepped back into the room with purpose, and left the bathroom door wide open behind him.

Part of his plan.

Max’s gaze dropped immediately to what Charles carried in his hand, the glint of smooth silicone catching the dim bedroom light. His mouth quirked, tone low and amused as he asked, “What are you planning to do with that?”

Then his eyes flicked up to the chastity belt still locked around Charles’ hips, its matte metal finish gleaming against his flushed, tanned skin.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Charles wasn’t forgetting anything.

The belt was meant to stay on, its entire purpose tonight was to deny him direct access to the pleasure he craved, only letting Max give it to him as a reminder of who he belonged to. His pussy was off-limits, locked and throbbing, the Flexer toy still pressed deeply inside him, a low pressure keeping him on edge. But the other entrance, the one left bare and vulnerable by the belt’s design, was very much available.

And that was the point.

All of it was the point.

Without replying or breaking eye contact, Charles moved into the door frame and knelt gracefully on the plush bedroom carpet. He took the dildo in both hands, positioning it against the smooth section of the doorframe just low enough to match the angle he’d practiced, and pressed it down firmly.

The suction cup locked in place with a subtle pop, the toy now jutting out parallel to the floor, ready and expectant looking.

Still silent, Charles shifted onto his knees directly in front of it and ran his hands down his own thighs, slow and teasing, looking over his shoulder to Max with a smoldering, sultry look that made the Dutchman visibly tense on the bed.

Leaning forward, Charles stuck out his tongue.

He licked the toy from base to tip, slowly, leaving a glistening trail along its length. His lips parted around the tip next—not taking it in fully, just kissing it. His tongue flicked again, wrapping in practiced circles, movements both sensual and obscene.

Max exhaled sharply.

“You know,” the Dutchman said from the bed, voice rougher now, “you didn’t have to practice that on the toy.”

His fingers dug into the sheets beside him, body taut like a coiled spring.

“You can practice on me anytime you’d like.”

Charles smirked, cheeks flushed, lips parted with spit glinting on them.

He wasn’t done yet. Not even close.

Taking in more of the toy into his mouth, Charles let his lips stretch wider, the slick sound of suction and breathy hums filling the quiet room. He focused on making it wet—thoroughly, messily so—his tongue curling and stroking, coating it until every ridge glistened under the dim lights.

He needed it perfect.

A familiar clink drew his attention, metal sliding against metal, and Charles turned his head slightly, still on his knees. Across the room, Max had risen up on the bed, his broad shoulders angled toward him in profile. The Dutchman was undoing his belt, the leather whispering as it slipped free, then came the soft zing of his zipper.

Charles watched, transfixed, as Max pushed his jeans down to his mid-thighs and shimmied out of them with a lazy grace that only made the heat in Charles’ belly coil tighter. His cock sprang free, half-hard and rising with each long, languid stroke Max gave himself as he watched Charles’ performance.

The air between them sizzled.

Charles knew this rhythm well by now. Max liked to watch, liked to orchestrate, guide, indulge in a hands-off way until he decided to strike. And Charles loved it. Craved it. There was something unspoken, something deeper about being on display like this. It wasn’t just sexy—it was liberating.

Max wanted to see him in full bloom, not hiding, not shrinking.

It made Charles feel powerful.

With a final slick pop, Charles pulled off the toy and sat back on his heels, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a smirk of satisfaction. It was drenched, exactly as he wanted.

Then he stood.

He turned his back to Max slowly, giving the Dutchman a full view of his bare skin framed by the still-locked belt. His fingers reached for the lube on the floor, other hand bracing on the doorframe. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm and moved it back, circling his entrance with steady fingers, testing how easily he could sink one inside.

He was a little loose from removing his plug earlier, but the stretch would still be delicious.

“Charles, ” Max said, the sound dark and low, rumbling like thunder in his throat.

It sent a shiver up Charles’ spine, but he didn’t pause.

He set the bottle aside, lined himself up, and grabbed the toy with one hand, anchoring his other on the doorframe. He didn’t break eye contact. Not once, staring straight at Max, at the wild, hungry look in those eyes, and then began to sink back.

“I've been practicing this too.”

Inch by inch, his hips tilted and pressed, the toy breaching him slowly. He moaned, letting the sound roll out freely, his mouth open, lashes fluttering. The sensation was thick, filling, right—made more intense by the denial still locked over his pussy, and the way Max’s gaze held him like a physical touch.

“Fuck, Charlie, ” Max groaned from the bed, his knuckles white around his cock as his hand began to stroke faster, tension riding every movement.

Charles rocked back another inch, and then another, hips shaking with every stretch. He held tight to the doorframe, panting softly, needing Max to see—see what he could do, what he wanted to do for him.

And the look on Max’s face told him he was doing everything perfectly.

Max looked wrecked, face and chest flushed, mouth open, eyes so dilated they looked entirely black. He was hungry, a look Charles hadn't seen since before his drop. 

Pressing back all the way, Charles gasped softly, his lips parted as he felt the base of the suction cup toy kiss snug against his skin. The stretch was full, deep, and he stayed there for a long, suspended moment, letting the sensation settle, his muscles fluttering around the intrusion. His hands tightened around the frame of the doorway, arms taut with effort.

He breathed deep, steadying himself.

Then he slid forward again, letting the toy drag deliciously out of him until just the tip remained. A shaky moan escaped him as he pressed back once more, hips rocking with more confidence now. 

He began to set a slow rhythm, gliding on and off the toy, the warm friction inside him pulling low moans from his throat with each movement.

Leaning his forehead against the doorframe, Charles bounced slowly, each thrust met with a subtle, internal ripple—God, the double sensation of the toy inside him and the Flexer in his chastity belt was overwhelming. Better than he’d even imagined when he first planned this out in his head.

“This . . . ” Max’s voice came from behind him, thick with arousal and disbelief.

When did he move from the bed?

“This is what you’ve been practicing?”

Charles tossed his head back, curls clinging to the sweat at his temple, and let out a whine. “Yes, Max,” he moaned, voice breaking on the edges, hips working faster now.

He was so close. 

Still oversensitive from the earlier torture in the forest, the plug, the vibrations—his nerves were electric, lit up and flickering under his skin. Every glide back onto the toy pushed him higher, muscles trembling, thighs aching from the effort.

Max was in front of him now, blue slivers of iris burning into him. Fingers gripped tightly on his chin and Charles looked up, collar clicking softly with the movement. 

“Tell me what you think about when you practice like this?”

Fuck, Charles could barely string two thoughts together.

Panting, Charles continued to rock back on the toy, fingers tightening against his jaw. Max was going to snap, he could see it. He just needed a little more coaxing into completely ravaging him like Charles wanted.

“You, Max,” Charles whispered. “I think about warming your cock like this while you sim, while we watch a movie, while you have a Red Bull meeting. Sitting full and happy without a thought in my mind. Want you Max. Want to be full of you.”

Sliding back fully, Charles’ eyes closed as they rolled back, feeling the full stretch of the toy. 

The grip on his jaw left him before two strong hands found his hips, large and grounding, halting him mid-bounce.

Charles’ eyes flew open, the breath catching in his throat.

Max moved suddenly behind him, breath warm against his back, his hands steady and firm. Before Charles could speak, Max yanked him gently away from the door. The suction cup toy popped free with a wet sound, discarded in an instant, and Charles barely had time to gasp before he felt Max shift behind him, the blunt head of his cock pressing against his wet, stretched entrance.

The air left Charles’ lungs all at once.

Max faltered and exhaled raggedly. “Color, Charles?” he asked, voice rough, urgent.

Charles didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he pressed his hips back, inviting, and Max groaned deeply as he began to push inside, the metal O-ring over Charles’ hole guiding the way. The stretch was instant, intense, thicker than the toy, fuller in every direction. Max’s cock wasn’t just bigger, he was alive , hot and pulsing and impossibly real.

Charles whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, hands gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him grounded and Max didn’t move yet. He just sank in slowly, filling him inch by inch, both of them shuddering at the impossible closeness, until there was no space left between them.

The new stretch wasn’t painful, but perfect.

Max shifted behind him with practiced ease, large hands gripping Charles’ hips firmly before sliding one arm under his thigh, lifting his leg high to change the angle. Charles gasped, barely catching himself on the doorframe with both hands, fingers splayed against the wood, muscles trembling from the strain.

Then Max thrust again—deeper, harder—and Charles nearly lost it.

The new angle was incredible, sending shockwaves of pleasure through his entire body as Max hit something inside him that made white heat explode behind his eyes. Every drag and push sent his thoughts scattering like dust in the wind, shaking, breath hitching with every stroke.

Maybe . . . maybe he didn’t even need his pussy? Charles thought, delirious and wrecked. 

Not if Max could keep him like this. Not if being split open like this was what it meant to be whole, to be claimed. He could live in this moment, suspended between thrusts, forever.

Then Max's other hand slipped forward, moving around Charles' hip, deft and confident. Charles felt the touch of fingers against the locked chastity belt, and before he could even process what Max was doing . . . buzz.

The Flexer inside him whirred to life.

Charles cried out, loud and unrestrained, body lurching forward as his balance faltered. The sudden dual sensation—Max pounding from behind, and the toy vibrating inside him—it was too much. His knee buckled and his grip slipped on the doorframe, leg wobbling beneath the overwhelming flood of stimulation.

Max, ever in control, caught his slip with ease. He didn’t pause, didn’t panic. Instead, he guided Charles forward, maneuvering him across the room until Charles’ thighs hit the edge of the bed.

Chest sinking into the mattress, Charles melted forward, letting himself be folded over the edge, Max pulling his arms back to pin them against his lower back. The new position relieved the strain on his limbs and left him pliant, open, completely at Max’s mercy.

And Max took full advantage.

The pace didn’t falter. If anything, it intensified, powerful, deep and claiming. The bed creaked rhythmically beneath them, the slap of skin echoing off the quiet walls of the motorhome. Every thrust shoved the air from Charles’ lungs in needy, breathless moans, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the sheer pressure of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in his belly.

His mind quieted—no more thoughts, no more worries—just sensation.

Just this.

“We can practice like this anytime you want,” Max growled against his ear, and then reached up, wrapping a fist into Charles’ curls, yanking his head back until their eyes met over his shoulder. “No toy will feel as good as I do.”

Charles’ mouth fell open in a soundless moan, completely undone. “Yes, Max.”

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” Max groaned, voice raw and barely restrained, hips slamming in hard and fast.

All Charles could do was fall with him, trembling and aching and whole.

Chapter Text

The cool tiles were a shock under his bare feet, but Charles welcomed it, the chill grounding him after the overwhelming night. The morning sun filtered in through the frosted window of the motorhome bathroom. He moved slowly, every step reminding him of the way Max had taken him—thorough, relentless, reverent, and a flush crept over his cheeks at the memory, his body humming in quiet satisfaction.

After relieving himself, he washed his hands and leaned on the sink, eyes finding his reflection in the mirror. His curls were a disaster, falling over his forehead in tangled waves. His lips looked swollen, kissed within an inch of their life, and there were bright red marks along his neck and shoulders around his collar, places where Max had gripped him, claimed him with his fingers. 

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

He opened the small drawer, finding a soft washcloth and ran warm water over it, wiping himself down gently, careful with the more sensitive areas. 

At some point Max had removed his chastity belt and toys, for which Charles was grateful but still missed in some odd sense. As he cleaned, he felt the ache low in his belly—less from soreness, and more from something sweet, soft, and full.

Contentment.

He was still sore, unbearably so, but it felt right. Good.

Back in the bedroom, Max had shifted, now sprawled diagonally across the bed, one hand still resting where Charles had been moments ago. Charles stood in the doorway for a second, watching him. 

Even in sleep, Max looked impossibly handsome, golden hair against the ivory sheets, lashes brushing his cheeks, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm.

Charles tiptoed back into bed, sliding carefully under the covers. The second he settled in, Max stirred, brows twitching before his arm found Charles’ waist again, dragging him in closer, murmuring something unintelligible into his hair.

He smiled and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. 

It was media day.

Charles was scheduled to be in the drivers press conference later that afternoon . . . with Max and Pierre. 

God. How was he going to walk straight?

Stirring lightly again, Max grumbled, “Go back to sleep,” eyes closed and face relaxed like they both weren’t due in the media pen in an hour. 

Charles chuckled and kissed his shoulder again. “In a minute, mon amour.”

Startling a bit next to him, Max's eyes cracked open. “What?”

“In a minute, I said.”

“No, not that part.” Max breathed. “What did you say after that?”

Rolling over on top of the sleepy Dutchman, Charles grinned, dragging lazy kisses over Max's stubbled face. 

“Mon Amour,” Charles moaned into his mouth.

Max was already hard underneath him, Charles rocking lightly over Max's tented boxers. Not even properly awake yet and ready for more. A deep sense of satisfaction settled in him from the way Max groaned and gripped his thighs possessively.

Last night, he'd taken some of his power back, driving Max to the point of losing control. Maybe he could do it again? 

“Ride me,” Max said.

Smiling, Charles rolled his hips over Max again.

“Slowly.”

“I already can't walk,” he chuckled against the Dutchman’s lips.

“That's why I said slowly. I want to feel how tight you are when you moan my name.”

Charles groaned softly into Max’s mouth, still tasting sleep and salt and something sweeter between them. His thighs ached, muscles tender in ways that only Max could ever coax out of him, but the heat blooming low in his stomach drowned out the soreness, his body already responding, moving against Max on instinct.

The weight of Max’s hands came to rest on his hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh like he owned it—because, well, he did.

“Mon amour,” Charles whispered again, slower this time, pressing it directly against Max’s lips like the words belonged there, dragging his nails lightly down Max’s chest.

Max pulled his boxers down just enough, and Charles reached between them, lining himself up with ease, the stretch making his eyes flutter shut as he sank down with a breathless sigh. The dull ache in his ass from the night before sharpened deliciously, only making the sensation deeper, more intense now that he took Max in his pussy. Max’s hands didn’t move from his hips, thumbs stroking circles to keep him grounded.

“Slow, baby,” Max said again, voice still thick with sleep, eyes blown wide with desire.

Charles obeyed, rolling his hips in a lazy rhythm, soft moans slipping from his lips each time Max brushed a spot that made his toes curl. 

“You’re still so greedy,” Max groaned, lifting his hips just enough to meet Charles halfway. “You can’t get enough can you?”

Charles shook his head, nails digging into Max’s shoulders now. “Love it . . . love this with you,” he breathed, barely aware of what he was saying until Max’s eyes softened, a gentle smile pulling at his lips.

“I love this with you too,” Max whispered, pushing a hand into Charles’ curls as he leaned up, kissing the words into his mouth. “Fuck me, we’re going to be late.”

“I'm trying, but you told me to go slow,” Charles laughed softly, the joy buzzing through him louder than the ache. 

“Maybe I should speed this up then?” Max asked between soft pecks, and then flipped them with a dizzying rush.

Charles’ back pressed into the mattress, Max looming above him as he pinned Charles’ legs back at the knees, sliding in to the hilt with one push.

Air punching from his lungs, Charles’ eyes fluttered, mouth dropping open, “Fuck, Max.”

“Lie back and show me you remember the rules,” Max said, stilling his hips.

The lack of friction was infuriating. 

Criminal really.

But Charles obeyed, like he always did.

Stretching his arms up over his head, the Monégasque grabbed onto the headboard and tilted his chin up, collar coming to rest in the hollow of his throat, parting his thighs wider around Max's hips. He preferred the “present” position, but he liked getting to watch Max in this one, even if he wasn't allowed to touch.

“Good girl,” Max cooed, brushing his fingers against the cold metal around his neck, his hips finally starting a slow pace. 

Charles sighed, head dropping to the side on the pillow, eyes half lidded. Sure they were probably going to get fined for their tardiness, but he was going to  walk into that press conference glowing. 

Let Pierre and the whole damn paddock wonder why.

Peppering his neck with more soft kisses, stubble scraping against his skin, Max sucked the lobe of Charles’ ear into his mouth, tugging gently with his teeth.

“You don’t get to come,” Max rasped in his ear, pointedly avoiding hitting his favorite spot inside him. “You still touched yourself without permission.”

If the devil had a name, it would be Max Verstappen, all soft and sweet while pressing his palm into the hollow of Charles’ neck.

Snapping his eyes back to him, Charles whined from the back of his throat, arching his back, “Maaaaax.”

They were, in fact, late. 

The pair jogged softly down the hallway to the press conference room, Charles ahead with Max behind, Red Bull and Ferrari team media handlers following. Charles hissed at a tight pull in his thighs as he jogged, and heard a soft chuckle behind him. 

Asshole , Charles thought but smiled. 

Throwing open the door to the press conference, Charles quickly took his seat, managing to hold in his wince while Max took a seat beside him on the couch, Pierre already seated and glaring at them. 

“Welcome everybody to the driver’s press conference here in Spa. With me this morning from left to right, I have Pierre Gasly, Charles Leclerc, and Max Verstappen. A pleasure for you gentlemen to join us.”

Charles rolled his shoulders and scooped his microphone off the couch cushion next to him, holding it loosely to his chest. 

“Charles, let's start with you. It’s been a tough season so far with the Ferrari proving a bit more difficult to drive than previous years. How are you feeling about the weekend?”

The Monégasque dove into one of his standard PR approved answers, the same thing he said about every weekend, a jumble of polite words with thinly veiled disappointment throughout. 

“And now to you, Max. You’ve had a couple of podium finishes over the second leg of the European circuit. How have your expectations changed going into this weekend from what you learned at Silverstone?”

Charles kept his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor-to-ceiling sponsor wall in front of them as Max leaned forward, casually adjusting the mic like he wasn’t a walking offense to Charles’ current ability to sit without flinching.

“Yeah, Silverstone wasn't a good race for us, but it gave a few answers,” Max said coolly, his accent more pronounced when he slipped into media mode. “We’ve worked on setup, and there’s been improvement, but it’s still a challenge. This track suits our strengths a bit more, so I’m hopeful.”

Charles didn’t have to look to know Max was relaxed, his posture always effortless in these settings—especially when he was still wearing the exact same smug expression he’d had while pressing Charles into the mattress that morning, carrying out his punishment with maddening dedication, refusing to let him come despite his whimpered pleas. 

The same mouth that had said, “We’re already going to be late, baby, we might as well make the most of it. I want you walking around leaking my come all day.”

Charles subtly adjusted his position in the seat, biting back a grimace as his jeans tugged against sore skin in all the wrong ways—aforementioned fluids sticking to his underwear. 

Thank god it was finally considered the race weekend and he was allowed to wear some.

He caught Pierre’s sideways glance, and the older Frenchman’s narrowed eyes. Of course he’d noticed their mutual late arrival and he was surely piecing things together.

They hadn’t really talked since Pierre walked in on them in Charles’ apartment, but the Monégasque was getting the feeling he wouldn’t escape that conversation for much longer.

Not with the way Pierre was glaring at the side of Max's head.

Charles offered nothing. Just sat tall, legs neatly crossed, and forced a calm expression.

“Pierre,” the moderator continued, “you’ve been working closely with the technical team at Alpine—how have the upgrades felt during simulations?”

As Pierre launched into an overly simplified breakdown of his expectations for the weekend, Charles found his thoughts wandering. His hands were folded neatly on his lap, thumb brushing over the edge of his bracelet in rhythm. He could still feel Max’s handprint ghosted across the back of his thigh, the shape of his fingers woven under his collar tucked beneath his Ferrari team kit.

He'd had to touch up the numerous hickeys on his neck before they left, and Charles hoped he'd done a good enough job to make them not so obvious. So far, it didn’t seem like they gathered any attention.

He risked a quick glance to his right. 

Max’s expression was unreadable, but his fingers were tapping gently against his knee, one-two-three, like a code only Charles could hear. The Dutchman squeezed the top of his thigh, thick fingers drawing Charles' gaze and he chewed on his lower lip. 

Those damn fingers. 

Max started answering another question, but Charles wasn’t listening, entranced by the firm divots of those fingertips in lightly tanned flesh. Max relaxed them for half a second before squeezing again, his thumb leaving light red marks identical to the ones on Charles’ neck. 

“—think Charles would agree. Isn’t that right, Charles?” Max asked from beside him.

Eyes snapping up, the Monégasque responded without even thinking, “Yes, Max.”

And promptly just about swallowed his tongue. 

Charles felt the heat rise in his cheeks the moment the words left his mouth. His stomach flipped, chest tightening with panic as the weight of what he’d said settled over the couch, chuckles coming from the reporters in the room. 

Max’s head turned slightly toward him, eyes wide but glinting with unmistakable amusement. His mouth twitched like he was biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and Max’s fingers moved to squeeze Charles’ thigh this time, like the Dutchman was rewarding him for his slip-up.

Fuck, why did he say that?

Putting on the best smile he could, Charles chuckled to try and smooth things over, nervous laughter bubbling from inside him.

Pierre choked on his water beside them, coughing hard into his sleeve, eyes darting from Charles to Max’s hand like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to. Thankfully, most of the room just laughed along with them, the moderator stifling his own chuckle before waiting on the crowd to settle. 

Charles couldn’t hear a word over the ringing in his ears.

He looked down at his lap, face still burning, lips parted just enough to draw in a shaky breath while he played with his microphone. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole—or maybe for Max to take him somewhere far away and pretend like none of this ever happened.

God, he couldn’t believe he’d just said that in a room full of journalists, and he was surely going to get a comment from Sylvia after this was over.

“Charles, anything you can tell us about Ferrari's new floor this weekend?”

Charles exhaled slowly, gripping the microphone in his hand a little tighter, fingers brushing the ridged rubber of the switch. 

This presser couldn’t be over soon enough. 

Charles rubbed a hand across his tired face, trying to rein in the last bits of adrenaline still buzzing under his skin after the press conference. He’d tried to slip away unnoticed, drifting under the radar, hoping paddock fatigue would save him. 

But Pierre had different ideas. 

The Frenchman had practically bulldozed past Sylvia and Charles’ PR handler, slammed the door to Charles’ driver’s room behind him, and cornered him in the cramped space.

“What the fuck was that?” Pierre demanded, eyes hard, posture bristling.

“What was what?”

Pierre gave him a pointed look, crossing his arms. 

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly, sounding calmer than he felt inside. "Nothing, Pear. I’ve got an interview in ten minutes. Can we talk about this later?” 

“No, we are talking about this now. You've been blowing off my texts, declining my calls. I haven’t seen you properly in months. What’s going on with you? No—no, what’s going on with you and Max? Is he hurting you?” Pierre’s concern edged on alarm, tone urgent—frantic even.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” he said regretfully. 

Really, he hadn't meant to. There was just so much going on and he didn't even know where to begin.

“And Max isn't hurting me,” Charles added quickly, lifting both hands. “No—it’s nothing like that.”

He’d been distant ever since that day in his apartment—since Pierre had accidentally walked in on him and Max in that raw, unguarded moment. Charles still couldn’t find the words. 

How could he explain to his best mate that he was taking himself apart and rebuilding anew? Exploring parts of himself he didn’t know existed? That the thought of being away from Max any more than necessary had him feeling like his skin was burning?

Everything had happened so quickly, it was easy to get lost in it, months passing feeling like mere minutes.

The weight of the truth sat deep in his chest, but Pierre’s expectant face reminded him he couldn’t just dodge this conversation forever.

“Okay,” Charles said, deciding he could handle this. “Let’s get dinner after we wrap with media. I will tell you everything. I promise.”

Pierre’s features softened slightly and he shifted closer, offering proximity instead of space. "Alright," he said, voice more gentle. "After the interviews, then? You won't bail on me again?"

Charles nodded. “Yes. After.”

The Frenchman gave a tight nod and clapped a hand to Charles’ shoulder, lingering for a moment. He searched Charles' eyes like he was deciding if Charles was being genuine before slipping out of his driver's room and Charles fished his phone out of his pocket, thumbing to Max's contact. 

Charles had already tucked himself into a shadowed booth at the very back of the softly lit restaurant, fingers tracing the rim of his glass of water as he tried to calm the buzz of nerves crawling beneath his skin. The low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery around him did little to distract him, though he appreciated the gentle ambiance—dim lights, crisp linens, and just enough privacy.

When the waiter gently pulled back the curtain across the room and led Pierre into the private dining area, Charles took a breath and pasted on a small, neutral smile. He hoped this wouldn't go as poorly as things had gone back in his apartment. 

As Pierre sat down, Charles glanced at his phone again—another text from Max blinking on the screen.

Max: 

Still all good? I can be there in 10 if you change your mind.

Charles stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary, thumb hovering. 

It was tempting. 

The Dutchman had offered to come along, sensing how much this conversation might weigh on him, but Charles knew bringing Max would only complicate things. It would make Pierre defensive, and this mess was his to resolve.

Max didn’t have to handle everything for him, though Charles did enjoy it when the Dutchman made his brain turn to static. 

He was an adult for fuck's sake.

With a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he locked the screen and turned the phone face down on the tablecloth.

Pierre sat across from him, stiff in posture, his expression somewhere between wary and wounded. He barely spared a glance at the menu before ordering a bottle of wine, then waved the waiter off with a sharp nod.

And as expected, he didn’t waste a second once they were alone.

“I’m surprised he let you off your leash for dinner,” Pierre said, tone dry, venomous even. “Seeing as how you're some kind of dog now.” 

Gesturing to his collar, Charles stiffened, eyes narrowing as he looked across the table.

“That’s how you want to start this?” he said. 

“I don’t know, Charles. You tell me. What am I supposed to think? You wear that thing around all the time—even under your gear when it's not allowed, you flinch like a kicked dog when Max's name comes up, and now you're calling him ‘sir’ in front of the press?”

“I didn’t call him sir,” Charles corrected automatically, but it felt weak even as the words left his mouth.

“You may as well have,” Pierre shot back, leaning forward, voice tight. “Yes, Master Max. Spank me harder Max—”

“Va t'faire foutre,” [fuck you] the Monégasque spat and quickly stood from the booth, only for Pierre to grab his forearm.

“Wait, wait. I'm sorry. It’s just . . .” Pierre retracted his hand, running it through his hair. “I'm worried, okay? Please sit, don't leave."

Pausing, his anger was so hot in his chest he had half a mind to still walk out. But he didn’t want to strain things further with his longest friend. Sitting back down with a huff, Charles crossed his arms over his chest.

They sat quietly for a moment, before Pierre stretched out his arm, palm up on the table top. “Can you tell me what's going on?” He asked in that soft tone Charles remembered from when they were children.

Exhaling through his nose, Charles knew this would be hard, but he hadn’t expected Pierre’s anger. Not like this. And he definitely hadn’t expected how much it would hurt to see that anger wrapped around worry.

Pierre’s expression softened a bit more, and he slid his hand across the table further. 

Charles tentatively took it.

“Please Cha. Just tell me what is going on. I haven’t been this worried about you since you got drugged at that Ferrari party and I couldn't find you.”

God, why did he have to go and bring that up?

It was back in 2019, when his contract was still shiny and new. A pushy Ferrari sponsor hadn’t been willing to take “no” for an answer. It was one of the only times he’d genuinely thought that his secret was going to be ruined for good.

“I’ll explain,” Charles said quietly, fingers tightening around his friend’s. “But you have to listen. You have to try to understand and not interrupt, even if you don’t like it.”

Pierre didn’t move for a moment, then he nodded once, sharp and silent.

They both leaned away from each other as the waiter returned and poured them glasses of wine before taking their orders. 

When the waiter hurried off again, Charles took a breath.

And began.

“So, what does the collar mean then?” Pierre asked around a mouth full of his simple chicken dish. 

Charles had covered the basics, or at least what he felt like he could without giving away too much, and the Frenchman had waited patiently until he was finished, much to Charles’ surprise.

It was more than he was expecting if he was honest. 

“Is it purely sexual? Or is there a romance aspect to it as well? That one—” he pointed to Charles’ platinum collar with a piece of chicken skewered on his fork, “—is not the one you were wearing a few months ago in your apartment.”

Charles paused, finger brushing the cool platinum of the new collar as he thought before answering. “This one is more of a permanent collar,” he said softly. “The one I wore a few months ago was more of a temporary collar. This . . . this one Max gave me when we decided to pursue this more romantically. ”

He let the words settle, basking in the small gravity of that shift: romance instead of routine, permanence instead of uncertainty.

Chewing thoughtfully, Pierre steepled his fingers over his plate of chicken, eyes searching. “So . . . he is your boyfriend, then?”

“Oui,” Charles said, nodding and taking a careful bite of his salad. Each crisp forkful felt strangely grounding after the emotional weight of their conversation. He looked down at the collar and up at Pierre. “I never really thought of Max strictly as my ‘boyfriend.’ I've just referred to him as my . . . Dom in this. But in a simple sense,” he waved a hand, half-smiling, “yes—boyfriend fits too.”

Pierre set his fork down. “And this dynamic . . . you’re safe? You’re happy?”

Charles let out a slow breath, staring at his fingers. “I am. It’s not just about power or control—it’s about trust. Max is with me through everything, not just the good parts.” He touched the collar lightly. “And this is a reminder that someone sees me—really sees me—and cherishes me.”

“You said this started before the season?”

He nodded his head.

“What brought this on? You said you ran into Max at a party for this kind of thing, but why didn’t you call me to go with you? Were you there alone?”

“It was more of an invite-only thing.”

“Who invited you then?”

Charles chewed on his bottom lip. He hadn’t discussed with Lewis if he could say he went to that party with him, and Charles wasn’t sure what was appropriate to share with people outside the community. 

But Pierre was his best friend, and Charles wanted him to trust that he knew what he was doing. Lying now would only undermine the trust he’d just built.

“I went to the party with Lewis.”

The Frenchman stopped chewing, lips pulling down into a frown. “I see how it is. You get a new teammate you actually like and I’m old news.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Charles sighed, pushing the last bits of his salad around on the plate and tossing a piece of bread at his friend. 

Pierre scoffed, snatching the piece that hit him in the shoulder. “I’m allowed. My best friend has been sneaking around Monaco wearing a collar and attending exclusive BDSM parties with his new teammate. I’d say I’ve earned a little drama.”

Laughing despite himself, Charles let the sound ease the tension in his shoulders. “It wasn’t planned, really. I just . . . I’d been curious for a long time. And when Lewis mentioned the event, I figured I’d go and see. No expectations.”

“And Max just happened to be there?” Pierre leaned forward, finally intrigued more than irritated.

“Yeah,” Charles said, voice softening as his mind drifted to that night. 

He hadn’t told Pierre about the closet at the gala or how Max had stumbled upon him mid-fix for his binder. That moment even now felt surreal. 

Special. 

“We just kind of ran into each other. I was trying to leave actually and he just . . . Took me home.”

“And then what?” Pierre blinked slowly. “He offered to be your Dom? Just like that?”

“Not right away,” Charles shook his head. “I actually asked him if he was interested in trying with me, but Max declined.”

The Frenchman's brows rose, but he waited for Charles to finish.

“Then we talked—a lot—and we’ve been talking ever since. Setting rules, boundaries, learning each other’s expectations. Max is—he takes this very seriously. He made sure I understood everything before we ever did anything.”

Silence passed between them for a moment before Pierre said, “So he’s good to you? This isn’t just some kinky escapade, or a distraction from your shit car this year?”

“No,” Charles said with a firm nod. “He’s good to me.”

“Has Max done this before? Had other subs I mean? Wait—was Kelly his sub? They were together for a while.”

Charles bristled hearing the name, but he tried his best not to show his discomfort on his face. 

“Max has had other subs,” he said plainly. “But he doesn't have contact with any of them.”

“I did see her getting denied access to Red Bull hospitality in Austria. Man she looked pissed.”

A warm gooey feeling spread in Charles’ stomach. 

Good, he thought. 

Some people didn't know how to leave well enough alone. Max clearly wasn't interested and she apparently just couldn't take the hint. 

Pierre studied him for another few seconds before letting out a shocked gasp. “Wait . . . That necklace that Lewis wears all the time—Oh mon Dieu, he also does this too doesn’t he?”

The Frenchman got that giddy excited face he always had when he learned a new juicy piece of gossip. By contrast, Charles felt the color drain out of his face.

Merde.

Charles didn’t know what to say, but Pierre evidently took his silence for confirmation. 

“With who!?” the man shrieked loudly, drawing a few eyes in the private room. 

“Putain, Pierre,” Charles hissed. “Not so loud.”

“Who,” Pierre repeated in a hushed whisper, grinning like a cat who’d caught a mouse.

Charles rubbed his thumb against his eye and sighed. He was surely going to regret this. 

“Nico,” he whispered back. “I think they have been in a full-time dynamic for a long time.”

Pierre's mouth dropped open in silent shock before he slowly sank back into his chair, blinking rapidly. 

“No. Fucking. Way.”

Casting a cautious glance around the room, Charles gave a tight nod, grateful no one was within earshot anymore. He leaned across the table, lowering his voice further. “You can’t tell anyone, alright? This isn’t something they’ve ever talked about publicly. I only know because Lewis told me. I’ve never even seen them interact in private. It’s . . . it’s different. This isn't just some regular relationship stuff.”

“I can’t believe this,” Pierre muttered, his mind clearly racing. “That explains so much! The way Nico acts like Lewis walks on water now when they couldn’t stand each other as teammates, and Lewis—Christ, Lewis with his hands behind his back all the time during interviews with him—”

“Pierre,” Charles cut in, a half-laugh escaping despite the nerves creeping up again. “Please. I’m serious. This stays between us.”

Nodding, the Frenchman raised both hands like he was swearing an oath. “You know me. Lips sealed. I just—wow. You know, I always thought there was something weirdly intense between them, but I figured it was just, I don’t know, post-2016 weirdness.”

Charles leaned back in his seat, his own heartbeat slowing again. “It’s definitely post-2016 weirdness, but more than that. Nico even invited Max and I to dinner over the break. I’m a bit curious to see how they get on in private.”

“A dinner? As in like . . . a full-on kinky dinner?” Pierre chuckled, “Will you and Lewis be eating from bowls on the floor?”

That gave Charles pause.

Was that what the dinner was? Was Charles supposed to be silent and follow Max around? He couldn’t imagine doing that, but he'd seen some similar things at Nico's party months ago.

Were he and Lewis going to have to sit on the floor while Nico and Max ate? Maybe Max would feed him from his hands, like he saw some other couples doing. That would be less embarrassing than eating from a bowl, at least.

Charles needed to text Lewis.

“I don’t think so,” Charles replied carefully. “But it would be interesting to see what a long-term, healthy dynamic looks like, you know? Outside of play, with someone who's been doing it for years. The everyday part of it.”

Pierre whistled low, shaking his head. “Damn, Cha. You're really in deep.”

Charles smiled softly, fingers running over his collar again. “Yeah. I am.”

“Well,” Pierre said. “Just remember, if he ever does anything to hurt you—collar or not—I will personally find creative uses for several tools in the garage.”

Charles burst out laughing, tension finally dissolving. “I’ll let him know.”

_____

Max paced the narrow length of his motorhome, phone gripped tightly in his palm. The afternoon sun had turned to late evening, and it had been hours since Charles walked out of the paddock for dinner with Pierre. 

Yet there was still no text, no sign that things were going okay.

It’s just dinner, he reminded himself, but the pit in his stomach only deepened.

His mind replayed the limited messages he’d already received while on his way to a meeting—the confrontation after the press conference and Pierre cornering Charles in his driver’s room. Max knew it was coming—ever since Pierre had stormed into Charles’ apartment and discovered them, naked and intertwined. 

Perhaps discovered wasn't the right word for it since Max had dramatically outed himself in that moment, throwing back the sheet. Either way, Max wasn't ashamed of their relationship and he didn't want Charles to be either. 

When Charles told him he was heading to dinner, Max had offered to come along as support. To defuse things if he needed him to. 

Charles had never done this sort of thing after all, and Max knew the Monégasque was nervous about explaining things to friends or family.

But, Charles had refused his offer—“I want to handle this myself,” he’d said, standing strong but guarded.

Of course he was going to respect that.

Max buried himself in routine to take his mind off things: sending a few quick emails to his manager, jumping into a few travel simulator laps to fixate on gear shifts and track maps, even doom-scrolling through news feeds until his phone’s battery demanded a break. Each distraction felt necessary—better to burn through anxious energy than wait for it to eat him alive.

Even so, he'd run out of things to keep his mind busy and he'd started to think.

He’d paced, stopped, stared out the tinted window at the paddock lights, and returned to pacing again. He’d run through every scenario: from a frantic text from Charles asking him to come pick him up, to silence, which he dreaded most. And everything in between.

And still, no word.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Max tried not to think of the worst, but it crept in anyway. 

These things only went one of three ways in his experience. 

First, whoever it was the sub was telling would completely reject the idea of the dynamic, insisting that the relationship was damaging in some way and try to convince the sub to end things. Whether from some misunderstanding of love or duty, those reactions were always the hardest on the sub. 

Second, the person would listen and pretend that they understood, when in fact they would just—either silently or with others—judge the sub harshly for engaging in this kind of thing. They could even belittle and pull away from the sub as a friend completely in those cases.

Or third, the trusted friend or family member would accept the situation and try to be as respectful as possible.

Knowing Pierre . . . Max had little hopes for option three.

And so, Max prepared himself for the first two options, knowing the conversation after would be a bit tense and uncomfortable. If Pierre reacted badly, all Max could do would be to support Charles in whatever decision he made after this.

Even if that meant he wanted to stop.

He didn’t care one way or the other what Pierre thought about him, but Max knew Charles valued his opinion and he'd hate to see Charles lose a long time friend over someone else's interpretation of what a relationship should be.

Max shifted again, phone still on. The dim overhead lights hummed low over the leather sofa and a sigh escaped him. 

Just dinner. He’ll be fine. 

Max's phone vibrated and he almost completely dropped it on the floor, jerking up from the couch.

Charles

On my way back to the track

Max quickly typed out his reply.

Max

How did it go? Are you alright?  

Typing bubbles appeared instantly and Max chewed on the inside of his cheek.

Charles

It went well. I'll tell you about it when I get there. My motorhome or yours?

Max collapsed on his side in relief. Maybe he hadn’t given Pierre as much credit as he should have?

Charles

Though he did say he will find some alternative uses for wheel guns if you hurt me 🙃

Barking a laugh, Max smiled, the corner of his eyes wrinkling up.

Clearly, he'd just been overthinking it. That was his default after all. Just part of his Dom personality and it wasn't easily turned off.

He still couldn’t believe he'd gotten the chance to explore this with Charles, and Max couldn't remember the last time he was this happy. This evening felt a bit celebratory.

Max

Maybe I should think of interesting ways to use wheel guns on you

Charles

🫦

Max

You can come to mine

I got a text from Nico asking if August 16 works for dinner at his place. Does that work for you?

Charles

Did he say what kind of dinner this was going to be? I don’t have to sit on your lap or on the floor or something while you two eat, right?

What in the fuck? 

Huffing through his nose, Max traced his brow with his thumb. Sometimes he forgot just how new to all of this Charles really was, but he supposed it was a fair question. Movies and T.V. shows had given awful representations of these kinds of things.

Max

You will be warming my cock the whole time

Charles

Maaaaax

Max

You don’t like the idea of warming my cock while I feed you?

Or maybe you’ll be gagged and have to watch me eat instead

I’m hard just thinking about it

Charles

Don’t tease me after you wouldn’t let me come this morning 😞  

The Dutchman could picture the red tint to Charles’ ears and the adorable way he tried to hide when he was wet. 

Charles

I’m just getting out of the taxi now

Max 

Let’s practice for the dinner when you get here

I haven’t eaten yet

Chapter Text

Max squeezed the steering wheel a little tighter as his car climbed the winding hills of Monaco. The windows were rolled down, the wind tousling Charles’ curls as he sat beside him, posture tight, one thumb worrying at his bottom lip.

The Dutchman glanced sideways, catching the shimmer of the platinum collar at Charles’ throat. It winked in the fading evening light with every bump in the road.

“Are you sure this will just be a regular dinner?” Charles asked softly, thumb still pressed to his teeth.

“Yes,” Max answered, reaching across the center console to tug Charles’ hand away from his mouth. Their fingers twined automatically, warm skin against his. “It’s just dinner. Nothing weird, nothing formal. Nico knows to behave.”

He paused, smirking. “I was only teasing about the cock warming. Unless, of course, you would like to. I’m more than happy to indulge.”

Charles rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing as he gave Max a light smack to the upper arm. Grin widening, he let the teasing drop, hand returning to the wheel as he flipped the turn signal on.

“Easy, Charles. Don’t make me restrict the use of your hands tonight. Thought I'm sure you'd love that after last time.”

Charles flushed up to his ears, but just turned to look out the open window. 

The Monégasque didn't score a 91% rope bunny on his BDSM test for nothing . . . 

Their attire was simple but comfortable. Max wore dark jeans and a fitted Alpha Tauri shirt, sleeves hugging his biceps. Charles had gone with soft navy trousers and a breezy white button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The collar stood out the most, catching the fading sunlight again as Charles turned his head to look at the gated entrance coming into view.

Monaco was by no means large, and the trip has only been a handful of minutes from Max's apartment.

Max pulled the car to a stop and pressed the buzzer, his thumb brushing over Charles’ hand one more time before letting go. “Let’s just get through dinner,” he said. “Then we can go home and I can remind you where those hands belong.”

Charles offered a tentative smile to cover his furious blush, and Max took that as a good sign as they passed through the gate.

All sorts of vivid images of the Monégasque, bound and breathless filled his mind, Max  unable to help himself.

“Maybe we will make a stop in one of the private play rooms downstairs before we leave? We didn't get a chance to properly explore last time.”

The mansion rose like a jewel above the hills of Monaco, and Max took a moment to appreciate the familiar architecture, the way ivy crept artfully up one of the side walls, how the front entryway was just as grand and dramatic as he remembered. Nico certainly hadn’t lost his flair for spectacle in retirement.

The man was perhaps the most dramatic person he knew besides Charles.

Inside, the cool marble floor echoed under their footsteps. Nico and Lewis were already waiting near the sweeping staircase, both dressed comfortably but with a curated elegance. 

Nico, always sharp, had on a pale linen shirt open at the throat, while Lewis—ever the vision—wore a soft cream sweater with a neckline that plunged nearly to his waist. A stiff-looking leather collar adorned his neck, thick but unmistakably stylish, its gold slip chains draping like jewelry against his tattooed chest.

The look was paired with the tightest pants Max had ever seen, and the Dutchman was no stranger to fitted trousers.

Charles lingered slightly behind Max at first, eyes caught on Lewis. “I love your . . . ” he said, gesturing subtly toward the collar with an almost shy reverence.

Lewis lit up. “Thank you,” he said, his smile wide and genuine. “This is the collar I wear when I’m here mostly. Nico likes it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Charles replied, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “And very you.”

Max chuckled softly, Charles was right. No one else could pull off leather and gold with the effortless grace Lewis did. 

As the four of them moved toward the terrace where dinner was set—an elegantly dressed table under string lights with a perfect view of the rolling hills—Max took mental notes. He'd seen that collar before, at one or two more exclusive events, but he hadn't considered how clearly Charles was drawn to it.

Watching his sub now, so curious and open, Max wondered if Charles would enjoy having more collar options? Something elegant but distinctive, perhaps even another one for public appearances that blurred the line between fashion and their private bond.

The possibilities were endless really.

Maybe they could incorporate some leash play?

Charles turned to glance at Max then, his smile soft but warm, and Max’s chest tightened. Maybe they should look at designs together? He couldn’t wait to spoil him a little more after the boutique in Spain went so well.

“Dinner will be served soon. Please, have a seat,” Nico announced with a bright, gracious smile. “I hope you two are fine with a little deviation from your diets while on break.”

“At least for today,” Charles nodded, slipping into the chair Max pulled out for him, squeezing his hand in a silent thank you.

A chef and a few staff came out from the house to discuss the evening's courses and soon the table groaned under an array of culinary delights: pasta in creamy sauces, crisp seasonal vegetables, hearty German sausages, delicate vegan quiches, rich cheese boards, and soft artisan bread. Muted lantern light danced off elegant glassware and spilled across linen-draped wood.

Max, who'd skipped most of his regular regimen for this day, was starving. After giving Charles the first pick—who selected a colorful salad, grilled veggies, and a small portion of pasta—Max filled his plate generously. He chose a portion of spaghetti aglio e olio, roasted ratatouille, and a few slices of charcuterie to start.

They began amidst light chatter, toasts to the summer, and easy updates on setup and team morale. After a moment of comfortable silence, Nico leaned forward, setting down his wine glass.

“The season has been tough,” he said evenly, like the three drivers at the table weren't perfectly aware. “Damn McLaren.”

“Damn McLaren,” Max repeated with a small nod.

Lewis, tucking into his salad, chuckled and added, “Their car is just unreal. I've looked over their telemetry a hundred times and I don’t care what the FIA says, that tire cooling system is illegal.”

“All we can do is look forward to ‘26,” Charles weighed in, resting his hands lightly in front of him, “And hope Oscar wins.” 

A ripple of soft laughter followed, a collective release after the stress of the first half of the season.

They carried on, discussing subtle updates to data systems and track surfaces—topics far removed from anything too specific. But the mood shifted halfway through the meal as Nico cleared his throat, setting his utensils down.

“Charles,” he said, tone steady and oddly serious. “I wanted to apologize for the situation at my last party. Lewis told me what happened, and I’ve banned that person from future guest lists.”

Max paused mid-bite, the forkful of pasta hovering in the air before he gently set it down beside his plate. He looked over to see the younger man's fingers twisted the edge of his linen napkin into tight folds in his lap.

“Thank you, Nico,” Charles said, polite but distant.

“We have a pretty close knit community here in Monaco. Behavior like that is not tolerated and I go to great lengths to ensure people feel comfortable and safe at my events.”

“It was certainly unlike anything I've experienced before.”

Nico nodded, but his sharp gaze pivoted immediately to Max. “I'm a bit perplexed at how you let him end up in that situation in the first place? Where were you?”

“Charles was not my sub then,” Max straightened slowly, eyes narrowing. “He was attending the party as a guest of Lewis, but you know as well as I do—if he had been with me, nothing even remotely close to that would’ve happened.”

The air between them grew taut, an odd shift in the mood across the dinner table.

“Because you know how to take care of your subs so well, right?” Nico countered.

What the fuck was this? 

“It was my fault,” Lewis chimed in. “I got a little . . . distracted and Charles went looking for me when I took too long.”

“It all worked out in the end,” Charles said before having a sip of his wine.

That sounded like a good idea, and Max took a few big gulps of his own.

His pulse ticked sharply under his skin, shifting his gaze toward Lewis. The Brit locked eyes with him but remained silent, head dipping back down as he idly picked at his plate. 

That look alone made Max’s gut twist. 

Something was off and Lewis clearly knew it too. Before Max could speak, Charles’ voice cut through the static.

“Max has taken very good care of me,” he said, soft but steady, fingers brushing Max’s under the table.

Nico didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted his glass and took a long sip of wine, eyes still locked on them like he was trying to piece something together. 

How much had Lewis told him about Max and Charles? Shouldn't the German know everything Charles told Lewis by now? Especially the details of the party.

Lewis was the one who'd abandoned Charles and put him in that situation. Not Max.

It had been a long time since Max had seen Nico in person outside of a race weekend, and they didn't really text at all like they used to after their falling out about Lewis years ago. They'd spoken about it, and decided to move on.

That was that. Or so Max thought.

This sudden hostility felt a bit unwarranted.

Breaking the tension slightly, the serving staff came out from the main house to clear away empty dishes and disperse new ones, just as decadent and lavish as the first options. 

Max asked for water, deciding the wine was likely not the best decision.

“So, if you weren’t together at the party,” the German said finally, refilling his plate with new selections, “when did you decide to get together?”

“That’s not—” Max started, about to shut the line of questioning down, when Charles spoke at the same time.

“Suzuka,” Charles said, the word dropping like a pebble into a still pond.

He blinked, startled by Charles’ honesty, and Charles shrunk back in his seat a little bit, biting his lip.

Max placed a warm palm on his thigh under the table.

“Just after Suzuka,” he confirmed, giving Charles’ knee a gentle squeeze. “As I’m sure Lewis told you, this is a very new world for Charles. We’re still navigating it.”

He didn’t bother hiding the edge in his tone this time.

The table went quiet for a beat, only the soft clink of silverware from Lewis as he finally glanced up and offered Charles a small, understanding smile. “New or not, everyone’s first step in this is personal. I’m glad you are getting more into it and exploring. It's always nice to add more members to the community.”

Max glanced at him briefly and then turned back to Nico, who now looked less defensive and more thoughtful, eyes flicking between Charles and Max.

“I’m just surprised to see you two together is all,” Nico said after a pause. “I was under the impression you didn't take full-time subs anymore.”

“Things change.”

Nico hummed, glaring at Max over the rim of his glass. “So it seems.”

“Are you planning on throwing another party soon?” Charles asked, spooning a few pieces of cheese onto his plate. “There was so much to see at the last one, I might have missed some.”

“I will have another later in the year, but no set date. I'll definitely send you an invite Charles. Introduce you to a few people I know with more experience if you'd like. There are very few community members I don't know.”

“Experience with what,” Max challenged.

“Oh just some other Doms. You don't mind do you Max? Don't you want to show off how well your training has been going?”

Max felt the words like a slap across the back of his throat, the sting of that implication.

“We will not be participating in group play if that is what you are suggesting.”

“I think Charles can speak for himself?” Nico said snidely. “Unless of course you think he could be easily swayed. That happens sometimes you know. An over eager Dom swooping in at just the right moment to show your sub what they think they've been missing. But I think you know more about that than I do.”

Clenching his jaw, the fingers of Max’s left hand tightened around the stem of his wine glass, wine slosh over the rim nearly unnoticed.

“Could you get us some more wine?” Lewis interrupted smoothly, running his hand along the length of Nico’s nape. “This one’s gone warm.”

“Of course.”

Taking a slow, controlled breath, Max forced calm into his rapid heartbeat, the tension coiled around the table like thorns. He rose from his seat just as Nico did, their movements echoing in hesitation. Max looked at Charles—his confused glance broadening—and straightened. 

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “I need to use the restroom and then I think it’s best we get going.”

“What’s the rush?” Nico cooed. “We haven't even had dessert yet.”

Not sparing him a second glance, Max quickly walked back into the main house and released a breath. He ran a hand through his hair at the side door, nails scratching lightly at his scalp as he paced quickly down the hall.

It was all too clear to him now, Nico's real intentions behind this dinner. It had all the quiet cruelty of a senior driver’s mind game. In the World Championship of getting in someone’s head, Nico was the all-time great behind Michael.

Though he did learn from the best.

As he crossed the tiled hallway, he paused just inside the restroom door and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

Don’t lose it. Don’t let this spiral. Don’t reach across the table and stuff a napkin down his fucking throat. Focus.

This was a mistake coming here. After he was finished, they were getting out of here as quickly as possible.

_____

Charles fidgeted in his chair, slowly refolding his napkin with far more focus than necessary, trying to concentrate on the simple creases of the fabric instead of the sudden chill in the air.

What had just happened between Max and Nico? That tension wasn’t subtle, and the way Max left the table sent unease through his chest. 

Weren’t they supposed to be friends? Lewis had told him that Nico even mentored Max a little in the early days of his Dom journey. So why did it feel like Nico had just thrown a knife across the table aimed at Max's head? And what was all that about introducing Charles to other Doms?

The Monégasque didn't think he was ready for that kind of thing, not comfortable with the idea of anyone else but Max touching him. Not even taking his secret into consideration that is.

Was that common or something Max liked? Letting other people touch him while the Dutchman just . . . watched? 

The thought made him nauseous.

Max liked to watch.

He leaned slightly toward Lewis across the table, voice hushed. “Lewis,” he said. “What's going on?”

“It’s fine,” Lewis answered, brushing invisible crumbs off his lap. His smile was soft but a bit tight. “They just haven’t seen each other in a while. I’m not sure why Nico is being so . . . Nico. I’m sorry about that. Can I get you another drink? I know I have some vodka stored somewhere.”

“No, it’s fine,” Charles replied quickly, shaking his head. “Max said we are leaving when he gets back.”

His appetite had vanished somewhere between Nico’s cutting words and Max walking away anyway. Letting his hand drift up to his collar, Charles’ fingers slipped behind it, tugging gently at the back of the clasp.

The small increase in pressure steadied him, the cool metal against his neck, snug and familiar, reassuring in a way he couldn’t quite explain. He’d started pulling on it when he felt anxious on Max’s advice when they’d texted about how he was feeling before quali, and it worked surprisingly well. The Monegasque had even incorporated the small gesture into his pre-race routine, giving the metal a firm tug to settle his nerves.

His thumb brushed the clasp again, feeling the diamonds embedded in the piece just as Nico returned with another bottle of wine.

He fiddled with the cork for a moment, startling Charles as he silently refilled his glass across the table. Hesitating, Charles wasn't sure if he should drink it, but on second thought, with how the night was going, he needed something to help if things were going to get worse. 

Charles reached for the glass and quickly downed almost half of it in one gulp while Lewis retreated from the table without explanation.

Maybe they really should just leave?

Twisting his fingers in his lap, Charles tried to think of something to say, but nothing came. Instead, the Monégasque opted to quickly finish the rest of his glass.

“Thank you for dinner,” Charles said softly, drawing Nico's eyes. “It was delicious, but I think we'd better get back soon. Leo is anxious I'm sure. You know how dogs can be.” 

Standing without waiting for a reply, he placed his napkin over his plate, brushing off the front of his shirt.

“Tell Lewis I will see him in Zandvoort—”

“Nothing against you, Charles, but I think you should consider keeping your options open,” Nico said. “You’re very new to this like Lewis said and should be free to explore as you’d like.”

Charles paused mid-rise, hands falling back down to his sides.

“I am happy exploring with Max. He has already collared me.”

“Oh I couldn’t help but notice. Your collar really is lovely,” Nico spoke, completely ignoring his attempt at politely excusing himself. “Stunning actually. It fits you so well. It was a little quick for him to give it to you though. Only a few months in?”

Nico’s tone wasn’t overtly cruel, but there was something in the lilt of it, a probing edge, that made Charles’ skin prickle. The German's gaze, sharp and lingering, stayed fixed on the platinum band at Charles’ throat.

Unable to fight the urge, Charles’ fingers rose to the collar again, thumb brushing the smooth surface near the clasp.

“Thank you,” he said softly, voice carefully neutral and unsure of what else to say. “It’s something I wanted and it wasn’t forced on me or anything if that is what you’re thinking. I’ve had several discussions with Lewis about his and what it means for his dynamic with you, and I also discussed it with Max before he gave it to me. Believe it or not, I did a lot of research before committing to this and I am aware of its meaning for Max and I.”

Charles was proud of the even tone in his voice. He would treat this just how he did with every other shitty interviewer he dealt with on a tough race weekend. PR trained to perfection.

“It looks oddly familiar. Did Max say where he got it?”

Charles’ stomach tightened, unease curling low in his gut. 

He sat back down in his seat, fingers still resting protectively against the collar. “Max had it custom made,” he murmured.

Why was Max taking so long? He needed him back here, if only to cut through the strange, suffocating tension that had settled like fog over the evening. The wine buzzing in his system wasn’t enough to drown out the instinct clawing at him now—the gut feeling that this dinner was unraveling into something it was never meant to be.

“Did he?” Nico asked, steepling his fingers under his chin, tone almost playful. “I'm sure he said the same thing to Lewis once.”

Brows creasing, confusion cut a line between his eyes. 

What?

What did that mean?

Why was he being so damn cryptic and annoying for no reason.

Charles wasn’t just confused—he was angry. His hands tightened around the edge of his chair, nails digging into the fabric of his trousers to keep from visibly clenching. They'd come here for a calm evening, to share a meal, to maybe connect more deeply with Nico and Lewis—two people he'd thought could help him understand their world better. 

Not this. Not this needling, passive-aggressive interrogation Nico seemed hellbent on pressing.

This felt like some kind of test he hadn’t studied for.

He’d hoped to learn something tonight—something about how Nico and Lewis made their dynamic work so seamlessly over the years, something he could take home with Max to strengthen their own bond. Instead, all he’d learned so far was how desperately he wanted to get out of this house. 

Just like the last time he was here.

“Just say what it is you have to say,” Charles said firmly. “I have no interest in group play or exploring with other Doms, so what are you suggesting?”

“I’m quite certain I've seen that collar before,” Nico continued, his gaze glinting as he nodded subtly toward Charles’ throat. “But of course, Lewis would know better than I . . . after being Max’s sub of course. Maybe that is where I remember it from? Should we ask him?”

Charles’ stomach dropped like he’d been tossed from Eau Rouge at full speed. His throat went dry, and his legs suddenly felt leaden under the table. 

Max and Lewis? They had—?

The metal around his throat felt heavier, hotter, like it was burning into his skin. The wine he’d downed doing nothing to dull the sudden ache in his chest.

“Here he comes now,” Nico said lightly, that damn smile still curling at the corners of his mouth as Lewis stepped back onto the balcony, a tray of delicate desserts balanced in his hands. “Let’s ask him?”

“Ask me what?” Lewis chimed casually as he stepped onto the balcony, oblivious to the bomb that had just been lit. 

He set the tray of desserts down, the delicate pastries wobbling slightly on their silver platter.

Charles’ throat felt like it had closed around itself, breath catching as his voice pushed its way out. “You’ve been with Max?” he asked, the words raw and trembling as they left him. “You—you were his sub?”

The sting of betrayal tightened around his lungs, sharp and suffocating, leaving his chest hollow but heavy at once. He'd ask Lewis before. Asked him what he knew about Max as a Dom. 

Why would he lie about that? What was the reason for keeping that from him?

Were they . . . still seeing each other? Was there some kind of weird sub exchange going on?

Was that how this worked?

So many things he'd seen from his research boiled up from his memory and Charles’ skin crawled, horrified and disgusted at all the extreme scenarios swirling in his head with all the things Nico had already said during the dinner.

Lewis froze, wide, startled eyes locked on Charles like he’d only just realized what Charles just said. His lips parted, searching for words, but only a soft, “Charles—” escaped.

“Oh my god, you were? ” The disbelief cracked in Charles’ voice, sharp and bitter, the words escaping before he could stop them. 

He stumbled back from the table, his chair scraping against the tile with a jarring screech, his legs weak as his chest swelled with something between nausea and rage. The sight of Lewis’ guilty expression—shoulders hunched, eyes soft with apology—only made it worse.

“Just while he and I were on a short break,” Nico interjected smoothly, like the revelation was a casual aside. He swirled the wine in his glass and took a slow sip. “I’m shocked you two haven’t discussed it already. Max never mentioned it?”

Charles’ jaw tightened, his heart pounding in his ears as he fought to swallow back the tight, dry ache in his throat. He glanced toward Max’s empty seat at the table and it only deepened the pit in his stomach. Charles couldn’t tell if the weight in his chest was fury, humiliation, or the beginnings of heartbreak.

Why hadn’t Max told him?

And why did it hurt this much?

“It was nothing, Charles,” Lewis said quickly, his usual composure cracking as he skirted around the table, his hands up like he could somehow calm the wildfire burning behind Charles’ ribs. “Just over the winter break before 2021. I—I . . . it was nothing serious—”

“Is that why you were upset when I told you I was interested in Max?”

Charles’ brain was spinning, the fury coursing through him electric, hot and unrelenting.

Things started to come back to him. Lewis in the restaurant in Suzuka, his odd questions during their track walk, questioning him in his drivers room.

“Is that why you said Max p–preferred female subs?” Charles snapped. “Because you fucking knew what he liked from personal experience and didn’t think to tell me that?”

He’d blown straight past angry at this point. Past hurt. Now he was livid. His throat felt tight, raw, but the words just kept spilling out, sharp and jagged.

“How could you not tell me this?!” His voice cracked, the betrayal ringing louder than the rage for a moment. “After everything we talked about? After I came to you, time and time again, confused and needing advice, trusting you? How could you just lie to me like that?!”

Lewis’ mouth opened, but the words that came out only stoked the fire. “Charles calm down. You're over reacting. It wasn’t my place to say,” he insisted. “Max and I both agreed not to tell you—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Charles cut him off, voice rising enough to echo against the stone balcony walls. He took a sharp step forward, his collar pressing uncomfortably against his throat as his shoulders squared. “You’re my teammate, Lewis! Not just some paddock friend, not someone I barely know—you’re supposed to have my back, not hold secrets like this over my head!”

His breath came ragged now, chest heaving, the metallic taste of adrenaline on his tongue. Every memory of the times he’d sat quietly beside Lewis—asking for advice, trusting his reassurances—flashed like sharp, unwelcome photographs behind his eyes. And all along, Lewis had been holding this back? This massive piece of the puzzle that could have changed everything?

He felt the weight of his collar again, heavy and cold against his pulse. For the first time since Max fastened it around his neck, it didn’t feel like comfort. 

It felt like a chain.

A prison.

“Did he give this to you?” Charles spat, his voice cutting like broken glass as he jabbed a trembling finger toward his collar. “Nico said it looks familiar. Was this your collar with Max? Did he buy this for you?”

Lewis opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Nico’s smooth, infuriating voice slid through the tension like a knife.

“Oh now I remember where I've seen it! I remember Max picking that out for Kelly a few years ago,” Nico said, leaning back casually in his chair and crossing his legs. His lips curved into something close to sadistic glee, eyes glinting in the low light. “He even asked for my advice about collars, if I recall. Though . . . ” Nico’s gaze flicked over Charles, slow, deliberate enough to make his skin crawl. “ . . . it does look far better on you than I imagine it would on her. Why let such a stunning piece go to waste after all? I’m sure it was expensive.”

Charles’ stomach lurched violently, bile rising in his throat. His vision tunneled, the lantern lights around the balcony blurring as his ears rang. 

The collar—his collar—the one Max had clasped around his neck so carefully, so reverently in that ceremony, the one that had come to symbolize trust, care, and belonging suddenly felt like nothing but a secondhand prop. 

Something recycled. Something cheap.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t listen to another word.

Without looking back, Charles spun on his heel and bolted for the balcony doors, Lewis’ voice chasing him down the hall, calling his name.

He didn’t slow.

His legs carried him down the ornate hallway in quick, uneven strides, the plush rugs muffling the sharp pound of his shoes. His chest ached, breath tight and ragged like the collar were a hand squeezing his throat rather than a piece of jewelry.

Just as he rounded the corner toward the staircase, a door swung open to his right, Max stepping out from the bathroom, lightly shaking his hands in front of him. 

“Charles?” he asked calmly.

But Charles couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t be here another second.

All of this—everything—had been a mistake.

From the beginning. Since he’d let Lewis convince him to go to that party in this very house, since he’d let himself step into this world of velvet and chains and control and unspoken rules. A world of games and power plays he didn’t fully understand and suddenly wanted no part of.

He didn’t belong here. Not with them. Not in this life.

“Charles wait!” Max’s voice cut through the cavernous entry hall, echoing off the high ceilings as he barreled down the staircase, taking two steps at a time to close the distance. “I just need my jacket, then we can go—”

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”

Charles’ vision blurred with hot, frustrated tears as he reached for the heavy brass handle of the front door. He didn’t know how he was going to get home—Max drove. But this was Monaco, his home and childhood safe haven. He would just run if he had to. 

His chest heaved, heart pounding so hard it hurt, when a warm hand clamped around his wrist, halting his escape.

“Charlie, baby, where are you going? What’s wrong?”

“Let go of me!” he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut glass. He wrenched his arm free with a force that surprised even him, spinning to face Max with his hands balled into trembling fists. “Don’t touch me!”

Freezing, Max's palms lifted slowly in a show of surrender, confusion and alarm shadowing his face. The Dutchman looked completely bewildered and Charles thought that was a cruel joke as well. Max always so controlled, always knowing exactly what to do and what to say in every situation. 

This whole thing was just so—

“How could you do this to me?” Charles’ voice cracked, the anger laced with a rawness he couldn’t mask. The words trembled, but they tumbled out anyway, unrelenting. “Humiliate me like this? Fuck, is that what this is? Is humiliation just another fucking lesson I need to learn?! I marked a hard ‘no’ to that on my boundary sheet! Did you even fucking read it?”

“Charles, Jesus, slow down,” Max pleaded, stepping forward before stopping when Charles flinched. “What are you talking about? I don’t—I don’t know what’s wrong—”

The fury bubbling up inside Charles surged past the dam, boiling over before he could rein it back.

“This!” he shouted, his fingers clawing at the platinum band circling his neck, yanking the collar forward hard enough for the clasp to bite against his skin. The weight of it felt unbearable now, suffocating. “You bought this for Kelly! Didn’t you? You just took it off one of your other subs and—what? Decided to recycle it for me? Hand-me-downs, Max? Am I just leftovers for you too?!”

His thumb slid over the inscription inside the clasp, the words “good girl” now making him want to hurl.

Was that for . . . her too?

“What? No! ” Max’s voice cut back, his hands rising again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“Just like you’re going to say you haven’t fucked Lewis?” Charles snarled, words coming out sharper than he intended, but there was no stopping him now. “Took him as your sub?”

The color drained instantly from Max’s face, his lips parting like he’d been struck and the sight of that hesitation, that flicker of guilt or shock—or whatever it was —sent bile rising in Charles’ throat again. His stomach twisted painfully, and for a split second, he thought he might actually vomit this time.

The metal at his throat felt unbearable now, molten and suffocating. His fingers trembled as they rose, hooking beneath both sides of the collar, feeling the cool platinum bite into his fingertips. The part of him that clung to Max, that wanted to believe him, screamed at him to stop.

But the louder, angrier part? The part gutted open by Nico’s taunts and Max’s guilty silence? It wanted the weight gone. 

Now.

With a low, broken sound in his throat, Charles yanked, pulling with everything he had, the strain biting into the tender skin of his neck.

“Charles, stop!” Max’s voice boomed, panicked now, but it was already too late.

The platinum groaned under the force, the combination clasp straining before giving way with a harsh, metallic creak at the weak point. The collar split apart in his hands, clattering as the pieces swung free, and Charles nearly stumbled forward from the sudden release.

Cool, blessed air rushed into his lungs, but it did nothing to quiet the pounding in his ears, the blur of rage and grief tearing through his chest. His hands shook as he stared down at the broken halves, disbelief crashing into him all over again.

A sharp gasp broke the silence, pulling his head up.

At the top of the staircase, Lewis stood frozen, his hand clamped over his mouth, his wide, horrified eyes locked on the scene below. Beside him, Nico leaned casually against the railing, his face an unsettling mask of stone—no smirk now, no glee, just that unreadable calm as his hands spread over the polished wood railing, like this was some inevitable conclusion he’d always seen coming.

Charles’ chest heaved again, the broken collar shaking in his grip as his vision swam. He didn’t know if he wanted to scream, cry, or run until his lungs gave out.

One thing he decided was that he couldn't stay there.

Chucking the broken pieces of metal at Max's chest, the Dutchman failed even an attempt to catch them, arms limp at his sides and Charles managed to open the door and slip through before anyone could say a word. 

Chapter Text

“Pear?” Charles croaked into his phone, the glass screen trembling against his damp cheek as he pressed it to his ear. His throat burned, raw from holding back sobs, and with no one around to see, the tears streamed freely down his face.

Voicemail.

Fingers clenched, Charles slid his phone back into his pocket.

He’d kept it together—barely—until Nico’s mansion was no longer visible behind him, its glowing windows fading into the night. But as soon as it disappeared, his legs had slowed, then stopped entirely, and the grief and humiliation he’d been holding back hit him like a wave.

What would he have even said to Pierre if he'd answered? 

Hey, you were right about Max. He was using me for some weird Monaco sex cult he's in with my teammate.

Fuck.

Rain started to patter harder against the street and Charles stopped to look around and try to get his bearings.

He spun around slowly where he stood, the dim streetlamps glinting over slick cobblestone. The streets were quiet—eerily so for Monaco—and the scent of the sea drifted toward him with the growing breeze. He honestly didn’t know where he was, only that he’d bolted down one street after another until his lungs burned, just trying to get away.

Charles felt his pant leg vibrating and he quickly pulled his phone back out. Pierre. He answered on the second ring.

“Charles? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Pierre’s voice crackled through the speaker.

That . . . was a good question.

“I’m down by the water,” he finally rasped, breath hitching on the words. His free hand dragged through his rain-dampened curls as he blinked against the drizzle. “I’m . . . still trying to work my way to the port, I think—”

“By yourself?” Pierre’s tone sharpened, the rustle of fabric and the clatter of what sounded like keys punctuating his words. “Where's Max? It's late. Did something happen?”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, the sting of fresh tears threatening again and his grip tightened around the phone. “Can you—can you please just come and get me?” he whispered. “I–I don’t want to talk about it. I'll send you my location.”

For a moment, all he heard was Pierre’s ragged breath on the other end of the line before a car door shut. “Stay where you are. I’ll come get you. Don’t move.”

Charles nodded even though Pierre couldn’t see him, knees threatening to buckle as he staggered toward the nearest bench along the waterfront. The rain was coming harder now, soaking into his shirt, jacket forgotten in the back of Max’s car. In some odd way, he didn't mind it.

Maybe it could wash away just how dirty and used he felt?

He lowered himself onto the cold wood, curling forward with the phone still clutched to his ear.

All he could do was sit there, trembling, and wait.

They didn’t speak the entire drive to his apartment. 

The only sounds the low hum of the car engine, the soft swish of the windshield wipers against the drizzle, and Charles’ own uneven breaths as he sat curled against the passenger door. His wet clothes clung to his skin, the car’s heater not warming him in the slightest. His knee bounced in a restless rhythm, his thumb hooked between his teeth as he chewed the skin around the nail absentmindedly, trying to keep himself from getting lost in the swirl of thoughts battering his head.

He was failing.

Instinctively, his hand went to his throat—searching for that familiar weight, the platinum band that had always steadied him when his mind raced. 

But there was nothing there now. 

Just bare, damp skin where his collar used to sit. His fingers twitched before finding the collar of his shirt as a poor substitute, tangling into the wet fabric until his knuckles ached.

Pierre glanced at him every so often as they pulled into the underground parking below his building, but, mercifully, he didn’t say anything. Charles wasn’t sure he could stomach any words, not when his mind was so loud, a cacophony of betrayal, confusion, and raw disbelief.

Once inside, Pierre guided him wordlessly through his apartment, straight to his bedroom and then into the small attached bathroom. He flicked on the light, and handed Charles a thick, plush towel from the rack by the door. It smelled like fresh detergent, comforting in a way Charles hadn’t realized he needed until it was pressed into his hands.

A sense of normalcy.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” Pierre said softly. “Just . . . try and dry off as much as you can, okay?”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Charles standing barefoot on the cool tile, the towel clutched limply in his hands.

The silence roared in his ears and he hadn't felt that alone in years, maybe not since his father had passed.

The ache in his chest deepened, a gaping, gnawing wound that had only just begun to settle in now that the adrenaline was ebbing. Each beat of his heart felt heavy, almost foreign in his chest. 

How could he have been so . . . so stupid?

He gripped the towel tighter, nails digging into the soft fabric. He’d let himself believe in all of it—every touch, every word, every promise Max had whispered as he clasped that collar around his neck. He’d let himself trust Lewis, leaned on him for advice, for guidance, like a fool who didn’t realize he was being fed lines with every nod of fake sympathy.

God, Lewis must've been so smug while telling him how to treat his cord burns. Maybe he even disappeared that night of the party on purpose? Lead him right to Max.

They must be laughing about it right now, he thought bitterly, throat tightening until it burned. Lewis and Max, sitting somewhere together, shaking their heads at how easy he was to play. How easy it was to pull him apart from both sides and make him think it was all real.

Why? That was the question that kept slamming through his skull, relentless. Why would they do that?

Why would Max tell him that he wanted him? Hold him so close in that club in Miami, swearing that he wanted this with him, just to lie to him about everything?

Was this all just some elaborate plot? A long con to toy with him, destabilize him, give Lewis the upper hand at Ferrari and ensure Max never had to see him as a threat on track? It made a sick sort of sense in the haze of his panic—why else would Lewis be so quick to offer advice and invite him into the circle? Why would Max be so patient, so indulgent? 

Why did they both make him feel safe, only to rip it out from under him with their lies?

Charles pressed the towel to his face, trying to block out the sting of tears threatening to spill again. He didn’t know what hurt more—the humiliation of Nico’s words still echoing in his head, or the sinking, suffocating realization that maybe none of it had been real.

Maybe he had never been anything more than a game.

All the training and sessions and gifts and toys and picnics and mumbled words of affection. 

Charles was so fucking stupid.

Pierre returned quickly, offering a loose pair of sweats and a hoodie he must’ve dug out from the depths of Charles’ closet. Charles nodded and took them before closing the door to get changed. 

Once dressed, he stood with his hand on the knob, hesitating. He really just wanted to be alone. But Pierre would come looking for him, and somehow that felt worse. 

His phone buzzed, and Charles quickly ignored the call from Max and turned his phone off.

The bed greeted him when he opened the door and he was unable to look at or think about all the shared moments with Max there. The late nights and early mornings. His victory after Monaco and their first real time together.

Then he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror, remembering how he'd cried in front of it with Max . . . on his knees.

Charles sprinted from the room. 

As he entered the kitchen, Pierre handed him a glass of water. “What the hell happened, Cha?”

“I—” he started. “I don’t . . .”

Staring down at the glass in his hand, the Monégasque decided he couldn't do this. He couldn't look his oldest friend in the eye and say what an idiot he'd been. That he’d trusted his secret with the wrong person and how right Pierre had been about it all.

His secret . . . 

Did Lewis know? Had Max told him at the start and planned to out him now? Oh this couldn’t get any worse. 

“I'd like to be alone,” he murmured, swallowing thickly. 

“Charles, it's late. You just had me pick you up in the pouring rain, and now you won’t say what happened or where you were. I'm not going anywhere—”

“Pear, please,” Charles croaked. “I'll—I promise I'll explain in the morning. I just want to go to bed. Please.”

The Frenchman looked ready to argue the point until he got his way, but there was a softer sort of feeling behind his eyes when they met Charles’. Coming around the counter, Pierre wrapped his arms around him firmly, Charles squeezing his arms around his friend's waist, burrowing his wet nose into his chest.

“But you're okay? You promise you're not hurt?”

“Oui. I'm fine, I swear. Thank you for getting me. I promise I'll call you tomorrow. I won't leave.”

With a reluctant look in his eye, Pierre picked up his keys and headed for the door, giving him one last look before he left.

Everything was silent, dark and still, the night blanketing around the apartment. Charles sat slumped on the sofa in the living room, fixated on the floorboards beneath his feet. He stared until his vision blurred, the soft drip of tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

Blinking away each salty trickle, he repeated the cycle—blink, stare, tear, repeat. His gaze locked on a small scratch in the grain of the floor, just a sliver of damage.

He had no idea how late it was. Just that the room felt too quiet. 

Then Leo appeared—a warm, soft body pressed against him on the couch—nudging at his hand in that gentle, reassuring way he did when he seemed to know Charles was spiraling. The solid comfort of fur against his leg made him sigh.

Charles absently stroked the dog’s ears, voice thick with exhaustion. “It’s just you and me, Leo.”

He was supposed to go away with Max over the summer break, passing their rare time off together on Max's boat. Floating on the water by day and floating in his comfortable subspace by night.

Now he just wanted to remember who he was before.

He let out a shaky breath, wanting—no, needing, to retreat. To retreat so deep into bed that the rest of the summer simply passed him by. To not move, not feel, not watch everyone around him walk through a city that felt like someone else’s life. All he wanted was to hide, to run away from everything for days. Or weeks. Or at least until the season resumes.

Though the thought of seeing Max in the paddock again made him nauseous.

Leo shifted beside him, warming his thigh and nudging him again. It was enough to cut through the haze and to remind him that someone needed him here, too. 

Suddenly, the little dog lifted his head, ears perking at a distant creak in the hallway, like he’d heard someone approaching. He hopped off the couch with youthful energy, a glaring contrast to Charles’ own sluggishness and positioned himself alert by the apartment door, tail wagging with hopeful anticipation.

Charles froze as Max’s voice filtered through the door, low and pleading, the desperation in it cutting straight through the numb shell around his chest.

“Charles?” Max called again, the handle rattling with a soft clink. “Charlie, baby. You’re in there, aren’t you? Can you let me in?”

Leo’s tail started thumping rapidly against the floor, nails clicking as he hopped up to paw at the base of the door, a low whine coming from his throat. Charles didn’t move. He just stared, rooted to the spot like his muscles had forgotten how to work. Max's voice cracked again through the door, that unmistakable tone he used when checking in during sessions, the one he used to get through the noise in Charles’ head.

“Please, just—can we talk about this? I don’t know what happened or what Nico said, but I—” There was a long pause. Charles could almost hear him breathing through the silence.

“I’m sorry . . . I didn’t tell you about Lewis,” Max finally whispered, like the truth itself hurt. “That was a mistake. Please just open the door. I can explain.”

Each word scraped across Charles’ skin like gravel and he gritted his teeth, breath catching in his throat. The part of him that still loved Max, ached for him, wanted to run to the door, to listen, to forgive. But that part was buried under rage and betrayal and a deep, hollow ache that Max had helped create.

His collar was gone and with it, their relationship. Ripped in half by his own hands. And even now, his throat felt unbearably naked without it.

“Come, Leo,” he said hoarsely, the words barely audible to himself.

Leo lingered by the door, confused, tail slowing as he looked between his owner and the still-rattling door. But eventually, he turned and padded toward the hallway, nose brushing gently against Charles’ ankle as he passed.

The knocking came again, louder this time. “Charlie, open the door,” Max called out, the words tinged with something too close to a command, but Charles didn’t turn around. 

He knew that tone, knew what it meant, knees almost buckling to comply.

Instead, he walked away, each step like dragging a chain behind him. Down the hall, past the carefully curated designer photos Max had made fun of, past the stupid little bowl Max had knocked over that first time he came over, and into the bedroom that still smelled lightly like him.

Turning around, Charles crossed the hall to his guest room.

He shut the door behind him with a firm click and locked it, even though Max didn’t even have a key to get in the front door. The extra layer of protection calmed his nerves, if only just.

His chest heaved with shaky breaths, eyes hot as he pressed his back against the door and slid down to the floor. He wiped furiously at his face, like smearing away the truth would somehow make this hurt less.

Whatever Max had to say for himself now . . . Charles didn’t want to hear it. Not tonight. 

Maybe not ever.

_____

The sun had just started to rise over the Mediterranean beyond the glass balcony doors, but Max didn’t move. He sat slumped at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them. His shoes were still on, one half-untied, and his shirt clung to his skin where the sea air from his open window had dampened it overnight with the humidity.

He hadn’t slept.

Not for lack of trying—he just couldn’t stop hearing Charles’ voice. The crack in it. The way his fingers had wrapped around the collar at his throat like it was choking him. The snap of the metal clasp breaking still echoed in Max’s ears, louder than anything else. 

That sound had gutted him.

He'd stayed outside Charles’ apartment for hours behind that shut door and knocked until his knuckles were raw. Called until his phone died, each attempt going straight to voicemail, that hollow emptiness on the other end somehow more painful than if Charles had screamed at him again.

The silence in his own apartment felt suffocating. He glanced at his phone, plugged in—screen turned face down beside him, like even it had given up on him too.

He'd gotten over twenty unread messages from Lewis.

He hadn’t opened a single one, didn’t need to. The previews were enough. A few short apologies, some long ones full of excuses, a string of unreadable panic and guilt.

“I didn't know Nico was going to do that I swear!”
“I thought the two of you talked about it already?”
“You should've just told him.”
“Charles won't answer my calls. Is he with you?”

Max dragged a hand down his face and exhaled hard. He should've told Charles. He should have. It wasn’t even the thing with Lewis—that had been years ago, a winter mistake between friends trying something they had no business trying. 

But the collar . . . the fucking collar . . .

What the fuck?

Charles thought he'd bought it for Kelly? Where did that come from? Is that what Nico told him?

Memories of when he'd discussed collaring with Nico, fluttered behind his eyes. God, that was years ago now. He wasn't ready then, hadn't felt as strongly about it as he did now, and he'd never even fully considered collaring Kelly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Max scowled and angrily grabbed for his phone, opening his empty chat with Nico.

He typed and deleted a dozen messages before tossing the device aside.

In truth, it didn’t matter what was said. Clearly he'd fucked up all on his own. By not being completely honest with Charles about his past with Lewis, he'd left room for doubt to fester and that led Charles to believe whatever bullshit Nico carefully fed him.

The manipulative bastard.

He felt sick. Angry. Ashamed.

Mostly he just felt helpless.

He knew better than that? Knew that without complete trust these relationships cracked and crumbled like dried out leather. There was so much work required to maintain a proper Dom/sub relationship, he didn’t know why he’d thought they were ready for that?

Thinking back on it, Max supposed he was just not ready to let Charles go that day in the club. Charles’ tears and wide eyes, begging him to get off the fence and make a decision. 

This was only supposed to be for pleasure? For fun. 

“Fuck,” Max whispered to himself.

Leo had barked from behind the door, paws scratching softly against it, and it was the only sound that made Max feel remotely human with how numb his body felt. Charles hadn’t even spoken to him after slamming that door at Nico's. Hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t sobbed. Just walked away like Max was a stranger.

He reached over and flipped his phone upright again.

A red battery bar blinked at him, the charger not even fully connected and he just stared at the lock screen wallpaper.

It was a photo Charles had taken—just their hands, tangled in Max’s lap during a long flight on his jet, Charles’ fingers still ink-stained from his notebook he'd been scribbling in. His thumb rested against Max’s, their knuckles touching. Quiet. Simple.

It looked like a memory from another life.

Max locked the phone again and leaned forward, elbows to knees, burying his face in his palms.

He had no idea how to fix this. And even worse—he wasn’t sure if he could.

Max didn’t see Charles again.

Not online. Not around Monaco. Not even by chance at the cafes they used to frequent. Every call went straight to voicemail. Every message was left unread.

After the first week, Max stopped trying.

Not because he didn’t care—God, he cared more than he could put into words—but because at some point, you had to respect the silence. Charles didn’t want to hear from him. That much was clear. Max had gone over everything a hundred times in his head, trying to understand, to make sense of where it had all gone wrong and how it had unraveled so violently. But all he could do now was give him space.

It was Charles’ right to walk away.

Max wouldn’t blame him for that.

But it didn’t stop the ache that had rooted itself deep in his chest.

He'd broken his collar for fuck’s sake. The clearest indication that this was over and that they would never have that kind of dynamic again. Once a sub took it off, there was no going back. 

No do-overs. No resets.

It was tantamount to a divorce.

He rolled his shoulders, standing barefoot on the deck of his yacht, the soft creak of the boards beneath him joined in chorus by the quiet lap of the sea. The morning sun bled golden across the water, and the sky stretched wide with indifference. Gulls flew above in lazy arcs, wind tugging gently at the flags on the mast.

He’d cast off a few days ago, pulling away from the dock like they had originally planned. He didn’t have the heart to cancel the trip. Some small, stupid, fragile part of him hoping Charles might change his mind. That maybe he’d show up last minute like in a movie—winded from running down the pier, apologetic, hopeful, ready to start over.

Max hated stupid romantic movies like that.

Maybe that was why Charles never came.

Not even a text.

Max stood at the railing, hands curled around the cool metal, watching the waves roll out to nowhere. The sea had always been a place of peace for Charles—freedom from the noise, the media, the racing. They were supposed to share it. Now it was dull.

Like everything else without Charles.

Max kept flogging himself mentally over the same questions. He didn’t know why he’d even collared Charles in the first place after so little time.

It had been reckless. Stupid, even. So unlike him. Max had always prided himself on being measured, deliberate in every aspect of his dynamics, especially when it came to symbols as sacred as a collar. But with Charles, all that discipline had eroded like sand beneath the tide. He’d caved—easily, eagerly—to the pleading in those wide green eyes, to the quiet way Charles had asked for something that wasn’t just about control, but about permanence.

That was what made this all so much more painful.

Because Max had lied.

Not to Charles—but to everyone else, by omission. Letting that implication linger, allowing the whisper of past subs, past collars, to exist when the truth was far simpler.

He’d never collared anyone before Charles.

Not once. Not even close.

And certainly not Kelly.

Kelly had wanted it, badly. She'd brought it up constantly during their time together—over breakfast, after sex, even at one point in front of his mother. She’d begged, negotiated, guilt-tripped, trying to wear him down like it was some prize to be won.

But Max had always said no.

He remembered the day she'd crossed the line, the way his stomach had dropped when she'd shown up to the paddock wearing a silver collar.

Max had gone red with fury.

He’d dragged her into the back of the Red Bull garage, away from prying eyes, where the roar of the fans in the stands was muffled behind the concrete walls. His voice had been quiet, deadly as he’d demanded an explanation.

Her reply still echoed in his skull like a slap. “If you won’t give me one, I’ll give one to myself. Everyone already knows that I’m yours.”

He’d felt sick to his stomach.

It was a betrayal—not just of him, but of everything a collar stood for. It wasn’t a statement piece. It wasn’t a ploy for clout. It was a promise, a deeply personal vow of protection, care, trust, and Kelly had treated it like a goddamn fashion accessory, some status symbol to flash around the paddock like it meant nothing.

He’d ended things shortly after that.

Despite all of that history, Max had just let Charles believe the worst; that he was just another sub in a long line, easily replaced, easily lied to. Leftovers receiving recycled gifts.

How was he supposed to explain that wasn’t true if Charles wouldn't even text him back?

Max gritted his teeth and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He hadn’t collared Charles out of obligation, or because of begging, or because it was expected.

He’d done it because, for the first time in his life, he wanted to. 

Perhaps that was the problem.

A ping from his phone pulled Max out of his sleep, blinking heavily to glance at the screen. It was a notification from his burner IG account. 

Charles had posted a story.

Quickly flicking his phone open, Max scrolled through the photos. 

The Monégasque was playing padel with his brothers, black shorts hugging his hips, grey-green t-shirt stretched across his shoulders and arms. A few of the photos were out of focus, in that artsy way Charles liked to post, but the ones that weren't, Max stared at them for a long time. 

It still amazed him how well his binder was always hidden. Not recognizable unless you knew what you were looking for. 

Scrolling, Max came across another post, this time an ad for his ice cream brand. Pausing, Max stared at the looped video, watching the spoon disappear between those perfect lips over and over. 

He was just torturing himself at this point. If Charles needed the space, that was the least he could do.

Locking his phone, Max rolled over and went back to sleep, waves rocking gently under him. 

_____

Charles pushed through the turnstile of the paddock, shoulders drawn tight beneath his Ferrari jacket, hat pulled low over his brow like a makeshift shield. For good measure, his hood was pulled up too, hiding as much of himself as possible. 

The sky above Zandvoort was a dull, angry gray, fat drops of rain already soaking the tarmac. Typical. The Dutch Grand Prix always brought the worst weather—relentless wind, heavy clouds, and an atmosphere that felt as heavy as the tension in his chest.

Behind him, Mia followed silently, clipboard tucked under one arm, umbrella shielding her head. She knew better than to talk right now with his mood, after working with him since he was in Sauber. He appreciated that.

Charles shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, then immediately yanked them back out when he realized how damp they were with sweat. He wiped them on the front of his jeans instead, trying to steady the jittery feeling crawling up his spine. His heartbeat wasn’t normal. Not for a race weekend. Not even for Zandvoort. It was that other kind of adrenaline—the kind that came from dread, from the anticipation of seeing him.

Max.

There was some pent up anxiety about seeing Lewis too, but that was unavoidable as teammates.

Max had stopped texting him.

Not sent a single one since about a week after that night.

And Charles hadn't either. Weeks of silence, a yawning void between them. Still, that didn’t stop his eyes from scanning the paddock like a nervous twitch, flicking past the Red Bull hospitality building, past the parked trailers, past anything that might offer a glimpse of dirty blond hair or those unmistakably broad shoulders.

He was dreading it, even as part of him craved the sight of Max just to confirm that he was still real—that those months hadn’t been some elaborate dream ending in a nightmare.

“Fuck him,” Pierre had said at breakfast the morning after the dinner. The Frenchman had slammed his spoon down in his bowl like it had personally offended him. “And fuck Lewis too. Nico has always been a cunt. None of them deserve your time.”

Charles had nodded. Agreed, even. But agreeing didn’t make it hurt less.

He rolled his shoulders, squaring them as he made his way into the Ferrari garage. The sea of red around him should've brought comfort, familiarity. Instead, everything felt wrong. It was like walking into someone else’s body—his skin didn’t fit right, his lungs too small to breathe properly.

But he was here.

And he was going to race.

Even if his heart was still somewhere out on the water, tucked away on the deck of a yacht that he’d never boarded.

The asshole hadn't even looked at him once.

Not during media day, not after any practice session, not during post quali interviews, not during the driver’s parade, not even during the Dutch national anthem. Charles had stood only a few meters away, close enough to see the slight crinkle at the corner of Max’s eyes when he smiled at the crowd—but none of that warmth had ever turned his way. Not a single glance. Max had smiled and waved and bantered with George, joked with Esteban, and had even shared a laugh with Carlos of all people. Everyone . . . except him.

It was infuriating. Complete madness Charles didn’t understand. Why did that bother him so much?

By the time Charles had climbed into the car for FP1, his hands were already trembling with anger. He knew it the moment he slammed too hard over the curbs in Turn 7 and nearly lost the rear. The entire session was a disaster, the car feeling as twitchy as his mood. FP2 wasn’t much better—more lockups, more oversteer, more of his race engineer checking in with cautious concern.

Only in FP3 had he clawed back some semblance of control, gritting his teeth and pushing the SF-25 through each corner like it owed him something.

But quali? That was the final blow.

Knocked out in Q2 like a rookie with something to prove and nothing to show for it.

He’d sat in the car in the garage for a few extra seconds after the checkered flag fell, helmet still on, radio silent, just breathing in the frustration that threatened to boil over. When he'd finally unbuckled and climbed out, Lewis was still seated in his car, waiting for Q3 to start. Charles wanted to scream.

And Max?

Finished P3.

Of course.

Perfect fucking Max, poised for yet another home race podium, while Charles was left to pick through the wreckage of his own spiraling emotions.

Walking briskly back through the Ferrari garage, Charles kept his helmet on. Not for safety. Not even for the cameras. But to hide the shimmer of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes—tears not of sadness, but of rage. Rage at Max for ignoring him. Rage at himself for still caring. Rage at the whole stupid situation in the first place.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He knew he drove like shit when he was angry. He’d told Max that once, after one of their earliest sessions. That anger made him reckless. Emotional. It narrowed his vision and invited mistakes. Max had even said their dynamic would help that. That giving up his control would ease his mind and let him just live more in the moment.

Obviously more lies.

Max ignoring him didn’t just hurt—it unmade him.

Charles failed to make up much ground during the race, gaining only two measly positions to finish P11—just outside the points. It was the perfect cherry on top of an already catastrophic weekend, and the tightness in his chest hadn’t let up once from the moment the lights went out.

He didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. Just hollow. Embarrassed.

Everything he’d worked toward in the last few months—his confidence, his consistency, the quiet strength he’d built under Max’s careful hands—felt like it had all unraveled on track in a matter of hours.

He was better than this.

He didn’t need Max or need to change anything about himself. He was a champion through and through.

As he climbed out of the car in parc fermé, drenched in sweat and shame, Charles caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to see Max stepping down from his car in front of the second-place stand, peeling off his balaclava. His hair, damp and slightly curled from sweat, caught the low sunlight filtering through the overcast sky.

For a moment, Charles forgot how to breathe.

Max was beautiful—radiant in the way someone looked when they were utterly at ease in their own skin, flushed from exertion, victorious, untouchable.

But that wasn’t what froze Charles.

It was the look.

Those impossibly blue eyes locked onto his across the tarmac, cutting through the noise and the motion of crew members and media alike. Max stared at him like he saw him—but not in the way he used to. Not in the way that used to make Charles feel wanted and adored and safe.

This time, it was clinical. Distant. Cold.

There was no hint of softness. No playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. No warmth flickering behind that gaze that used to feel like home.

Just silence.

Max raised his water bottle and took a slow drink, not breaking eye contact. Charles couldn’t move. His legs rooted to the spot, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides trying to shake off the weight of Max’s indifference.

Then Max turned away.

Just like that.

He reached for a microphone handed to him by the post race interviewer, nodding politely before stepping in to give his interview, not sparing Charles another glance while he waved to his home crowd.

It hit Charles harder than any DNF ever could—this quiet erasure. Like he’d never mattered at all. He turned before anyone could notice the way his throat clenched.

Because no one would ask why Charles Leclerc wasn’t smiling today.

He'd already decided he didn’t have a reason to.

“Charles?” Lewis knocked gently on the door to his driver’s room just as Charles was stuffing a tangle of chargers and gloves into his duffel with more force than necessary.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Charles called back.

The door opened anyway, because of course it did.

“No,” he repeated firmly, barely glancing over his shoulder. “I said no.”

“Charles . . .” Lewis stepped in, calm and infuriatingly unbothered. “Have you at least spoken to Max?”

“I don’t have anything to say to him either,” Charles muttered, zipping up one of the smaller compartments of his bag so forcefully, the zipper snagged. He yanked it free with a scowl.

“Come on, mate. Don’t be like—”

“Like what?” Charles spun around to face him, heat rising under his skin. “Angry like I should be? Angry that you lied to me and manipulated me? Angry that my Dom . . . my boyfriend can just throw me away like garbage and pretend I don’t exist anymore?”

His voice cracked with the last word, but he didn’t care.

“Yeah, you’re right. I shouldn’t be like that,” he spat, venom dripping from each syllable. “My mistake, like everything else.”

Lewis winced but didn’t retreat. “Listen. You have every right to be angry with me for not telling you about Max. I should've even if it wasn't my place, because you're my friend. That—I’ll take. I should’ve been honest with you from the start, and I’m sorry for that.”

Charles folded his arms, chest heaving.

“But what I won’t accept,” Lewis went on, “is you walking around like a ghost all weekend, acting like someone carved your heart out and maybe your brain too. You’re miserable. Everyone sees it. Pierre sees it. Hell, even Lando asked me if you were okay.”

Charles scoffed and turned back to his bag, grabbing his water bottle and chucking it in. The metal clanged hard against the buckle.

“I thought you said you could handle this? That subbing for Max wouldn’t effect anything on track—”

“We haven’t talked, no,” Charles admitted, unwilling to address what Lewis just said. “And clearly Max has no interest anymore either. He’s not even looked at me, let alone tried to come near. If he wanted to talk, he would’ve. But I guess . . .” His throat tightened. “I guess this whole thing was easier to forget than I thought.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lewis shifted his weight. “You know that’s not true.”

Charles didn’t answer. No. He absolutely didn’t know that.

“You have the right to be angry about us and if you are willing to throw it all away over that. Fine. But if this is really about your collar,” Lewis said carefully, watching him like he was trying to find the safest path through a minefield. “I don’t know if what Nico said is true. Him and Max go way back, and I never got the full story between them and the fight they had when Nico found out about us. But you should at least hear Max out. I love Nico to death, but he can . . . not always have the full picture before he draws a conclusion. It could all just be a misunderstanding—”

Charles let out a bitter laugh, the kind that tasted like rust and heartbreak. “How could regifting a collar for someone else be a misunderstanding?”

“So this really is about the collar.”

Charles glared at Lewis, but had no denial for that. Yes, Lewis and Max having a history hurt, but his collar . . . 

God, his head was burning. He couldn’t even think straight.

“Charles—”

“Non,” he snapped. “If it wasn’t true and Max cared like he said he did, like he told me he always would, then he wouldn’t be avoiding me like I’m some fucking mistake he made. He wouldn’t act so guilty.”

He zipped his bag aggressively, fingers trembling as he yanked the strap over his shoulder.

“Are you saying he hasn't texted or called at all? You haven't heard from him since the dinner?”

Pausing, Charles sighed. Squeezing the strap of his bag, he wasn't ready to admit that maybe he'd expected Max to keep trying.

“If he and you are waiting for me to beg him to come back because of some fucked up dynamic etiquette or protocol or whatever—” Charles scoffed, shaking his head in his own stubbornness, “—then I’m sorry to disappoint you both.”

His throat tightened, but he forced the next words out anyway.

“But then again, I never was a very good sub with following the rules, was I?”

If he had to walk out of this with nothing else, he’d at least keep his pride intact. No one was going to strip that from him, not even Max. He pushed past Lewis, the Ferrari duffel bouncing against his hip, footsteps echoing off the floor.

The ache in his chest followed him out.

Monza.

The temple of speed.

The roar of the tifosi was already deafening, through his earplugs, even over the constant whirring of cameras, engineers, and last-minute comms. Red flags waved in every direction—flashes of Ferrari passion bleeding through the stands like wildfire. They lived for this race. The team built their car around it. Every year, they poured blood, sweat, and carbon fiber into giving them even a sliver of hope to win here.

And last year? He had won. Charles closed his eyes for a half-second, feeling the ghosts of champagne and adrenaline soak into his skin again, the weight of the trophy, the roar of the anthem, the way he’d cried on the cool down lap, heart full of pride and disbelief.

He adjusted his gloves again and tried to steady his breathing. His fingers trembled as he reached for his helmet strap, fumbling to lock it into place. It took three tries before he got it. His hands were slick, nerves making his stomach twist and his chest feel too tight.

P4. Lewis was behind him in P5, and ahead—sitting pretty with that infuriatingly calm posture, visor down and jaw set—was Max.

Pole. 

Charles bit down, molars grinding together so tight he thought his jaw might crack. He hated how just thinking about Max’s name made his vision blur, made his chest cramp like he’d been sucker-punched. He could see the back of Max’s helmet from where he stood. That Red Bull. That number 1. 

So smug. So unbothered.

Just like he’d been the last two weeks between races—no texts, no looks, no recognition.

Like none of it had ever happened.

No collar. No boat. No whispered “mine.”

“Good girl.”

It made Charles want to scream. It made him want to win. Not for the glory, not even for the tifosi. But for himself.

Just to prove he could.

He didn't need Max's affirmations anymore, beholden to no one.

Taking a deep breath, Charles climbed into the car with muscle memory guiding each movement, even though every inch of his body was humming like a live wire. The noise of the tifosi was a wall behind him, chanting his name, waving flags, screaming their hearts out, but it all blurred into static as he lowered himself into the cockpit. The Ferrari settled around him like armor, tight and familiar.

He adjusted his suit at the hips, fingers twitching as the fabric shifted into place beneath the belts. His helmet visor was already down, the track now filtered through a tinged tunnel. He slid beneath the halo, spine clicking against the seat padding.

The engineers around him buzzed with last-minute activity—removing tire warmers, making final checks, pulling away from the car like waves receding from the shore.

Thirty seconds.

Charles’ gloved hand moved on instinct, rising toward his neck.

And then it stopped. Hung there, suspended in midair, before slowly falling back to the steering wheel.

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, until he tasted copper and his hands gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. He didn’t even blink as he stared at the three cars in front of him—the Red Bull and the McLarens—his scowl set deep enough to etch lines into his helmet padding.

The formation lap began, the field rolling forward as engines snarled and the grandstands trembled with noise. Charles took off smoothly, cycling through his checks mechanically while his brain burned with a single focus:

P3. He needed P3.

One spot. That’s all it would take. One clean launch, one perfect overtake, and he’d be right there—on that damn podium.

With him.

Then Max would have to look at him again. He’d have to walk across that stage and spray Charles with a bottle of champagne. He’d have to stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the world and shake his hand. He’d have to sit next to Charles in the cool-down room, breathing the same air, forced to glance over. Forced to speak. And later, on the interview couch, they'd be back side by side, microphones in hand, small talk masking everything else that screamed underneath.

Max would have to see him.

Charles exhaled slowly, pulling into his grid box and focused on this moment—this launch, this race.

This chance.

But everything fell apart so quickly.

Lights out. He launched like a slingshot, timing his release perfectly and weaving through the tight pack of front runners on the charge down to Prima Variante. His eyes locked on Oscar’s McLaren just ahead—he saw a flicker of space on the inside and took it, threading the needle like he'd done a thousand times before.

He braked late, too late—too aggressive, too hungry and his foot slammed down on the pedal with full force.

The front tires screamed in protest, traction vanishing as the brakes locked instantly. The wheel jerked violently in his hands and Charles cursed, trying to ease off and regain control, but the car wasn’t listening. He was off the apex, the curbs flashing past, Oscar already cutting back in—

And then impact.

A jarring crash. Metal kissed metal with a loud scrape and a crunch.

The car shuddered as it jerked sideways. Grass kicked up in waves, the edge of the gravel biting into his undertray. His vision spun violently around him, tires shrieking, clumps of dirt slicing the air like shrapnel.

His neck strained against the HANS device, eyes squinting against the blur.

When the car finally came to a stop, the air left his lungs like a gut punch. He sat there, disoriented, heart pounding against the cage of his suit. He immediately tried to keep going, but half of his front nose was missing, front left tired shredded beyond drivability.

His stomach dropped.

The car in front of him, mangled and still, wasn’t papaya orange.

It was red.

Scarlet red.

Ferrari red.

Lewis.

Charles’ breath hitched. His own teammate. He’d taken out his own teammate on Ferrari’s home turf. At Monza. In front of the tifosi. The thought made him sick.

“Are you okay?” Bryan's voice crackled in through the radio, tense but controlled.

“I—Yeah,” Charles replied automatically, throat dry and trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I locked up—‘m not even sure what—”

He squeezed his eyes shut, helmet pressing into the headrest, trying to block out the roaring in his ears. Whether it was the crowd, the engine, or his own shame, he couldn’t tell anymore.

“Switch the engine off please, Charles.”

He hesitated, glancing in the mirror at the crumpled shell of Lewis’ Ferrari. Marshals were already sprinting down the track toward them.

“Is Lewis okay?” Charles asked, breath catching in his throat.

“He’s fine,” came Bryan’s clipped reply. “Switch engine off.”

Charles swallowed hard and flicked the kill switch.

Silence.

His hands dropped from the wheel to his lap, shaking. He didn’t need to hear the crowd to know what was happening. He could already feel the weight of every camera lens, every pair of judgmental eyes, every headline writing itself.

Ferrari Fumble: Charles Leclerc crashes out his own teammate at Monza.

He sagged into his harness, heart shattered into sharp little pieces.

He didn’t even want to get out of the car.

The team was mostly silent when he trudged back into the garage, suit heavy. No one met his eyes, not the mechanics, not the engineers. Even the ever-animated Fred was still, headset clutched in white-knuckled fingers, eyes locked on the monitors as if the carnage on track hadn’t already ended.

Charles didn’t blame them. If he were in their place, he wouldn’t have spoken to him either.

Helmet still on, he kept his head down, heart pounding against his ribs. He caught a brief glimpse of the medical update flashing across the bottom screen—Lewis had been taken to the medical center as a precaution—but no one would give him more than a tight nod or tell him if Lewis was okay or if he was hurt.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached his driver's room. The second the door clicked shut behind him, Charles let it all go.

He yanked at the chinstrap, fingers fumbling, tugging until it finally gave way. With a sharp, frustrated grunt, he flung his helmet across the room, the satisfying crack against the cabinet barely dulling the scream inside his chest.

Everything had slipped through his fingers.

He’d been so close. A chance to reclaim some dignity, to put himself back on the podium. To prove to Max, to the team, to himself, that he still mattered. That he wasn’t unraveling.

Instead, he was a disaster.

He dropped down against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, suit still clinging uncomfortably to his skin. His gloved fingers reached for the collar that wasn’t there.

It felt like losing him all over again.

A ragged sob tore from his throat, raw and silent. He buried his face in his knees, trying to muffle the noise, body trembling from the crash and the weight of the moment of disappointment.

He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Didn’t want apologies. Didn’t want comfort.

He just wanted—wanted . . . He wanted Max.

He didn’t want a lecture or an interview or a race debrief or another meaningless conversation with Pierre about “moving forward.” He didn’t want any pitying looks from Lewis.

He wanted Max to come bursting through the door and kneel in front of him and tell him it was okay. To call him Charlie in that soft voice he only used when Charles was hurting or scared. To pull him into his arms on his lap and wrap him up in warmth and steady hands and safety.

He wanted to hug him and kiss him and forget all about that stupid collar and rules and quizzes and parties and positions and toys and punishments—

Charles took a shuttering breath.

Max wasn’t coming.

The Dutchman had tried to reach out.

Came to his apartment, stood outside his door in the middle of the night, voice thick with worry through the wood. He'd texted. Called. Over and over and over that first week. Some messages had been long and pleading, others barely a line—“Please, Charlie. Just talk to me.”

Charles had ignored every one of them, phone clutched tight in his shaking hand while his heart split down the middle. But he never responded. Not once.

How could he now be angry that Max was doing the same?

Charles thought he was protecting himself, thought Max deserved to hurt too.

But as the ache of everything he’d lost carved deeper into his chest, the lowest he'd ever felt in his life, Charles wasn’t so sure. Maybe he should've answered. Maybe there really was an explanation—one that would’ve made sense if only he’d given Max the chance to speak.

He’d missed that chance. Burned it to the ground in a fit of pride and pain and panic.

And maybe what stung the most—what hollowed out his ribs every time he saw Max—was that Max had eventually stopped trying. No more calls. No more knocking at his door.

He’d given up.

Charles supposed he didn’t blame him, but he hadn't expected it either.

He sniffled and dragged the back of his wrist under his nose, breath catching as he stared at the floor, empty and aching.

He was so tired.

Outside, the hum of the garage buzzed against the walls and cheers erupted somewhere in the paddock, probably for Max. Probably for another flawless, Max Verstappen victory. The race must be over now. He hadn’t even cared enough to watch it on his phone.

A soft knock rattled against the door.

“Charles?” came Mia’s familiar voice, hesitant but firm. “We have to go to the media pen now. The race just finished.”

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tightly it ached as he heard the crowd chant, “du du du du, Max Verstappen.”

God, just kill him now.

Of all the things he felt capable of doing at that moment, standing in front of a row of microphones and pretending to be okay wasn’t one of them.

Correction—the last thing he was capable of doing was standing in front of a microphone held by none other than fucking Nico Rosberg . . . 

The German's voice was smooth through the mic, grin fixed in place like it was carved from marble, the same one he’d worn at their dinner. “Charles,” he said, with that almost-too-polite tone, “Glad to see you're alright after that costly error. Seems like a tough weekend all around for you. What happened there with Lewis? Did you just not see him coming up from the outside?”

Charles’ fingers clamped hard around the microphone, bone-white in the grip, knuckles tingling. “Is Lewis alright?” he managed, voice tight. “He hasn’t come back from the med tent yet.”

“Initial reports are that they’re holding him just for precautions,” Nico blinked. For a second his eyes looked softer—gray‑blue eyes shifting away from that dangerously neutral edge before cold came back. “He’s complained of pain in his hand, and they’re doing thorough scans.”

Charles let that sink in, trying to push down the lump in his throat. “Did he tell you—”

“I don’t have any more information than what the race directors or Ferrari have released,” Nico cut him off smoothly.

He blinked, trying to burn that interrogation into his memory. Right. Public face. No private wounds. No admissions. 

He wondered, not for the first time, how much of his own pain was showing behind his eyes. Could people see how hollow this all felt? How much of him was falling apart?

He forced his lips to curve into something neutral. Something safe.

“Glad to hear he's okay.”

“A lockup like that is pretty uncharacteristic for you,” Nico continued, voice oily. “Especially here—on Ferrari home ground. What do you have to say to the tifosi for the double DNF you caused today after winning here last year?”

A bead of sweat slid down the back of Charles’ neck, mixing with sweat still clinging to his suit. He swallowed hard, the taste of salt in his throat, and wished he could disappear under the floor. Under anything but this moment.

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice even, though every word felt like a struggle. “I, of course, apologize to the team and all the fans who came out today. This was not a result we would have wanted.”

His apology felt thin, hollow even to his own ears. He could see the flashes from the cameras in the corner of his vision, hear the murmurs behind him, feel the weight of every scarlet banner and every chant from the stands—hope laced with expectation, expectation laced with disappointment.

“But it’s the result you have.” Nico pressed on. “A real missed opportunity for constructors’ points with Lando’s DNF and Max converting pole to a win. How will you come back from this for the rest of the season?”

Charles’ throat tightened. He shifted in place, heart hammering, tasting the bile rising in his throat, the urge to defend himself, to turn this around, to make them all understand. He swallowed again, forcing his throat to shape something steady and presentable until a soft pressure at his shoulder startled him—a warm hand settling there.

“Lockups happen,” Max said firmly beside him. “Crashing out with your teammate also happens. Wouldn't you agree, Nico?”

That hand slid from his shoulder to his waist; Charles felt the heat of it against his red suit, tight fabric and skin pressed close. His breath caught and he turned just slightly—too much—and looked up into Max’s eyes. They were sharp and undeniable and everything else blurred: the microphones, the recorders, Nico’s smug face, the cameras flashing in his periphery. 

There was just Max.

He should’ve been happy to see him. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

Then Max spoke again, taking over the interview. He interjected smoothly, steering the questions away from Nico’s barbs—pointing out strategy errors, talking about tyre degradation, about moments during the race Charles didn’t even see. Max’s voice was calm, protective.

If this is what Charles thought he wanted, he was mistaken.

Turning sharply, Charles walked away from Nico quickly, then from the media pen, Mia stepping ahead of him. He felt the eyes—everyone’s eyes—on his back, watching him move.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his wrist and he jerked to a stop, Max’s hand on him again, firm but anxious.

“Are you alright?” Max asked, voice thick with sincerity so raw Charles didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Did you go to the med tent?”

“I'm fine,” Charles whispered. “I can take care of myself.”

Max’s grip on his arm tightened, stopping him from stepping further away. “Charles—”

“Let go,” Charles spat and he yanked his arm free.

If it wasn't embarrassing enough to have Nico trash him in his interview like that, it was even more embarrassing for Max to step in like Charles couldn't handle it himself. And to look so concerned while doing it too.

Where had he been? He picked now of all moments to remember Charles existed?

Who did Max think he was? It was too little, too late for him to play knight in shining armor for the public and to ignore Charles in private where he needed him the most. But that was just how Max was Charles supposed.

A flourish of camera shudders caught his attention, a crowd starting to point in their direction and Charles was quickly ushered away by his PR team, leaving Max watching him go with a complicated look in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Max flinched at the soft knock on his apartment door, stilling his thoughts. He’d been hunched over on the balcony, staring at the harbor lights dancing on dark water, the cool evening air failing to help the heat in his chest. The yachts bobbing with the tide looked peaceful—dishonest in their calmness, because he felt anything but.

He'd been standing outside for over an hour, just to breathe, to let his brain stop replaying Charles’ face, the look of betrayal when Max had asked him if he was alright. 

A week off between Monza and Baku with more silence from Charles. No texts. No calls. No message at 3 AM to say, “Can we talk?” 

Nothing.

Even after how badly his latest attempt at more direct contact had failed, Max still held out hope. Maybe because hope was the only weapon he had left or because guilt burned so sharply, it felt better to believe there was still something left between them to mend.

He closed his eyes and saw the moment in the media pen: Charles stepping up to Nico, his hand trembling after only a few questions, Max trying to steady everything with a gesture, a hand on his side. 

His handler called out to him as he went, but there was no stopping him.

How could he be expected to just let Nico peel him apart like that? The German had made his point already, torn them apart with some ill-fated plot to get back at Max for all those years ago. How could Max stand by and just let Nico torture him further, let the cameras see what wasn’t meant to be exposed? 

He had half a mind to just lay the whole sordid tale bare in that moment for the press. Why did Nico and Lewis get to demand their privacy, while Charles’ was being destroyed on a world stage?

What else was he supposed to do? Just . . . Just fucking stand there and watch Charles bend under the weight of everyone else’s questions?

He'd been watching Charles, every chance he could get. 

A stolen glance here, a peak around the corner there, a long stare hidden by the tinting of his helmet. Anything to try and assess how he was doing without being overt or making Charles feel watched.

Charles was struggling, he could see it clear as day, and the last two races weekends were evidence enough.

Max could hardly stand it.

A second knock rattled the door more urgently and Max snapped upright, tense. He wiped sweat from his brow, fingers trembling slightly and turned toward the sound.

He wasn’t expecting anyone. Could it be—?

“Max?” came a quiet voice from the other side, soft but familiar.

Hand firm on the handle, Max unlocked the door, not the most pleased to see Lewis on the other side.

“How did you get up here?”

“You still have me on your approved list with the doorman,” Lewis said. “Guess old habits die hard.”

Max gave a humorless laugh. “Clearly an oversight on my part. I'll be sure to get that fixed.”

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Max said between clenched teeth, and attempted to close the door, but Lewis stuck his leg in.

“Yeah? Too bad, I have things to say to you.”

“Go ahead and keep testing my patience. Let’s see how far you get.”

“Max.”

For a moment, Max did nothing but stare at him before he finally stepped aside. This was against his better judgment but . . .

“Fine,” he muttered, jaw tight. Maybe Lewis could give him more info on Charles.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the tension settled into the room like fog.

“What do you want? You have something to say, then say it.”

Lewis leaned against the kitchen counter, surveying Max. “What do I want?” he echoed, voice incredulous. “Max, cut the shit. What’s going on? Have you not talked to him at all?”

“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

“My own teammate is falling apart at the seams enough to run us both off track. How is that not my fucking business.”

“You’re right,” Max spat, unable to hide the vitriol in his voice. “I forgot that every time you get involved in his life, things just magically get better—”

“I didn’t make him go anywhere or do anything he didn’t want to do? Charles is a big boy.”

“Oh like you? Is that why you had to have Nico do your dirty work for you?”

Squeezing the kitchen counter, “that isn't fair and you know it.” Lewis chided. “I didn't know what Nico was going to do.”

“You did nothing to stop him! We both agreed not to tell him. You and I,” Max stiffly pointed at Lewis' chest.

“Months ago!” Lewis sniped. “That was months ago. Jesus, what're you hiding from, huh? It's not even like it matters anymore? There is zero chance of it happening again.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “My private life—”

“Are you serious right now? You're still hiding behind that line of shit!? I thought you two were doing this for real? Charles said that you talked in Miami and decided to get serious.”

“We did.”

Looking away, Max clenched his jaw, thinking about the tears in those soft green eyes from the club in Miami. How Charles was so hurt and confused, liquid courage uncovering his true feelings about what they were doing. That look made his chest ache even now.

God, he was such an idiot.

“Then what is going on max?” Lewis asked softer, gesturing his confusion. “I'm not here to fight or tell you, ‘I told you so.’ I just want to help if I can.”

Gaze fixed somewhere out the window, Max sighed, just wanting to collapse into his bed with his pounding headache. “He didn’t answer my texts,” he said far too honestly. “Or my calls. At this point there isn't much else I can do if he doesn't want to hear from me. I'm not gonna blow up his phone like some child.”

The silence between them stretched and Max’s knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the nearest chair.

“When has that ever stopped you before?” Lewis pressed, with a scoff.

Max glared at him.

Eyes sharp but not unkind, Lewis pushed off the counter. “It’s not like you to just give up so easily.”

“I went to his apartment. I stayed outside his door for hours. I knocked. I fucking begged. I called him every day until his inbox was just a graveyard of empty read receipts and voicemails he never listened to.”

The next words caught in his throat, thick with grief when they came out.

“Charles broke his collar, Lewis. For fuck’s sake, he snapped it like it clean in half.”

He scrubbed at his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt, eyes stinging. “He doesn't want to see me, he’s made that clear. I have to respect that. ”

Lewis stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder—far more comforting than he was expecting from the man yelling at him not even a minute ago. Letting himself meet Lewis’ eyes, Max's pain leaked out against his will, a salty trail running down his cheek.

“I don’t even know what happened. Charles wouldn't tell me anything.”

“Nico told Charles,” Lewis said slowly, “that you’d originally bought the collar for Kelly. How could you do that Max? I can't even imagine anything more awful—”

Max recoiled like he’d been struck. “No—no. No, no, no. That’s not true.” The words rushed out fast and panicked. “Fucking bastard—why would he even say that? Is that what this’s really about?”

He ran both hands through his hair, stepping back to get more air, like the lie itself was offensive. “I had it custom made. I picked it out from that little place just north of the city—for him. Right before Monaco. I even asked them to engrave the clasp—for him, not anyone else. Come on, Lewis? You know I wouldn't do that?”

“I asked him why he said that,” Lewis said, arms crossed. “Nico said Kelly approached him at the last party he went to and told him Charles was wearing her collar. She showed him a photo of her at Zandvoort in twenty-three wearing one that—I’ll be honest—looks pretty fucking similar to Charles’. He told me the two of you even talked about collaring ceremonies a few months before that?”

Max let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Of course she did! Why am I even surprised?”

“Nico is many things, but he wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

Max clenched his fists, mind spinning wildly. When did she even . . . 

The APM shoot. Charles said she'd approached him at the shoot.

“If we’ve got it wrong, you’re gonna have to tell me, Max.”

“She wanted one, but I never gave it to her. She wore a collar to that race without my permission. Just showed up at the paddock like she was trying to mark herself. I nearly lost it.”

“She collared herself?” Lewis’ brow furrowed. 

Max nodded. “Yeah. And now, apparently, Charles thinks I gave him something secondhand, like he was just filling someone else’s place because your boyfriend jumped to conclusions.”

He looked up at Lewis again, eyes glassy but full of fire now that he understood what happened.

The worst part? He couldn't even be mad at Nico. 

If he'd gotten information like that about another Dom under that pretext, he'd probably have done something similar, though with less flair for the dramatics. There was a certain understanding between Doms in a community, and if a kind of disrespect like that was going on, a sub being mistreated openly, it had to be addressed. 

Like how Nico blacklisted the guy who cornered Charles at his party. 

“Charles was the first,” Max said. “The only one I ever trusted enough to give that to. Kelly is lying.”

For a lifestyle built around trust and honestly, there sure were a lot of lies.

And rules. So many fucking rules.

For what? 

Max let out a hollow, humorless laugh and collapsed back into the cushions of the lounge, arms spread wide. It was all so heavy—the months of emotional buildup and closeness, the tenderness, the burning fire of his desire, the jarring silence, the heartbreak, and now the truth—crushing his chest like an anchor.

“So this really is just one giant fucking mess,” he muttered.

His legs felt useless, rubbery and weak, drained of the energy he’d burned through arguing over a ghost of a man who’d already made up his mind. He stared at the ceiling for a long second, eyes tracing the empty spaces between light fixtures.

What a fucking disaster.

He barked out another laugh, short and sharp, more like a sob punched into a chuckle. It was ridiculous. The absurdity of it all, how something as precious and personal as a collar, a symbol that held so much weight between them, had been turned into a weapon of misinformation by people who didn’t even have the right to speak on it. 

If he didn’t laugh, he was going to fall apart.

Lewis sank down beside him, cautious but not hesitant. His hand came to rest gently on Max’s knee—a rare gesture from the Brit with their sorted history, but it spoke volumes.

“You need to talk to him, Max,” Lewis said softly. “I'm sure you can work it out—”

“You know as well as I do what Charles rejecting his collar means,” he said hoarsely. “That wasn’t just some argument or temporary fight. That was a fucking final act. There’s no going back? No do-overs. No ‘oh, I was just upset’ excuses. It would be the same if you did that with yours.”

Lewis touched his thin silver collar, thumb rubbing the O-ring in front.

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, the Dutchman tried to push back the burn building behind them. “I don’t even think Charles realizes what he did. What it meant when he broke it. Not just for me, but for us.”

Lewis was quiet for a beat, then sighed and looked down, worrying his lip between his teeth. “Without the meaning assigned by the two souls it binds, a collar is just another necklace. It doesn't have to be the end? You just said it, Charles probably doesn’t know how that felt for you.”

Max blinked, turning away from him slightly.

“I mean,” Lewis continued, “yes, there are rules. Traditions, symbols, and guidelines. But it’s the people who give it weight. You two love each other, everyone can see it in the way he looks at you and the way you look at him. Charles has been walking around so happy for months like he's living in a dream. That doesn’t just evaporate because one of you gets scared.”

“That's the nature of dreams,” Max swallowed thickly. “Without any warning, you'll wake up.”

Frowning, the Brit looked at him with sad eyes. “Even Nico and I found our way back together. If we can work it out, so can you two.”

“I appreciate you trying to help, but there's nothing to be done. Charles has my number, if he hasn't blocked it.”

Standing from the lounge, the Ferrari driver walked to the door before turning back while Max stared at the ceiling.

“Talk to him, Max.”

_____

Lewis was sprawled lazily across a lounge chair on Nico's terrace sundeck, the sun warming his skin, ocean air brushing lightly against him. The waves lapping below the cliffs should've soothed him, and normally, they did. But no matter how calm the things around him seemed, his mind refused to follow suit.

Charles' face haunted him—the tight set of his jaw, the crack in his voice when he'd nearly broken down in the media pen interview, and that hollow look in his eyes when he'd snapped at Max, all caught on camera. 

And Max . . . God, Max had looked like a shadow of himself in his apartment, eyes puffy and red, words stilted with anger and heartbreak.

The two of them were being absolute morons.

Charles was digging his heels in, refusing to reach out, maybe out of pride, or maybe just sheer fear, and Max, for all his tenacity on track, had all but convinced himself that Charles’ silence was an unspoken death sentence for their relationship.

Lewis groaned internally. These kids were like two sides of the same fucking coin—different, yet matching in all the worst ways. Both proud. Both deeply emotional. Both just so sure that they were doing the right thing.

Idiots.

He barely heard the footsteps behind him until a warm presence pressed against the back of the lounge, and two strong hands slid onto his shoulders.

A finger slipped beneath the chain of his collar, and Lewis exhaled, surrendering to the tug. His head tilted back, braids brushing the sun-warmed cushion as he looked up into Nico’s face. The German leaned over the chair, eyes soft but intense, blond hair ruffled by the coastal breeze.

With a firmer pull on the chain, Nico brought their faces closer, eyes locked before he dipped down and captured Lewis’ mouth in a kiss—commanding, confident, slow. The kind of kiss that reminded Lewis exactly who he belonged to.

When Nico pulled back, Lewis’ breath caught.

“Something’s on your mind,” Nico said softly, lips brushing against his cheek.

“It’s Max and Charles.”

Nico hummed, not surprised.

“They’re both being idiots. Proud, stubborn idiots. Charles is hurting but pretending he’s not. Max is hurting but convinced it’s over. And they’re just . . . circling each other in silence, both waiting for the other to flinch.”

“They need to just fuck and get it over with.”

“Nico.”

Nico’s fingers traced the line of Lewis’ collar, gliding slowly over the cool metal. “I’ve already sent a message to Max,” he murmured, “apologizing for my confusion and being misled. Though the little shit did have it coming.”

Lewis couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped out. “You’re so possessive, Nico.”

The chain tightened briefly, tugging against Lewis’ skin, and he let out a small, surprised whimper. Gaze darkening in response, Nico's lips brushed close to Lewis’. “Only over things that are mine.”

Leaning forward, Lewis pressed his lips softly against Nico’s. “I hope you’ve gotten it out of your system now,” he whispered back. “I don’t like seeing you that way.”

“That's a lie,” Nico fisted the hair at Lewis’ nape. “You love me like this.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lewis gasped. “I do.”

Shifting, Nico slid around the lounge to sit on the edge of the cushion beside him. His hand found Lewis’ and clasped it, thumb brushing over knuckles. “How's your wrist?”

“Sore, but fine. Nothing is broken.”

“I know you said you forgave him a long time ago,” Nico sighed. “But I’m still pained when I think about the sound of your voice when you called me that day.”

Nico’s confession stunned Lewis a little, not because he hadn’t seen the harsh edge in his eyes before, but because these moments of vulnerability were rare. He squeezed Nico’s hand in return.

He didn’t like thinking about that day either.

Stumbling through anger and tears, harsh words he wanted to take back the second they left his lips. He remembered leaving, not speaking to Nico for several weeks. He still wasn't even sure how he ended up at that party where Max was, how the conversation spiraled. How he’d felt drawn in, despite the Dutchman not being his type.

Max had been inexperienced, yes, but he had a certain instinct that Lewis recognized. He remembered thinking then how clearly some of Nico’s guidance echoed through Max’s mannerisms and tone in a scene. It had felt so easy—for a while. Natural.

Until it wasn’t.

He’d dropped so hard that day. Not the hardest he ever had with Nico—but hard enough that his body and mind had both shut down, spiraling into that cold, hollow place where he couldn’t tell up from down. It wasn’t supposed to go like that. 

The air had felt heavy in the hotel room, his chest ached with each shallow breath. His thoughts had come in fractured pieces, slipping through his fingers before he could grab hold of them while Max was panicking. The younger man’s hands trembled as he dressed quickly, murmuring apologies that barely made sense. 

“I’ll be right back,” Max had said, before he'd bolted out the door, leaving Lewis curled on the bed, naked and shaking.

He hadn’t come back.

Lewis couldn’t remember how long he laid there, the ticking of the hotel clock filling the silence as he tried to find his phone through the fog. He must've called Nico on instinct because the second he heard that familiar worried voice, he finally started breathing again. It was the sound of safety, of home.

In truth, they were just using each other, he and Max. Lewis knew it even then. He'd been chasing a ghost, looking for a flicker of what he’d lost with Nico, a familiar rhythm to steady his frayed nerves. Max, for all his confidence and hunger, had been looking to prove something—testing himself, testing his control, maybe trying to step out of Nico’s shadow.

It was a mistake for both of them.

Lewis rubbed his temples and glanced sideways at Nico. “Did Max message you back?”

“No. I haven’t heard from him.”

Lewis pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. 

“Idiots,” Nico muttered, echoing his thoughts perfectly.

“I’m all ears if you have any suggestions,” he said, leaning back against the lounge. “They really are so good together. And this is partly your fault.”

“They just need someone to help them break out of this cycle a little bit. Be reminded of just how much they care about each other. Usually works like a charm.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow. “You volunteering?”

“No,” a slow smirk curved across Nico’s mouth. “But I have an idea.”

If Max thought he was being slick, he wasn’t. The Dutchman’s attempts at pretending he was fine—his stoic post-race expressions, the mechanical interviews, the forced jokes with his engineers—fooled almost everyone else in the paddock, but not Lewis.

Lewis had known him too long and he recognized that look. The tension behind the jaw, the stiffness in the shoulders, the way Max’s eyes drifted to wherever Charles happened to be standing. 

It was pathetic, really. 

The longing was so palpable it practically radiated off him, yet Charles remained oblivious, buried in his own narrative and heartache.

They really were perfect for each other. Just like on track.

Every time Charles was anywhere in Max's remote vicinity, Max’s gaze would flick toward him, briefly, hungrily. Then back down, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Lewis had watched this slow-motion disaster unfold for weeks now, and patience was not one of his virtues.

There was a week off between Monza and Baku—plenty of time for Max to pull his head out of his ass. Giving him space after their talk, Lewis waited for the inevitable text and apology, the grand gesture. But when he didn’t hear from either of them by Wednesday night, he checked in. 

Enough was enough.

He reclined back in the bed in his hotel room, phone in hand, thumbs hovering over the screen for only a second before typing.

Lewis:
Have you two worked things out?

The reply came less than a minute later.

Max:
Give it a rest already. I'm trying to let him move on.

Lewis smirked. 

Lewis:
Don’t want to hear you complaining when Charles moves on completely then.

There was no reply this time. Just the “read” mark beneath his message, and silence.

He sent another text.

Lewis:
How was your flight? Did you get the passes?

Mr. Hunter:
I got them. I'll see you in the morning.

Locking his phone, the Brit exhaled slowly, the smirk lingering as he set it down on the table beside his water. The pieces were in place now. He’d given Max every opportunity to fix this himself, and if the Dutchman refused to see reason, well—Lewis wasn’t above a little gentle manipulation to give fate a helping hand.

Tomorrow, everything would be set in motion. Whether they liked it or not, Max and Charles were finally going to have to face each other.

“Aaron!” Lewis greeted, voice bright and full of false innocence as he pulled the tall blond into a tight hug. 

He looked amazing, grey fitted slacks with a matching sport coat, a white uncollared shirt underneath. Ever the picture of sophisticated charm, Lewis knew what hid underneath. A caged beast locked away under a polished facade.

The two clapped each other on the back like old friends—which, technically, they were. Just not the kind of friend Lewis had told Charles about.

He’d been waiting for him right by the paddock turnstiles, wearing his trademark grin, just like they'd discussed. Perfectly visible. Perfectly timed. Everything about this was orchestrated down to the second.

Oh, this was going to be so satisfying.

From behind him came the soft, measured sound of footsteps that stopped dead in their tracks. The Monégasque had been following him through security, hat pulled low, lanyard swinging in his hand. 

He hesitated.

“Charles!” Lewis said, as though just remembering he was there. He stepped aside, motioning casually between them. “This is my good friend Aaron. He’s my guest in the garage this weekend. Aaron, meet my teammate, Charles Leclerc.”

The surprised expression that flickered across Charles’ face was brief as polite composure snapped firmly into place. He extended a hand with ease.

“Hello,” Charles said softly.

Aaron, ever the showman, didn’t simply shake his hand. He clasped both of Charles’ biceps warmly and leaned in, brushing a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Bonjour! J’ai tellement entendu parler de toi,” [Hello! I've heard so much about you,] he said in a smooth Parisian accent, light green eyes bright and welcoming.

Lewis bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. It was too easy. Charles’ posture relaxed almost instantly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something genuine for the first time in weeks.

“Tu seras dans le garage tout ce week-end? [Will you be in the garage all weekend?] Charles asked, curious but still cautious.

Aaron smiled. “Oui, nous nous verrons assez souvent.” [Yes, we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.]

Lewis checked his watch, pretending to be casual. Any second now—

And right on cue, the low rumble of camera shutters caught his attention followed by Max’s voice, talking with his manager as he entered the paddock.

The Brit didn’t even have to turn around to know the exact moment Max spotted them. The conversation behind him faltered. The familiar weight of Max’s stare landed squarely between his shoulder blades, electric and heavy.

Perfect.

Aaron clapped a hand on Charles’ shoulder and leaned slightly toward Lewis. “You don’t mind if I steal him for a bit, do you? I'd like to get to know your teammate a little better. I'm a huge fan.”

Charles blinked, still faintly pink from Aaron’s greeting, and turned to look at Lewis, who just shook his head automatically. “No, of course. Lead the way.”

“Great,” Aaron smiled, predatory and satisfied. “So, Charles—”

The pair walked away from him further into the paddock, their heads bent close together in easy conversation. Lewis lingered where he was, hands in his pockets, watching as Aaron’s hand slid from Charles’ shoulder down to his waist, smooth as ever.

Charles didn’t even seem to notice, just smiled at something Aaron said, eyes soft, posture relaxed.

A slow, wicked smile curved Lewis’ mouth.

He turned his head slightly, pretending to fix his sleeve as he looked for his mark. 

The Dutchman stood just a few meters away, stock-still, frozen mid-step with his paddock pass half-raised. His manager said something beside him, brow furrowed, but Max didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the spot where Charles and Aaron were walking away, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard enough that Lewis could see it from here.

Those icy blue eyes cut straight to him.

For a second, Lewis almost felt bad; the look on Max’s face—sharp and possessive—was pure fury barely contained. If looks could kill, Lewis would be a smear on the tarmac.

Instead, he smirked. Just a little, subtle tilt of the lips.

With a small shrug, Lewis turned on his heel and strolled after the pair, catching up just as Aaron was helping Charles dodge a puddle near the hospitality entrance.

The satisfaction that bloomed in his chest was just like doing a full push quali lap.

By the time Lewis stepped inside Ferrari hospitality, his phone was already buzzing in his pocket.

Max:
What the fuck are you doing?

Lewis:
?

Max:
Why is Aaron here?

Lewis’ grin widened as he tapped out his reply, leaning lazily against the espresso counter.

Lewis:
He’s my guest for the weekend and a huge Charles fan. Why? Is there a problem?

He watched the little “read” indicator pop up instantly. Then—nothing.

No reply.

Lewis slid his phone back into his pocket, still smiling to himself.

Good. Let him stew. Let the great Max Verstappen remember exactly what jealousy feels like and how it gnaws, how it burns.

By the end of this weekend, either Max was going to pull his head out of his ass and go to Charles . . . or Lewis was going to make sure Aaron did.

_____

Max was going to kill Lewis.

He stared down at his phone, the text from the Brit still glowing on the screen, metal edges bit into his palm. “Is there a problem?”

Was there a problem?

Yes, there was a fucking problem.

Pulse thudding against his temple, Max fought to keep a neutral expression in the middle of the Red Bull hospitality area, his manager droning on about something. A few of the crew looked over, eyeing the tension in his posture, but Max ignored them, forcing himself to take a slow breath. 

It didn’t help much and his jaw still ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth.

Aaron.

Of all people.

Tall, blond, smooth-talking, always perfectly put together—he was the kind of guy who could smile his way through anything. Charming as hell, and dangerous in the way only someone with too much money and too much confidence could be.

The devil didn't have horns—he wore a suit and a smile.

And Lewis brought him here, to a race weekend.

To see Charles.

Max’s mind flashed back to Monaco two years ago. That party at a penthouse overlooking the harbor, the one where he and Kelly had both shown up under different pretenses but left with too much to think about. That was the night he’d first seen Aaron—commanding the room like he owned it.

It was his apartment after all.

He was giving an advanced shibari demonstration.

Max remembered how the man’s black-haired sub had been suspended in midair, wrapped in layer after layer of rich crimson rope, the kind that looked soft but burned when you pulled too tight. Aaron was calm, moving with more grace than someone that tall should have, every knot in just the right place. 

It was artistry. Devotion and effortless control.

The tension, the command, the way his voice never wavered.

He was an actor. A good one too. Max supposed those skills helped him more than just on screen.

Even Max, who prided himself on his skills, had been captivated. He’d stood off to the side with a gin and tonic, pretending not to stare, watching the way Aaron’s hand brushed over his sub’s trembling thigh before tightening another knot. The man’s control had been absolute, his presence magnetic.

That image burned as he thought about Aaron's hand on Charles’ waist.

The image flashed behind Max’s eyes again, and his stomach twisted. The soft way Charles leaned in when he was comfortable, how easily his guard fell when someone spoke to him in French. The little tells. The small things only Max knew to look for.

Aaron probably already noticed them too.

Fuck.

He ran a hand down his face, trying to will away the burn under his skin. This wasn’t jealousy—he didn't get jealous. 

It was just instinct. 

Any Dom would feel the same seeing someone move into their space.

He’d seen what kind of Dom Aaron could be. Calculated, smooth, charming—but cold. Really, there was no warm part of the man other than his cock. He liked admiration more than connection and he'd proved that to Max in the brief time they'd chatted at another party. 

Asking Aaron what kind of sub he liked, what type spurred his interest, Max had never forgotten the man's answer. 

“I like needy little things who live for validation,” he'd said with an intensity to his green eyes. “Boys who'll debase themselves without a second thought just so I'll call them good. The kind who'll take it deeper, stay still longer, come harder than they can handle just to hear my voice go soft for a second, like they've earned something special. I like filthy creatures who mistake praise for affection. Those are my favorite kind of toys.”

Max looked out the window toward the Ferrari garage. 

Charles was like that. He was always pushing right up to his limits, even going beyond them just because he thought that was what Max wanted from him. He wouldn't safeword out, even when it was clear he wanted to and he got a starry-eyed look when Max checked in on him during a scene or praised him for how good he was being. 

Maybe in the beginning, Max would have agreed with Aaron's tastes, but not now. 

His praise was given out of affection. Dammit it was given out of admiration, even if he'd never told Charles that.

The scene in Monaco had been impressive, sure, but there'd been something clinical about it. Detached. And the thought of Charles—sweet, emotional, endlessly trusting Charles—being near someone like that made Max’s stomach lurch. Seeing Charles’ put on display like that by him. Doe eyes wide and glassy while ropes held his legs open for all to see—

Holy shit, Max choked as his eyes went wide. 

Charles' secret. Lewis didn't know.

If Lewis didn't know, then Aaron didn't know. And if Aaron didn't know . . .

He pocketed his phone before pacing quickly toward his driver's room.

Lewis was playing with fire.

If Aaron so much as laid another hand on Charles’ waist, Max wasn’t entirely sure who he’d strangle first. He had to be smart about this.

The weekend only got worse from there.

Max tried—really tried—to keep his calm about the whole Aaron situation and shove it out of his head, focus on GP, strategy, and his usual pre-race rhythm. But every time he blinked, the image of that blond bastard’s hand on Charles’ waist was right there waiting for him.

He did his interviews, smiled for the cameras, even managed to joke with the Red Bull content team when they shoved a mic in his face and asked him to rank his “favorite circuits by food.” But the second he was left alone, his mind slipped right back to the Ferrari garage.

It was pathetic, how often his eyes wandered down the pit lane. He told himself he was just checking the weather, or watching the flow of people between garages—some flimsy excuse to justify it—but every single time, his gaze ended up landing on them.

Charles and Aaron.

The sight made something deep in Max’s chest twist uncomfortably. The two of them stood too close, shoulders brushing every time they leaned in to talk. Aaron laughed at something Charles said, that deep, smooth laugh that turned heads, and Charles smiled, head ducking slightly like he always did when he was shy but pleased.

What was so fucking funny? 

“Max?” Yuki asked, startling him. “You coming to the debrief ?”

“Yeah,” Max answered and dragged his eyes back inside the garage to follow his teammate.

And to make everything worse, Charles wasn’t even pretending not to look for him anymore. He just plainly wasn't.

For weeks after the break, even through the silence, Charles had looked. Max had seen him on the grid, during the drivers parade, in the press pen—quick, flickering glances always looking for him.

The Monégasque moved through the paddock with something almost like indifference. He chatted with his engineers, posed for fans, followed Lewis and Aaron to hospitality and hung out with Pierre.

The Frenchman gave him the most dirty looks every time he glanced his way, but nothing from Charles.

And fuck, maybe what hurt the most was that it was working. Lewis’ plan, whatever the hell this was, was actually doing what he intended, pulling Charles away from him.

On Saturday morning, he was greeted with yet another miserable addition to the weekend, Ferrari posting photos of Charles and Aaron on their story. 

Max was going to lose it.

He flicked through the photos and came on a few videos at the end. If he was smart, he would've just clicked away, but he'd been doing a lot of dumb shit lately. The first clip was Charles and Lewis playing chess, Aaron seated beside Charles, watching. The blond spent more time staring at the side of Charles’ face than watching the match.

The second clip was of Charles signing one of his helmets and giving it to Aaron, a bright smile on his face. Aaron smirked back as he took a step forward, towering over Charles, the Monégasque looking up. 

The fucking nerve of that guy, thumb brushing Charles’ cheek as he gave a light peck to each side.

His phone made a satisfying smack against the wall when he threw it.

Max caught himself staring again between interviews, leaning against the pit wall, water bottle in hand while everyone was scrambling to prepare for quali. His eyes locked on one of the big screens, just in time to see Aaron giving Charles thumbs ups.

That smug . . . 

He shifted his gaze to the Ferrari garage, testing it—daring them to look his way. And to his ire, only the bastard did.

Aaron’s head turned slightly, those green eyes meeting Max’s across the paddock. He didn’t even have the decency to look away. Instead, he tilted his head, just a fraction, and ran his thumb along the curve of Charles’ arm in plain view.

A low, furious breath pushing through Max's nose.

Standing beside them like he was watching the world’s most entertaining soap opera, was Lewis.

Smiling.

Satisfied.

He gave Max a smile, so small most people and cameras would've missed it. But Max didn’t.

He wanted to throw something. Or stab something. Or both. Max swallowed hard, anger simmering as the engines roared to life somewhere in the distance.

What did Lewis think he was doing? Was he trying to show Charles that he could just dump Max for another Dom? If he was, Lewis picked the worst option possible. Aaron was all wrong for Charles.

How was Max going to stop this without pushing Charles further away?

That night, Max was exhausted. His shoulders ached from tension, and his neck was stiff from hours of pretending to care about interviews and debriefs. By the time he reached the hotel elevator, his mind was running on pure autopilot. His backpack hung off one shoulder, half-zipped, the rattle of his headphones knocking against a water bottle as he stepped inside.

He sighed as the elevator doors began to slide shut, head tipping back against the cool metal wall. Finally, a moment of quiet. But the peace lasted all of two seconds before a sudden clang broke it.

The doors shuddered open again, bouncing off a hand braced in the middle.

“Sorry,” came a smooth, amused voice that made Max’s jaw tighten. “Going up?”

Max’s eyes snapped open, irritation flashing before he schooled his expression. Aaron stood in the doorway, his white dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to look casual, sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold watch catching the low light. His hair was slicked back, annoyingly perfect—he looked like he’d stepped out of an expensive perfume ad, all charm and arrogance in equal measure.

“Yeah,” Max replied flatly.

Aaron smiled, that camera-ready grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Can you press five for me?”

Max didn’t move. He kept his hands firmly at his sides, eyes fixed on the stainless steel doors instead of the man beside him.

They both just stood there.

Then, curiosity—or maybe amusement—got the better of Aaron.

“Ah,” he murmured, leaning slightly to glance at the control panel. The number five was already lit up. “Looks like we’re going to the same floor then.”

Max finally turned his head, meeting his gaze. “Seems that way.”

“Care for a nightcap? We haven't caught up in a while.”

“I have a race in the morning.”

“Or we could just chat? I won't bite.”

“Shame,” Max said dryly, crossing his arms. “I might’ve been interested then.”

Aaron let out a low whistle, grin spreading. “Careful. People might start thinking you actually have a sense of humor.”

The silence that followed was heavy and Aaron leaned casually against the mirrored wall like he owned the place.

“You really don’t like me, do you?” Aaron asked finally.

Max’s jaw flexed. “You don’t know me well enough for me to like or dislike you.”

“I know enough,” Aaron said smoothly. “And you haven't stopped trying to murder me with your eyes every time I'm close to Charles.”

The air left Max’s lungs in a slow, measured exhale, but he said nothing.

“Pretty little thing. Needs more training, but breaking them in is the fun part. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Leave him alone,” he warned quietly.

Aaron tilted his head, unfazed. “Don’t worry. You can have him back after I'm done. Maybe a bit looser, but these things happen.”

Before Max could respond, the elevator chimed, and the doors slid open on the fifth floor.

Aaron slapped his shoulder and stepped out first, his cologne lingering behind him as he turned back, walking backward down the hall, hands in his pockets. “Goodnight, champ,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Sleep tight.”

Max stood there for a moment longer, muscles tight, blood running hot under his skin. The doors closed again, leaving him alone with the hum of the elevator as it started descending.

He dragged a hand down his face and muttered under his breath, “Fucking Lewis.”

Fine. 

Max had a plan of his own.

Chapter Text

On Sunday afternoon, Charles paced quickly down the hall to his driver's room, distracted by a text, when he felt a tug on the back of his fireproofs. Caught off guard, he was yanked quickly into a room and the door slammed shut behind him, strong arms forcing him back. A hand covered his mouth, stifling his yell, and Charles wildly swung his free arm, connecting with something firm in the dark.

“Fuck!” He heard and froze, the hand falling away from his mouth.

Pulse pounding in his ears, Charles spun around, the adrenaline from being manhandled into a pitch-black room crackling through him. His back was pressed against a stack of towels, the smell of motor oil and cleaning solution thick in his nose. 

“Max?” Charles asked, getting only a groan in response. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

As his eyes started to adjust, Charles blinked hard, struggling to make out the figure in front of him. Using his phone for light, Max stood less than a meter away in his navy race suit, breathing hard, one hand clutching his jaw where a bright red bloom spread across his skin.

“I need to talk to you,” Max said, voice low and muffled.

Charles’ stomach twisted painfully at the sound of it. That voice—God, he’d missed it more than anything, but the ache beneath his ribs warred violently with the anger clawing at his throat.

“You can’t just drag me into a closet like this,” he hissed in a whisper, glancing toward the door. “What if someone walked by or saw you? Do you have any idea how insane this looks?”

Max didn’t budge, blue eyes locked on Charles, steady and desperate all at once. The proximity between them was unbearable; the warmth radiating off him, the smell Charles could never run away from—leather and ripened berries. 

The familiarity made his heart ache.

“I'm not your collared pet anymore.”

“Stop,” Max said softly. “Just listen for two minutes. Then you can hit me again if you want.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to summon his anger. He wanted to yell at him, to demand how dare he—after everything—but Max looked so unlike the untouchable driver he was in public. His jaw was tight, but his eyes betrayed him, a flicker of regret and exhaustion breaking through the mask.

“No,” Charles said finally, shaking his head even though his voice wavered. “There’s nothing I want to hear, Max.”

“But what about what you need to hear? You haven’t let me speak once,” Max shot back, stepping closer. “You keep running from me. Like what we had—what this is—didn't mean anything to you.”

Charles scoffed, but the sound came out weak. “Maybe it didn't.”

That made Max flinch, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

“Get out of my way,” Charles growled and pushed past Max.

He was unbelievably stupid if he thought he could just—

The handle didn't budge. 

Jerking and yanking, “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” he rushed out, half panicked when the handle refused to turn.

This was just his luck.

“Let me—”

“You stay right there!” Charles whisper-shouted at Max when he got too close. Max held up his hands while Charles pulled out his phone to call Lewis. He had to be close by. It rang a few times before the older driver answered.

“Charles?”

“I need you to come get me. I'm stuck in the closet by our driver's rooms.”

“In the closet? How the hell—”

“Max trapped me in here!” Charles actually yelled that time. 

Maybe if someone walked by and heard, they could let him out. Who cares if someone saw them at this point? Anything to escape this nightmare.

Of all the manipulative shit Max had pulled . . .

“You have to come right—”

“Max is with you?”

“Isn't that what I just said? Come let me out!”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I'll come get you two before the anthem in an hour,” Lewis said. 

“What? Lewis no—”

“You need to work this out,” then the call ended with a click in his ear.

That asshole, Charles seethed. The two of them obviously conspired together on this insane scheme.

“Charles—”

“Nice try,” he spat, then flicked open his contacts. 

He didn't want to text any of his team. The questions he got from Pierre and Andrea were already a lot after his breakup with Max. This whole situation would just make everything worse.

Aaron said he'd be in the paddock early when he gave him his number last night. He was a bit intense, but seemed friendly enough. That was worth a try.

Charles had the impression the Frenchman would be there in a flash once he explained the situation. Aaron was clearly very interested. Not bad looking either.

Closing the distance, Max grabbed for his phone before it could ring once. Charles’ back hit the shelf behind him, pulse thrumming violently as he looked up.

“Did it mean nothing when you begged me to choose you? Hmm?” Max said harshly, hand squeezing Charles’ wrist. “When you said I made you feel safe? When you—”

“Stop,” Charles snapped, the word breaking on his tongue. His eyes burned, traitorous tears gathering before he blinked them away. He shoved Max weakly in the chest, but the Dutchman didn’t back up. “Let go of me.”

“You said you loved this. Loved doing this with me—”

“I said stop!” Charles’ voice cracked on the last word.

Heavy silence fell between them, only the sound of their breathing audible in the cramped space. Max exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping.

Charles wanted to hate him. He should've hated him. 

But standing there, chest to chest, he felt the pull between them again—the same gravitational force that had undone him so many times before. His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch, to grab onto him, to feel something other than the gnawing hollow in his chest.

Charles turned his head sharply, refusing to meet Max’s gaze. “Why are you here?” he whispered, voice shaking.

“I wanted to see you.”

Charles closed his eyes. Me too, he wanted to say. But the words wouldn’t come. Max would just turn them against him.

He had weeks—months at this point to come see him. It had to be now? Just when Charles had started to breathe again?

Max leaned in slowly. There was time, Charles could've stopped him if he wanted to. But he didn't. His breath hitched when their lips finally met, the contact featherlight at first, a whisper of warmth that burned straight through him.

Everything focused on that one point of contact: the soft brush of Max’s mouth, the scrape of stubble against his skin, the smell of him—comforting and devastating all at once. Max’s hands came up to cradle his face, broad palms bracketing his cheeks.

It wasn’t a kiss filled with hunger or anger or the wild, reckless passion they’d shared before. It was heartbreak—slow, tender and tentative. A question that neither of them could quite answer.

Charles’ whole body trembled. 

He didn’t kiss back, but he grabbed a fist full of Max's fireproofs, heart thudding painfully in his chest as Max’s lips moved gently against his, searching for something that wasn’t there anymore. When Max finally pulled back, the space between them felt like a wound torn open.

A single tear slipped free, cutting a hot line down Charles’ cheek. It slid over Max’s thumb where it rested near the corner of his jaw.

“Don’t hurt me like this,” he whispered, the words breaking around the edges. “Please.”

Max’s expression twisted—regret, guilt, longing—all crashing together behind his blue eyes. Charles could see it there, his same pain reflected back at him, and it nearly undid him.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

He’d dreamt of this so many times since the summer break. Waking up tangled in his sheets, chest aching from the phantom feel of Max’s touch. He’d missed the weight of his body beside him, the steady rhythm of his breath at night, the way his voice softened when he spoke his name and then hardened into a command.

And here he was, standing in front of him again, touching him, kissing him—and it was unbearable.

Max’s thumb brushed another tear from his cheek before he spoke, his voice steadier than his eyes. “Charlie, please,” he said, so small. “Two minutes. Just give me two minutes and a chance to tell you the truth. If you still think I'm an asshole after that, I won't bother you again."

Charles’ throat worked around a lump and he couldn’t look at him. He just stared at the floor, the sound of their breathing echoing in the tiny closet. His heart screamed at him to listen—just listen—but his pride, his fear, his hurt all tangled into a suffocating knot inside his chest.

Still, he gave the smallest of nods. Two minutes. That was all Max was getting.

“I shouldn't have lied to you about Lewis,” Max said quietly. His hands were still on Charles’ face, thumbs brushing along his jaw like he couldn’t quite let go. “I’m sorry.”

The words didn’t soothe anything. His chest felt tight and he pressed himself back, shaking Max’s hands off like the touch burned. “Then why did you?” he demanded. “What was the point of that?”

“I don’t know. After you told Lewis about us, he came to me—angry and hurt thinking I'd lured you in or something. We both agreed not to say anything.”

Charles blinked. “Why was Lewis upset?” he asked slowly, trying to understand. “Why would he even care about—”

“Because I hurt him,” Max cut in. His eyes lifted to Charles’, pleading silently for him to believe the next part. “When he was my sub . . . I hurt him.”

The air between them stilled.

Hurt him? Hurt him how? Charles thought Lewis was into that sort of thing anyway, based on their conversation about impact play.

He stared at Max, brain stalled, replaying the sentence over and over. “You . . . what?” 

“I was inexperienced and stupid,” he said, the words rushed. “I pushed too far too fast. I knew how rough Nico did things and figured there wouldn’t be an issue, but I was wrong. I—I didn’t read him properly. I ignored his signs, and when I finally realized what was happening, he’d already dropped.”

Charles exhaled. 

“He was fully shut down, Charles. Way worse than anything I'd read about. Then I–I . . . I just panicked. I'd never seen one before and I didn’t know what to do. I froze—and then I did the worst thing I could've possibly done.”

“You left him.” Charles’ voice slid into a whisper. 

Max nodded once, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I left. I told him I’d come back, but I didn’t. I–I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror afterward. I was so embarrassed. Ashamed.”

The word ashamed hung in the air like smoke.

Heart twisting painfully, the anger in him faltered, replaced by a hollow kind of ache Charles didn’t know how to name. Max wasn’t defensive; he wasn’t trying to justify it. He actually looked destroyed by his own memory, hands shaking and a tremor to his lip.

“I went to Nico after,” Max went on. “I told him everything but he already knew. He'd been the one to go to Lewis during his drop, to clean up my mess. He was furious with me. Rightly so. We didn't speak again for months, but after all that he still helped me learn—really learn. I spent several more months after that making sure I’d never do something like that again.”

Charles’ throat tightened as he watched Max’s composure waver, the Dutchman standing there so open, so stripped of all that usual confidence. He’d never seen him like this—not on track, not in bed, not ever.

“Lewis forgave me eventually,” Max said softly. “But he didn’t trust me enough to tell me when you started asking him questions about dynamics and the community. And after we'd started seeing each other and I realized how much I liked you, I couldn't tell you then. I didn’t want you to look at me like . . . like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m someone who breaks people just because they can. Like how people look at me when they find out I do this sort of thing and have no idea how hard it really is. Like how you looked at me at that dinner party. Like I didn't mean the things I said to you and just wanted to hurt you."

Charles couldn’t speak. His heart hurt too much, the last bits of righteous fury fizzling out into something quieter, something trembling on the edge of compassion and disbelief. 

The memory of his own drop flashed in painful, vivid detail—the way his body had shook uncontrollably, the hollow emptiness that had followed the euphoria, the raging thoughts that just wouldn’t stop, no matter what he tried.

He couldn't imagine being left alone like that, shaking and afraid. Drowning in self hatred.

Max had been there through every second of it.

He'd woken up in bed, the weight of exhaustion pulling him down, and found Max sitting beside him, quietly peeling an apple with a small knife. He’d tried to feed him, patient and gentle. He’d helped him into one of his old Alpha Tauri hoodies, made him drink water, coaxed him to eat, and stayed with him through the silence, through the tears, through every uncertain, fragile moment of it.

It was one of the scariest moments Charles had ever experienced, but Max was there the whole time. 

Even in the days that followed, Max had been different. Softer. Careful with his touch, his tone, even his words. The sharp edges of dominance that usually thrilled Charles were dulled, replaced by warmth and safety. At the time, Charles had thought it was just affection—proof that Max cared for him and their relationship was growing. But now it all made sense.

Max wasn’t just being kind. He’d been atoning.

Trying to right the wrongs of his past mistake.

“I should've told Lewis no when he asked me not to tell you. You deserved to know.”

Charles’ fingers rose to his throat without thinking, brushing the bare skin where his collar used to sit. The ache there pulsed like an open wound.

“What about my—what about the collar,” Charles asked softly. His fingertips lingered against the base of his throat, pressing into the skin. “Did you buy it for her?”

The words came out more fragile than angry, though they burned his tongue all the same.

Max’s face went slack with disbelief. “God, Charles. Never.” He stepped forward, shaking his head with a ferocity that bordered on panic. “I never bought Kelly a collar, and I never would've. Just thinking about it is completely ridic—”

The Dutchman stopped and took a deep breath before saying more calmly, “I bought that one—the one I gave you—for you. Only you.” His voice cracked. “I would never give you something meant for someone else.”

Charles searched his eyes, desperate for any flicker of dishonesty, but all he saw there was pain. Real, unguarded pain. Still, his mind fought against it, against how much he wanted to believe him.

“Then why would Nico say that?” Charles whispered. “Just because he was pissed about Lewis? Why would he lie about something like that—why say it if it wasn’t true?” His throat felt tight, the question shaking as it left him. “He was so specific. He said you asked his advice. Said you asked him about ceremonies.”

“Because,” Max let out a low, exhausted groan, dragging a hand down his face. “He thought it was the truth.”

Charles frowned, confusion pulling at his brow.

“Kelly went to see him at a party,” Max continued. “I don't know when, but sometime after she ran into you at the APM shoot. She apparently figured out what was going on between us and told him that your collar was hers. She even showed him a photo of herself wearing one that looked just like it.”

Charles blinked, his mouth parting slightly.

“She showed him a photo?” he echoed quietly.

“Yeah.” Max’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “At Zandvoort from twenty-three. She'd been asking me for one for a long time, but I just didn't feel right about it. She wore some cheap thing she'd bought herself to try and force me into collaring her. She must’ve edited the photo to make it look more like yours. And Nico, the self-righteous idiot, believed her without even asking me.”

Charles’ chest tightened painfully. Zandvoort in ‘23. That was two years ago—long before Max had ever looked at him like that, before Charles had ever imagined himself kneeling for him. The idea that Kelly would twist something so sacred, parade a fake collar around as if it meant anything—it made him sick.

“I don’t know why I'm even surprised? I'm always the villain in everyone else's story.”

He looked back at Max, eyes flicking over the tension in his shoulders.

“So she lied,” Charles said slowly, the disbelief heavy but fading, “she lied—and Nico just repeated it.”

“Yes,” Max said. “And you believed him over me. Wouldn't even let me explain.”

Charles winced at that. Max was right. He had believed Nico. He’d believed the worst of him without even letting him talk.

Why did he do that? He was so confused. 

“I didn’t know who to believe,” he admitted quietly. “And he sounded so sure.”

“I know,” Max said softly. “Nico is very good at getting what he wants, but that’s not what kills me the most. You believed him, Charlie. You believed him so easily over me, which tells me you don’t trust me. Maybe you never did.”

The accusation burned, because it wasn’t supposed to be true. It wasn’t true.

“But I do,” Charles argued, the words coming out more like a plea than conviction. Max just shook his head slowly, his eyes dim and heartbreakingly calm.

What was happening? Why was Max so calm?

He reached forward and took Charles’ hands, his grip firm, the pads of his fingers rough against Charles’ skin. Max’s eyes were soft, impossibly blue, and final.

“You don’t,” Max said quietly. “And that’s my fault. It was my responsibility to earn your trust, and to keep it, as part of keeping you safe. If I’d been honest with you from the start, maybe things could’ve been different. Maybe you would’ve trusted me enough to ask before assuming the worst.” His voice cracked, the sound tugging at the corners of Charles’ heart. “We both failed on rule number one.”

Charles felt something cold and hollow settle deep in his stomach. “But now that I know,” he said quickly as he leaned closer, “we can just—just fix it, right? Pretend none of this happened?”

Max just looked at him for a long, aching moment, like he was committing his face to memory. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

“No, Charles,” he said softly, the gentleness in his tone worse than anger. “Even if I wanted to, you broke your collar.”

Charles froze, every muscle locking in place.

Even if he wanted to. Even if he wanted to.

Max didn't want this? Didn't want to be with him anymore?

No that—that wasn't what he was supposed to say. Why would he even come here, if that’s what he had to say?

Max’s eyes flickered toward the hollow of his throat—the empty space where the platinum had once rested—and Charles lifted his hand to cover it, like he could hide the absence.

“We can't just forget that,” Max continued, quiet but absolute. “We discussed it, remember? What type of collars there were and what kind I gave you.”

Charles clenched his teeth. 

It felt clear and obvious to him now, looking back on it. He hadn't wanted a statement collar or a protection collar. He hadn't wanted a collar of consideration or a training collar. 

Charles wanted a formal collar. The real one. The one that was only given in permanence and as a final acceptance of his role in their relationship. He'd blown past all the safe guards and all the foundational steps before that, just like he did with everything else in his life, charging headfirst into the unknown without fear.

God he was so afraid now.

“We can never have what we had again.”

The weight of it hit him all at once, the room tilting, his vision swimming as his breath caught in his chest. He had known—Max had told him—what breaking the collar meant, but he hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t cared in that moment of panic and rage. He’d just wanted it off, wanted to breathe, wanted to hurt him back.

Now it was too late. Was it really too late?

Charles’ stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up his throat. His hands shook as he reached out, clutching at the front of Max’s fireproofs with trembling fingers. The fabric bunched under his grip, slick beneath his sweaty palms.

“No! But I—I didn’t know,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—But I—”

Max’s expression crumpled for a heartbeat, grief flickering across his features before he looked away. “That was my fault too, I should’ve never collared you,” he murmured.

The words hollowed him out completely. Charles felt his knees weaken, his chest constricting until it was hard to draw in air. The collar had been more than a symbol. It was them. It was trust and belonging and love wrapped into something tangible, the thing that made him feel safe in ways he never had before.

More importantly, it was Max's. It made him Max's, the thing he'd wanted more than anything.

And he'd shredded it with his own hands.

He'd been given what he'd wanted, and he'd thrown it away.

He saw flashes of it all in his mind: the night Max had fastened it around his neck, the warmth in his voice when he’d whispered mine, the way Charles’ pulse had steadied under his touch. Every kiss, every soft murmur, every bit of safety that had come from that bond—it all shattered under the memory of his hands ripping the metal apart.

“Max, please,” he whispered, trembling as he gripped tighter, tears welling hot and unrelenting in his eyes. “Please don’t say that. I asked you—I wanted you to. I still want one with you.”

“You weren’t ready, Charlie. It was too soon, and I should’ve seen that. Fuck. I did see it, but I didn’t care. I wanted this so badly with you, and wanted to give you what you wanted, I just ignored what was the right thing to do. I'm clearly not the right Dom for you. I'm not the right Dom for anyone.”

Max’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t pull away, digging his thumb into his eyelid. “All of it is my responsibility and I can't do this anymore. You deserve someone who won’t make you question if you’re loved,” he said quietly. “Someone who doesn’t make you doubt if you can trust them.”

Tears spilling freely, Charles’ chest cracked open at that as he choked on the words he couldn’t bring himself to say: But it was you. It was always you.

Somewhere along the way he'd realized that.

“But I don’t want someone else,” he said, chest heaving, “I love you.”

Oh fuck. He just said that. 

This wasn’t at all how he thought he'd say those words, or where frankly—locked in some closet in the Ferrari hospitality.

Though, it felt fitting for them, somehow. Maybe. Ending this whole thing the way it had started.

God, he hoped this wasn’t the end . . .

“I don’t care about all the rules and the stupid toys. I don’t care about the titles or the protocols or positions or training or what anyone else thinks we should be. I just—” His voice faltered, and he took a shaky breath. “I want to be with you and you said you wanted me too—said that I wasn't just your pretty girl in red?”

The silence that followed made his heart pound painfully. Every beat of it in his throat, in his ears. For a terrifying second, Max didn’t move—just stared at him, eyes wide, unreadable.

“Am I still not enough?”

Finally, Max's hands came up, steady and warm, and settled around Charles’ waist.

“I love you too,” Max said softly, words feeling like sunlight after days of rain. “That’s more than enough for me.” His breath fanned against Charles’ skin as he leaned forward, pressing his lips to his forehead. “I meant it then and I mean it now.”

Charles closed his eyes as relief washed through him like fire and saltwater all at once.

“Then why did you say you couldn't, ‘even if you wanted to?’” he asked, pulling back enough to look at him. “We don’t need the rules, or the parties, or the masks to be together, Max. We don’t need any of that. Unless— did you not want to be with me outside of this?”

“Of course I—Are you sure?” Max asked quietly. “I thought you—you wanted . . . all of that? The structure, the collar, the—”

“I wanted you. That day in your car when you took me home. Even before that, in the closet at the gala, racing together, standing on the podium next to you. I wanted you then and I thought this,” Charles gestured to his neck, “was the only way I'd ever have you.”

Before Max could respond, or do something crazy like push him away, Charles reached up, threading his fingers through the back of Max’s hair and tugged him down. His mouth found Max’s in a desperate kiss that stole the air from his lungs and left nothing but warmth and want behind.

He needed Max to believe him. That he was telling the truth.

Max made a startled sound against his lips, a soft groan that Charles swallowed eagerly. His hands slid down the sides of Max’s neck, the kiss turning messy, full of emotion that had nowhere else to go.

They'd fucked this up so bad and been apart for so long.

“Maybe we can just try like this for a little while, yeah? No rushing and no games. No rules or anything else? Just us,” Charles said softly.

Max nodded with a smile, pulling Charles back in for a kiss.

It felt like the clouds had parted, swirling misery dissolving like mist in the sun.

“Do you have a closet kink or something?” Max whispered against his jaw, the brush of his lips sending shivers straight down Charles’ spine. “We keep ending up like this.”

Charles huffed out a shaky laugh, his chest pressed tight to Max’s. “You’re the one who dragged me in here,” he shot back before he leaned in again, catching Max’s mouth in another kiss.

Weeks of tension, of silence, of every word unsaid, all crashed into that tiny space between their mouths. The walls of the small supply closet muffled the sound of their breathing and the scrape of Max’s boots shifting against the tile floor in the dark.

Max kissed him back after only a heartbeat’s hesitation. His hands found Charles’ waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit, dragging him closer. His lips were firm, but there was a softness too—something tender and unsure that hadn’t been there before.

Charles wasn’t having any of that.

He tilted his head, teeth catching on Max’s bottom lip and the sound that tore from Max’s throat shot heat through Charles’ veins, making him grin against his lips.

“Charles,” Max breathed, voice rough and barely restrained.

Drawing back just enough to look at him, eyes heavy, “You don't have to treat me like a virgin,” he murmured with a smirk. “I still want to be your good girl.”

For a heartbeat, Max froze—his eyes wide, until something in him snapped, his pupils going wide, the blue swallowed by black as he surged forward.

Their mouths crashed together, rough and urgent. One of Max’s hands caught Charles’ wrist and slammed it against the wall above his head, fingers wrapping around it with a strength that made Charles’ breath hitch. The other followed a second later, both wrists now pinned firmly, the wall cool and unyielding beneath his skin.

Charles gasped into his mouth, the sound breaking into a soft, involuntary moan. Max swallowed it greedily, his tongue sliding against Charles’ as he pressed him firmly into the wall, rattling and knocking stuff off a nearby shelf. The air grew hot, thick with the scent of sweat and whatever this was—something that had lived just under their skin for months, waiting to ignite.

Back arching, the hard edge of a shelf dug into his spine. He barely noticed. Max was everywhere—his body, his scent, the sound of his ragged breathing brushing against his ear.

“Fuck,” Charles whispered, the word slipping out on a shudder. His wrists flexed uselessly against Max’s grip, and that only seemed to fuel him more.

Max’s forehead dropped to his. “You drive me insane,” he muttered. “I couldn’t stand seeing Aaron touch you.”

“Aaron? You know about him?”

“Yeah, and he's not the most subtle. He's a friend of Nico's,” Max said tersely. “He holds most of the wilder play parties in Monaco.”

“He invited me to one next month.”

“You're not going.”

“Max Verstappen,” Charles whispered back, breath ghosting over Max’s lips. “Are you jealous?”

“Never,” the Dutchman's answering chuckle vibrated against his mouth. “And I don’t need a collar to show him you’re mine.”

Max’s mouth was on his neck in an instant.

The first drag of lips over his pulse made Charles’ knees buckle. The suction that followed—firm, possessive, knowing exactly where to press—drew a strangled gasp from deep within his chest. Max’s tongue traced over the mark before moving lower, his mouth leaving a trail of heat across Charles’ throat.

“Max,” Charles hissed, half plea, half warning as he twisted against the wall. “Not above the suit!”

The Dutchman only hummed in response, a wicked sound of satisfaction against his skin. He didn’t stop. If anything, the soft protest seemed to spur him on. Max’s teeth grazed higher, catching the curve where Charles’ neck met his jaw, then nipped lightly at his earlobe.

“Max,” Charles groaned again, his voice breaking this time. The sound that followed was barely human—a shiver, a whimper, something halfway between surrender and frustration.

His legs felt unsteady, and when Max shifted, pressing his thigh between Charles’ knees, he bit down hard on his lip to keep from making a sound.

God, he was so wet.

It hit him like a spark—how close they were, how hard Max was against his stomach. His body betrayed him, hips rolling forward as a shiver ran up his spine. 

Did they even have time for this? How long until someone noticed he wasn’t where he was supposed to be? Andrea had to be looking for him.

The thought barely formed before a calm voice came from the other side of the door.

“Charles?” Lewis called. “The door’s unlocked now. There’s only five minutes before the anthem.”

Charles froze, eyes snapping wide open.

“Shit,” he whisper-shouted.

Max pulled back immediately, both of them breathing hard, faces flushed. Their eyes met for a fleeting second—wild, breathless, wanting—before they scrambled to fix themselves. Charles tugged at the neck of his race suit, desperately trying to smooth down the marks forming just above the collar, while Max swiped a hand through his hair and straightened his velcro.

“Later,” Max whispered, already reaching for the door handle. He stopped short, turned back to quickly give Charles a peck on the cheek, then flung the door open.

Charles took one last deep breath, adjusting the zip of his suit, willing his heart to stop pounding.

By the time they stepped out, side by side under the bright hallway lights, no one would’ve guessed that they’d nearly torn each other apart in the dark.

“Follow me,” Charles said, voice breathless as he bolted through the Ferrari hospitality, boots thudding against the floor. His race suit swished with every stride, adrenaline still pumping hot in his veins.

Behind him, Max followed close, the sound of his heavier steps echoing right on his heels, chasing him through the narrow corridor.

They burst into the Ferrari garage together, the shift from the fluorescent hallway to the harsh white lights and roaring noise almost disorienting. Every mechanic, engineer, and crew member turned to stare at them, the hum of pre-race chatter faltering as both drivers sprinted past like a pair of guilty teenagers caught sneaking out.

Charles didn’t slow.

He cut through the crowd, dodging tool carts and cables. But out of the corner of his eye, he caught the unmistakable flash of Aaron’s blond head. The man’s expression was tight as Max stormed by him, shoulder-checking him hard enough to make him stumble a step.

God. Max Verstappen. 

Always the picture of control until he wasn’t. He could win four world titles without flinching, but the second someone got too close to Charles he was chaos personified.

The cool, late-afternoon air hit his face as they broke onto the pit lane. Journalists and fans craned their necks, cameras snapping in rapid succession as the two drivers sprinted one in front of the other toward the grid.

The anthem ceremony was about to start, and they were cutting it dangerously close to getting a fine.

They rounded the last corner into the open stretch of tarmac, a flood of team personnel and officials already lined up. Both of them slowed to a jog, then a quick walk, still breathing hard as they found their designated places on the carpet.

They didn’t stand next to each other—couldn’t—but Charles felt Max’s eyes on him even across the small gap that separated them. He'd missed it.

He clasped his hands behind his back, trying to regulate his breathing, chest still rising and falling too fast. Pierre, already standing to his right, glanced over with his usual blend of suspicion and amusement.

“Are those fucking hickies?” the Frenchman whispered under his breath, eyebrows shooting up.

Charles’ lips curved into a tiny, unbothered smile, eyes fixed forward as the opening chords of the anthem began to play. He didn’t answer, but stood just a fraction taller, head held high.

His heart was still pounding, his skin still tingling where Max had touched him, marked him.

He didn’t feel claimed—owned.

He felt chosen.

And he chose Max back.

Chapter Text

The door fell shut with an echoing heavy thud as Max pressed Charles between the wall and his body. 

“Charlie, baby,” he muttered, head tipping forward of its own accord. Their noses bumped together before he claimed Charles’ lips in a searing kiss. The sound of their mouths meeting was wet and hungry, desperate, like they’d both been waiting all day for this exact moment. 

In truth, they'd been waiting for a lot longer than that.

Charles’ lips parted with a soft gasp, his fingers finding Max’s hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

He tasted like champagne and sweat, and Max couldn’t get enough. The bite of bubbles lingered on Charles’ skin, sticky against his jaw and throat, and when Max’s tongue dragged along the line of his pulse, he groaned low in his chest, dizzy on the taste.

“Max, wait,” Charles panted, something like amusement playing on his lips as he tugged on the short blond locks, urging his gaze upward. “I need to shower again. The team sprayed me after the photo.”

Max only hummed, the sound muffled against Charles’ neck as he kept kissing him, licking up the column of his throat. “But you taste so nice like this.” 

He caught Charles’ skin between his teeth, sucking lightly just under his jaw, leaving more marks that would fade by morning. The sharp inhale Charles made went straight to Max’s gut, heat flooding him.

God, watching him up there next to him—smiling and glistening under the Singapore lights, curls plastered to his forehead—had been pure torture. Charles, on the top step, holding that trophy high with both hands, grin splitting his face like the sun breaking through the clouds. The roar of the crowd was enough to make Max’s chest ache.

He’d wanted to pull him down right then, in front of everyone, grab him by the waist and kiss him until the cameras broke. Instead, he’d done the only thing he could do—twist open his own bottle and spray Charles like a man possessed, soaking him until he sparkled under the lights. Lando had laughed from the other side of the podium, but Max hadn’t even looked at him once. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Charles.

With the taste of victory still clinging to his skin, Charles felt like a dream. Waiting until after all of their media duties and sneaking into the Monégasque’s hotel had only made him hungrier.

Max’s mouth trailed lower, slow and calm, following the slope of Charles’ collarbone. He lingered there, his lips brushing against the small mole that had always drawn his attention, even back when he wasn’t supposed to notice it.

When he closed his mouth over it and bit down gently, Charles’ breath hitched, a deep, throaty moan spilling from him. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing more of his neck, fingers still tangled in Max’s hair but no longer trying to pull him away.

“Max . . . ” Charles breathed, voice trembling.

He hummed against his skin, savoring the sound, hands sliding down to grip Charles’ hips. “You looked beautiful up there,” he said against his neck. “You know that?”

Charles laughed breathlessly, “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe,” his lips twitching as he lifted his head just enough to look at him properly. “But not too drunk to do this.”

Bending down, Max hoisted him clean off the floor, Charles’ startled shout breaking into a laugh as his legs wrapped around Max’s waist on instinct.

“Wait!” Charles yelped between giggles as Max carried him through the short space to the bed.

“I’ve been waiting all day,” Max muttered, and dropped him onto the mattress. The impact made Charles bounce once, propping himself up on his elbows, curls falling messily over his forehead.

Max was on him in seconds—hands already at Charles’ waist, tugging at his belt, fumbling with the buckle. Not quite able to get it undone, Charles’ smaller hand shot out and caught his wrist.

“Let me,” he said, as he pushed himself upright, onto his knees. 

Breathing deeply, Max forced his hands still, fingers curling against his thighs. Every instinct in him screamed to touch, to move, to take—but Charles’ gaze pinned him in place. The brunette’s hands worked smoothly, a gentle intensity smoldering as his expression shifted, no longer flustered or laughing, but calm, focused, his own brand of quiet confidence taking over.

The leather slowly slid free of his belt loops, and Max swallowed.

“I haven’t had vanilla sex in years,” he said, attempting to break the tension.

“Who said anything about vanilla sex?”

He leaned forward, resting his hands on Max’s thighs, his belt dangling from one hand like an unspoken dare. 

Well, if that’s how he wants to play it. A rope bunny through and through.

Shifting his weight, he used it to tip Charles backward, the smaller man landing against the mattress with a startled noise that turned into a low groan. The movement was rough but controlled, Max following him down, their chests brushing before he sat back on his knees.

In one breath, Max grabbed the hem of Charles’ shirt and peeled it up, knuckles grazing his ribs and binder as he dragged it over his head. The shirt hit the floor somewhere off to the side, forgotten. Charles’ skin was warm under the soft hotel lighting—flushed, golden, and Max’s eyes drank him in, every freckle, every shallow breath.

He reached for Charles’ jeans next, fingers hooking into the waistband and tugging them and his underwear down with single-minded determination. The sound of denim sliding over skin filled the air, followed by Charles’ voice.

“Wait,” he whined, those same steady hands reaching down to curl around his wrists. “Slow—slow down.” 

Max paused, hands stilling at Charles’ hips. He looked up, finding Charles watching him, eyes wide and open—not scared, just vulnerable. It was enough to snap through the haze of lust clouding his mind.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Charles added, voice steadying. “We have time, mon coeur."

Max was suddenly aware of the sound of his own breathing as he felt the gentle caress of thumbs over the backs of his hands.

“You want me to take my time, baby?”

“Please,” Charles whispered, that simple plea going straight to where Max was already achingly hard, the pressure in his own pants unbearable.

Slow. He could do slow. Maybe.

He tugged the jeans down the rest of the way, careful now, sliding them over Charles’ calves and tossing them aside before letting his palms smooth up the inside of those soft, shaking thighs. Shucking off his Red Bull polo and jeans, Max couldn’t help but take care of that quickly. The cool air of the room hit his skin, doing nothing to cool the heat burning low in his stomach.

When he knelt again between Charles’ parted thighs, the sight of him made Max’s breath stutter.

Charles was beautiful—head cocked to the side looking down, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, his bound chest heaving. And between his legs . . .

Fuck.

He was glistening, wet enough that it caught the low lamplight, a slick sheen trailing down his inner thighs and pooling on the sheets beneath him. The smell of him hit Max like a punch to the gut—sweet, heady, his.

Max’s self-control faltered.

Leaning down, he braced his hands on Charles’ hips, thumbs pressing little half-moons into his skin as he dipped forward and tasted him.

Charles gasped sharply, the sound cracking into a whimper when Max’s mouth sealed over his swollen core, tongue plunging deep. The Monégasque’s back arched hard, his fingers tangling into Max’s hair immediately.

“Max—!”

The sound of his name was the only permission Max needed for the next part.

Max feasted on Charles like a man starved—every lick and drag of his tongue wild and hungry, low groans vibrating against Charles’ trembling thighs. He sucked softly, then harder, slurping unashamedly, nose brushing against his most sensitive spots just to feel Charles twitch beneath him. It was wet, messy . . . obscene, the sound filling the quiet hotel room, mingling with the sharp, uneven breaths spilling from above.

When Max pulled back for air, his teeth caught lightly on Charles’ swollen lips, tugging just enough to make him gasp before letting it snap back, slick and flushed.

“–ax,” Charles stuttered, voice catching somewhere between pleasure and exasperation. “You said you’d go slow.”

Max felt a flush creeping up to the tips of his ears. The pounding in his ears had drowned everything out and his entire focus was on the heat, the scent, the way Charles’ body trembled around every movement of his tongue.

“I’ve been holding back since the closet,” he rasped, nuzzling his stubbled cheek against Charles’ sensitive inner thigh, “This is me taking my time.”

Not waiting for a reply Max lifted his gaze, catching Charles’ eyes from between his thighs. His mouth didn’t stop moving as he stared up at him, tongue pushing in deeper. The sight that greeted him nearly undid him entirely, Charles’ head tipped back, lips parted, the faintest blush coloring his cheeks, lashes fluttering helplessly.

The smallest, most self-conscious sound slipped from Charles, and Max couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“This isn’t very slow,” Charles managed.

“You waving double yellows or calling for a VSC?” Max murmured against him, teasing, “I’m just trying to get you ready.”

“I don't think you are following your delta.”

“Gonna report me to the stewards again?”

He pulled back just enough to breathe and see Charles clearly. Spreading him open with his fingers, Max took in the sight. God, he was gorgeous like this, undone and shaking, the definition of wrecked—and they hadn’t even really started.

“I know you love me here,” he said, swirling two fingers slowly around Charles’ entrance, watching the muscles flutter under his touch. “But with the way this is twitching back here—” He smirked, leaning back to breathe hot against Charles' ass. “—I think you want me somewhere else.”

The shiver that ran through Charles told him exactly how right he was.

Max hooked his hands beneath Charles’ thighs and lifted, hauling the smaller man up until his legs rested over his shoulders, bent almost in half, low back not touching the bed. Charles let out a startled noise, palms scrabbling for purchase on the sheets as Max’s dark, hungry eyes flicked up to meet his.

“Wait—don’t—!”

Too late.

Max dove in, sealing his mouth over him with a low, primal sound that made Charles jolt. His cry cracked through the air, fingers clutching the sheets until his knuckles went white. Max held him firmly, grip solid around his thighs as he worked his tongue in long, greedy strokes, swirling and laving, sucking until the only thing Charles could do was moan and writhe helplessly against his hold.

“Max!” Charles gasped, his hips twitching uncontrollably under the relentless attention. “Put me down!”

Max didn’t stop, even when Charles dug his heel into his shoulder. He breathed in the scent, the taste, the sound of Charles falling apart above him. The muscles around his mouth trembled, fluttering hotly, and Max groaned low in his throat, the vibration making Charles choke on a whimper.

He broke away just long enough to murmur against slick skin, “If I wasn’t going slow,” he breathed, pressing a kiss over the puckered muscle, “both of these holes would be full of my come already.”

Charles’ answering moan was wrecked, drawn out from somewhere deep in his chest, his entire body shaking.

The air in the room was thick with it—heat, sweat, the wet sounds that filled every space between their gasps. When Max finally lifted his head, trailing his mouth up over the curve of Charles’ hip, he kept going. He kissed a slow path over taut abs, tasting salt and skin and everything that was his.

He reached the edge of Charles’ binder, pushed the fabric up with one hand, and slid the other between his thighs again, pressing a single finger in his ass—just to the first knuckle.

Charles’ breath hitched, his eyes fluttering open to meet Max’s.

“Is this okay?” Max asked quietly, softer now, but no less commanding.

They weren't Dom and sub anymore, but Max didn't want to use that as some excuse to take liberties or not have his sense of responsibility to check in.

Charles stared, lips parted, panting. “I—I . . . ”

“Tell me, Charlie,” Max murmured, curling his finger just slightly as a second knuckle slid inside, coaxing a broken sound from him. “How will I know if you don’t tell me?”

A long, strained string of French tumbled from Charles’ lips—half words, half whimpers—and Max didn't catch any of it. The sounds alone were enough to make his head spin. He reached blindly on the bed, fumbling through the mess of tangled sheets and discarded clothes until his fingers brushed the denim of his jeans. Fishing through the pocket, he found the small bottle of lube, flipping the cap open with one hand.

“Shh,” Max soothed as he squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers. “In English, baby. I want to hear you.”

Charles didn’t answer, only let out another stream of breathy French that made Max grin despite himself. Leaning down, he pressed his mouth against Charles’ chest, kissing over soft skin until his lips found one of the small, hardening buds. He flicked his tongue across it, slow at first, then sucked gently until Charles arched off the bed, the movement pulling a moan from deep in his throat.

“St–stop, it’s too much,” Charles gasped, trembling as he clamped down around Max’s fingers, already two of them buried deep inside him, starting to add a third.

Pausing, Max stayed still for a few seconds while Charles caught his breath. “Do you actually want to stop or do you just need a moment?”

“Un moment. Just . . . Don’t stop.”

Max pulled back, his mouth laving a slick mark against Charles’ chest, and let his breath ghost warmly over flushed skin. “You like it when I touch you here, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his thumb in a slow circle around the reddened bud before looking up.

Charles’ face flushed bright crimson, his jaw tightening as he turned his head away, refusing to meet Max’s gaze. The reaction made Max still immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly, fingers unmoving inside the Monégasque. “We can still use the color system if you want, yeah? Are you red, Charles? Can you tell me?”

For a second, neither of them moved a muscle. Then Charles’ eyes flicked back toward him—green, wide, and full of something Max couldn’t quite name.

“No—no, I’m green. I'm . . . ” he breathed, but he looked as though he wanted to say more.

Before he could question it, Charles pressed a firm hand to his chest and shoved.

Caught off guard, Max toppled backward, catching himself clumsily on one arm before losing his balance entirely. He hit the mattress with a soft grunt, his hand slipping free from between Charles’ legs.

He barely had time to inhale before Charles scrambled up, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. His palms landed on Max’s chest, holding him down as he settled over him, breathing hard, hair falling messily into his face.

Max just stared—eyes wide, chest heaving, utterly transfixed. He’d thought he’d pushed too far, but the look in Charles’ eyes told him something entirely different.

“Charles?” Max asked carefully, low and uncertain.

Charles exhaled a shuddering breath, his gaze darting off to the side and then back, a decision made. Reaching over, he grabbed his own belt that had been tossed aside earlier and sat back on his haunches, running the soft leather thoughtfully through his hands.

“I would like to try something.” His voice was quiet, but determined.

Max froze for a heartbeat, his pulse jumping.

“And what would that be?” It came out rougher than he’d meant.

Charles didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for Max’s wrists, one at a time, giving them each an experimental tug until Max let him guide his arms, pinning them together above his head. The soft leather of the belt looped tight around them and cinched with the buckle.

He lay back against the mattress, watching every flicker of emotion cross Charles’ face as he adjusted the belt’s tension and pressed his palms to Max’s chest, holding him down. When Charles was done, he sat back on Max’s hips, breath unsteady, that complicated, unreadable look still burning behind his green eyes.

“What’s this?” Max asked, testing the give of the belt with a tug. 

“Just let me—” Charles tried, a hot flush coloring his cheeks as he pressed both hands flat to Max’s chest again. His tone was quiet but firm, a trembling sort of confidence blooming that only made Max’s heart pound harder. “I want to try it like this.”

Curiosity flickered through the initial spark of surprise, curling low in his stomach. He’d been the one giving orders for so long, his instincts were ready to take over. But there was something about the way Charles’ hands moved—steady, sure—that made him go still instead.

So he let him.

“You wanna take your time with me?” he teased, grinning wide.

“Yes,” Charles nodded, a proud smile appearing as a spark of defiance glinted in his eyes. He shifted his hips, rolling over the hard line of Max’s cock still straining against his underwear. The friction ripped a low groan from Max’s throat, his back arching slightly.

“Worried you can’t handle it?” 

Fuck. Now this was most definitely not vanilla sex.

Max’s breath hitched, amusement and arousal tangling deliciously. He’d wanted to see this side of Charles, see what the Monégasque looked like when he stopped trying to please, when he took what he wanted.

He smirked, testing the belt again, grinding his hips up into him. “Show me what you can do,” he said, his voice dropping low and rough.

“Stay still.”

Stilling his hips, Max nodded with a smile.

Getting right to work, Charles tugged Max's underwear down and off him, reclaiming his perch atop Max's lap. Next he finished pulling his binder up over his head, freeing them both completely to a naked state.

As promised, Max didn’t move. 

He lay there, wrists bound loosely above his head, the belt creaking every time he exhaled. His entire focus centered on the man straddling him—the soft slide of Charles’ body, the quiet rhythm of their breathing mingling as he rocked and rolled his hips against Max’s.

Each movement left a slick trail of heat in its wake, the friction exquisite and maddening. Charles’ wetness coated him, the damp sound of it filling the space between their gasps.

“I don’t think either of us can come like this,” Max whispered after a while, strained. His legs were trembling from restraint, muscles screaming to move, to flip them.

Charles stilled, looking down at him through flushed cheeks and dark lashes. He was gorgeous like this—unguarded, determined, unsure, and so very alive after walking around like a zombie for months, hollowed out.

“You’ll have to lift your hips if you want to put it in,” Max said quietly, offering the words like a gentle prompt, not an order.

“Less talking,” Charles huffed out, the sound almost a laugh if not for the pleasured tremor in his tone, “You are right where I want you.”

And God, wasn’t that a concept? Max shut his mouth, chewing on his lip.

Charles leaned forward, his breath ghosting over Max’s bare skin before placing a hesitant kiss at the center of his chest. His lips lingered there, soft and searching, before he shifted to the side, pressing another kiss to the curve of Max’s pec. Then another. Then a small, uncertain nibble.

It was delicate, almost shy, and the contrast between that sweetness and the hunger of Charles’ hips simmering below made Max’s chest tighten. He breathed deeply, forcing himself to stay relaxed beneath the ticklish trail of Charles’ exploration.

Charles moved to the other side, continuing the same slow, curious pattern, hips still rocking gently, keeping that delicious tension alive between them.

By now, Max was painfully hard, every nerve in his body drawn taut. His pulse hammered beneath Charles’ lips, and a quiet laugh escaped him when the soft tickle of breath brushed over a particularly sensitive spot.

Charles pulled back immediately, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“Sorry,” Max offered quickly with a crooked grin. “You’re just really cute when you try so hard.”

The words came out teasing, but there was warmth behind them too—a low affection that made Charles’ flush deepen as he glanced away, only to rock against him again, slower this time.

“Go on,” Max cooed, giving Charles space to move at his own pace. 

To help ease the tension he could practically feel radiating off the other man, he closed his eyes.

He needed to calm down too, heart pounding like he was the one figuring out what to do next. Remembering that feeling, Max wanted Charles to have a better experience than he did.

Shifting his shoulders, Max sank deeper into the mattress, muscles loosening as much as he could manage while keeping his bound wrists still above his head. He focused on the rhythm of Charles’ breathing and the creak of the bed. The motion above him slowed like Charles was deciding something.

Then the hands that had been resting on his chest disappeared. Max heard soft rustling, the sound of skin sliding over sheets, before a warm, tentative hand wrapped around his cock.

He sucked in a sharp breath, forcing himself to stay perfectly still.

The air was thick, humming with the kind of tension that lived somewhere between trust and curiosity. Max waited, expecting to feel the slow, familiar heat of Charles’ pussy around him, but instead, there was pressure somewhere lower . . . tighter.

His brows furrowed, a flicker of confusion breaking through the haze. Was that . . . ?

Max's eyes flew open.

Charles was above him, one hand braced on the Dutchman's thigh, the other guiding Max’s head against the rim of his ass. The sight stole the air from his lungs.

“Charles—” Max started roughly, barely a whisper.

Charles shifted slightly, the angle changing as he tried again. The head of Max’s cock slipped off to the side, and Charles let out a quiet, frustrated huff before repositioning, breathing deep. His thighs trembled, small tremors betraying his nerves.

Max flexed his hands against the belt above his head, brain screaming at him to help, but he forced himself to stay still.

“Do you want me to help?” he asked softly, tone careful. “Untie me, and I’ll—”

“I can do it,” Charles cut in. His voice trembled at the edges, breath catching, but there was steel underneath it.

His chest tightened at the sound.

“Okay,” he whispered, eyes never leaving Charles. “Then show me, Charlie.”

Fuck, he'd never wanted anyone more.

Taking his hand off Max's thigh with a soft breath, Charles spread himself open and started to press down, finding his balance on trembling knees.

Max’s head fell back against the mattress as a deep, guttural sound escaped him. The first stretch was unbearable—tight, hot, perfect—and the way Charles’ muscles clenched around him made his toes curl hard enough to cramp.

“F–fuck,” Max groaned, eyes flicking down to watch the way Charles’ body took him, inch by inch.

Charles was panting, his skin slick with sweat, small tremors running through his thighs as he forced himself lower. His mouth parted, a soft sound leaving him and a single bead of sweat rolled down his temple, catching the light.

He didn’t stop until their hips met, the slap of skin echoing in the quiet room. Sitting flush against Max’s pelvis, Charles shuddered once, then smiled—tired but proud.

“I can do it myself . . .” he whispered, voice shaking but defiant. “Just the way I like it.”

Max’s heart clenched. He couldn’t help the soft, dizzying smile that spread across his face. “Such a good girl,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Charles’ eyes snapped up to his, and Max could see the flicker of joy, maybe even heat.

Leaning forward, Max looped his arms around Charles’ neck, the leather belt creaking as he pulled himself upright enough to breathe against Charles’ lips. “Let me move, Charlie,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

For a heartbeat, Charles hesitated, his chest rising rapidly before he pushed both palms flat against Max’s chest, forcing him back down.

“You stay s–still,” Charles stammered, the command breathless as he forced him back down. “Lay back down.”

Whatever he was about to say next was lost in a sharp cry when Max’s hips rolled up on instinct, burying himself to the hilt.

“Haa—oh, fuck, Max,” Charles gasped, head thrown back, the sound tearing from his throat like a prayer.

Max’s hands twitched against his bindings. It took every ounce of control not to grab Charles and move. But watching him like this—fighting for control, falling apart—was the most intoxicating thing Max had ever seen.

“You’ve proved your point,” Max rasped, voice thick and uneven. He snapped his hips upward again, just enough to make Charles jolt. “But you know—I’ve got a limit for how long I can stay still. Especially when you’re grinding your ass on me like that.”

A broken sound was Charles’ only answer, somewhere between a whine and a moan. He lifted his hips and dropped them again, the slap of skin echoing sharply. Max gritted his teeth, the coil in his stomach winding tighter.

Charles tried again, but this time his strength faltered halfway down, body trembling as he slumped forward, collapsing onto Max’s chest. Max almost slipped free, the sudden emptiness making Charles groan in frustration.

“Fuck me, Max,” Charles gasped, voice cracking around the words. “Please, fu—”

That was all Max needed to hear.

In an instant, he twisted them, rolling until Charles was beneath him, pinned against the sheets. The belt binding his wrists came loose easily—had never really been more than symbolic—and Max’s freed hands immediately tangled in Charles’ damp hair, dragging him close enough to kiss his gasps away.

“Gladly,” he growled.

And then he thrust with everything he'd been holding back for months.

The rhythm he found was merciless—sharp and relentless. Every cry from Charles spurred him on; every tremor, every choked moan only made him move faster. The sound of skin and breath and the creak of the bed filled the air, drowning out everything else.

“Relax,” Max coaxed between thrusts, his lips brushing Charles’ jaw. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re gonna snap my dick off.”

Charles laughed, short and breathless, but it dissolved quickly into another string of gasps. Max shifted his grip, adjusting the angle, bending him just so until Charles was gone—utterly undone beneath him.

He drove him higher, past words and reason, until Charles was shaking, sobbing, the sheets slick beneath them. His body trembled with every wave, chest heaving, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks.

Max froze.

It was like waking up mid-dream—his breath still ragged, the world still spinning—but Charles’ small, stifled sniffle cut through everything.

“Charles . . . ?” Max’s voice softened instantly, concern flooding in. He brushed his thumb over Charles’ cheek, his heart hammering. “What's wrong? Are you in pain?”

The Monégasque didn’t meet his eyes, wiping quickly at his face with the back of his hand. “No, I’m fine,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Max’s stomach twisted. “Don’t brush it off like that,” he said gently, cupping Charles’ face in both hands. His thumb traced the wet trail left by his tears. “Talk to me, Charlie. Please.”

Charles’ eyes flicked downward between their tangled bodies, his breath still uneven. His jaw was set tight, and he chewed nervously on his bottom lip.

Pulse thundering in his ears, Max’s hands hovering uselessly over Charles’ chest. “I’m waiting for an answer,” he said softly, verging on the edge of panic. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The tone was too flat. Too practiced. Cold slid down Max’s spine.

“What does fine mean?” he pressed, voice cracking. “Because you don’t look fine.” He started to move back, bracing his palms against the mattress, ready to pull away entirely. Nausea roiled up his throat, thoughts going wild. “If you’re hurt and not telling me, then—”

Charles’ legs shot up around his waist, locking him in place with surprising strength. The pressure forced a sharp breath out of Max, his entire body jumping forward and burying himself inside again, Charles moaning loudly.

“I said it doesn’t hurt,” Charles whispered, trembling but steady enough to make Max stop moving. Softer, a small, broken laugh escaped him. “It just . . . feels so good.”

Max blinked, confusion melting into disbelief as he looked down at the Monégasque.

Charles smiled up at him through wet lashes, a tear catching on the curve of his cheek. “I missed you,” he breathed, full of sincerity. “I love you.”

Something cracked open in Max at the words—relief, ache, affection all tangled together.  His hands were on Charles’ face again, his forehead pressing against the other man’s.

“I love you too,” he murmured, barely able to get the words out.

Max kissed Charles until his lungs burned, until that uneasy twist in his chest finally eased. When he pulled back, both of them were breathless, lips slick and swollen, their foreheads pressed together.

“Thank God you’re a professional athlete,” Max managed between panting laughs, his grin lazy and wrecked. “Most people can’t handle me for this long.”

Charles rolled his eyes, voice breaking on a laugh of his own. “Shut up and fuck me.”

Charles didn't have to tell him twice.

Shifting onto his knees, Max slid his hands under Charles’ hips and lifted him, pulling him close until their bodies aligned. The moment he sank back inside, the air punched out of Charles’ lungs in a ragged moan.

“Max—mon Dieu,” he cried, bracing his palms against the headboard as Max found his rhythm again. Every movement was deep, Charles meeting him thrust for thrust, throwing his hips back, pushing with his arms.

Was this heaven? Max was starting to think it was and he never wanted to leave it—never wanted to be anywhere else but here, with Charles wrapped around him, nails clawing at his skin.

He shifted his weight, rolling Charles gently onto his side, never breaking their connection as he laid behind him, pressing his chest to Charles’ back. Hooking his arm beneath Charles’ bent knee, Max adjusted the angle and thrust again—harder, deeper—grunting with the effort.

Charles gasped, his back arching beautifully, fingers gripping at Max’s forearm. The small, strangled sounds spilling from his throat drove Max half mad.

“You like it when I go deep,” Max said, voice rough, more statement than question. He punctuated his words with another sharp snap of his hips. “And when I grind . . . ”—he slowed, rolling his pelvis—“ . . . just like this.”

Charles sobbed, eyes squeezed shut, then turned his head to look at him, tears clinging to his lashes. “T–there. Right there.”

Max pressed the heel of his hand down against Charles’ lower belly, just enough to feel himself moving inside him. He grinned when Charles choked out another moan. “Here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Charles gasped, almost shouting. “Just keep—keep fucking me like that. Until I forget the last few months.”

Max’s breath stuttered, his hips rolling deeper, slower, exactly where Charles needed him. “Then forget,” he whispered, with devotion. “I’ve got you.”