Chapter Text
.2025.
Max would like to make one thing clear— he does not have a crush on Charles Leclerc.
Listen, he’s seen the memes. He’s seen the videos. He may have even downloaded TikTok to do his own research into the matter. That was six months ago, and his feed is still all “Lestappen” content he can’t escape.
Today, it’s a clip of him less than three seconds long, caught in the background of a post-race broadcast. They’re interviewing Gabi, flashes of Max and Charles in the background, just barely.
Monza. Max won, crushed records this weekend, and teased about joining Ferrari.
In the clip, he’s got Charles’ Ferrari helmet under his arm while Charles chugs water, Max’s other hand raising up to put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. As the camera moves, they’re out of frame.
They hadn’t seen Charles ask Max to hold his helmet, please– eyes big, face almost comically sad if Max didn’t know the feeling of disappointing a crowd that loves you. He can’t even imagine, with the Tifosi– the highest hopes, the most undiluted love. When Charles won the year prior, the birth rate in Italy had actually spiked nine months later.
Charles Leclerc, making an entire nation horny.
“Heavy is the head,” Charles had joked at him dryly, holding his helmet out as though it had burned him, face laced with the disappointment of a fourth place finish on Ferrari home soil.
The temple of speed, and Ferrari hadn’t given him any fucking pace. They hadn’t given him a car worthy of his talent, and it made Max more angry than it should. Pitting him too early meant he couldn’t switch to softs, which meant he was doomed to never catch Oscar.
Max knew he could have, if his team had bothered to deliver for him. Just this once, Max thought. So, Max had won, followed by a McLaren 2-3 that still fucking confused him.
It had made for a rewarding, but dry race for Max.
Most days, the only time he’s having a blast while racing, it’s when he is being challenged by Charles. 2022? He’d never felt more alive. (Also: sexually frustrated after most races, which had really confused Kelly at the time, because never had he ever been a ‘get hard behind the wheel’ sort of guy. One time, he’d barely let her get a word out before he had her dress hiked up, panties pushed to the side, and face wet with her, refusing to stop until she had come, knees nearly giving out, asking what had gotten into Max as she came down and tried to control her breathing).
So in the TikTok clip, okay, he’s got Charles’ Ferrari helmet tucked under his arm, and the internet blows up. He had joked over the weekend about not needing to learn Italian, yet– had dropped hints about not minding hearing the Italian anthem on days he didn’t win.
It always made Charles so proud, to hear the Monegasque anthem followed up with the Italian anthem, the two closest to his heart. He told Max himself, drunk at 1am at Jimmy’z. It would have been cheesy, it his eyes hadn’t sparkled too brightly to be disingenuous
So people think he, Max Verstappen of Red Bull fame, wants to move to Ferrari, where he would ultimately be doing more of Charles’ bidding. Holding his helmet, brushing his hair or whatever. Comforting him when he’s sad, maybe. Who’s to say, who’s to say.
But, he does not have a crush.
The clip cuts off just as his own face softens on screen, and he goes to look at the comments.
“OMG be more obvious you two.”
"max would legit jump off a cliff for this man omgggg holding a ferrari helmet in front of the rb paddock BITCH PLEASE."
“softsoftsoftbois!!!!”
“Max looks at Charles like he HUNG THE MOON kjfhjshfsk”
“okkkkk but the only ones who don’t know they’re in love are them lol”
“If I saw Charles Leclerc up close in person, I would die. Max is a stronger woman than I.”
It makes him laugh, catches him by surprise.
He swipes out.
They had only spoken for a second, before Max went to the cooldown room and to podium, where the crowd roared for him and sang for Charles, praised him with love and adoration for fourth, celebrating the Prince of Monaco. As soon as the podium had finished, Charles and Lewis had come back out to receive the outpouring of love and pride from Ferrari’s biggest ride or dies. All clamoring for a look up close, all dying to touch the predestined one, to champion the golden son.
He did always glow gold in Italy, Max knew. It was like the sun here came down just to shine upon him, dimples on display and skin soft enough to touch–
To be fair, he HAS seen Charles (up close and in person!) and doesn’t think anybody would blame him for looking a little too long. Objectively, Charles is a handsome guy. His hair always looks artfully disheveled, like he couldn’t be bothered. It just looks like that, even after 57 laps in Miami, it’s fucking absurd. It would piss Max off, if he didn’t like it so much.
He likes it, of course, just because it looks good. Max is maybe, probably a bisexual man (he’s not really into labels, does not give a fuck if he meets whatever the criteria the Internet has decided should define him)– he’s allowed to appreciate a nice hairstyle. Pascale does good work. Max even had her cut his hair once, on suggestion from Charles, when Max’s barber fucked off to Rome for all of summer break the year prior, leaving Max with zero other options in Monaco. He hadn’t really checked elsewhere, really.
But Charles heard about his predicament through Alex, via Lando, and had sent him a message with his mom’s contact info and shop location less than an hour after he had lamented to Lando about his dilemma. Anyway! Max had saved her number, maybe.
Pascale made him feel like her own, reminding himself of his own mom, and somehow encompassing something entirely different. She told Max about the time Charles tried to climb a tree way outside his skill set when he was six, refusing to believe he was too small to make the distance between branches. Pascale told him Lorenzo had rushed back inside, yelling “Papa, come quick! Charlie’s up the tree!”
Charles had, of course, been unable to bridge the gap between two branches, and was dangling precariously nearly three meters off the ground. By Pascale’s account, he shouldn’t have even been able to make it that high. It had been thirty seconds since she had last seen him safe, standing right in the grass. And, to be frank, he was too small to make it up that far.
“Charlie’s up the tree!” had instantly become a long-running joke in their family, much to Charles’ annoyance. It was pulled out when Charles was still small enough he had to fight to not be overlooked, not stocky and bulky like Max, always punching above his weight. Charles was slight, just a little whisper of a kid.
Charlie’s up the tree! Max filed that away for the future. For what, he didn’t know. It just felt important that he knew.
“Ah, so he’s always been good at having someone save him,” Max said, not unkindly.
Pascale’s eyes went soft at the edges, and her gaze met Max’s through the mirror.
“He has always been too safe, but much too dangerous. He’s delicate, but so strong in the broken places.” She paused, as though debating with herself if she was going to continue.
“I think there are very few people he feels comfortable asking for help. Without fear of being a burden. Or without the fear of exploitation. Without it being a weakness, zoon.”
Max felt a soft tug in his chest, like she had told him a big secret he wasn’t supposed to know, not yet. Maybe not ever.
But the thing is, it didn’t surprise him. Charles doesn’t ask Pierre to do his bidding. He doesn’t ask anything of George, or Oscar. He doesn’t even ask much from those who work for him, but he’s so goddamn charming they’ll happily bend over backwards to make Monza’s Sonshine (a sign Max had seen while on the podium, and thought it was nice) happy at all times.
He asks Max for random, small things– and his eyes fucking glow when he gets his way. As though Max wasn’t always going to give in.
His eyes also sparkle when he makes podium, and Max thinks they look nice. Wishes it happened more often for him, if Ferrari wasn’t such a goddamn dumpster fire. Whatever. So he notices Charles’ eyes sparkle.
Objectively, most people would. Charles can’t wink, but his face scrunches up into this impish sort of something, and it makes Max want to explode when his eyes just sparkle, sparkle, sparkle. It’s annoying, honestly. It doesn’t mean he’s into him, it’s just unnatural to sort of look that way.
Which Charles does, by the way. He looks that way all of the time, like Greek gods had smiled upon him
But Max doesn’t have a fucking crush.
When they’re at a charity gala during a two week break between races, Charles tugs on Max’s white button up, leaning up dramatically the two inches it takes for his lips to reach level to Max’s ear, and asks him to please get him a plate (carrots, no dip— Max is disgusted), Max does so without a second thought.
He even stands in line and makes small talk with the waiter, who discreetly tells him he’s his favorite driver. He offers Max extra dip, like a real fucking VIP (thank you), but Max withholds accepting it because this isn’t for him, it’s for Charles. And that weird little fucker doesn’t allow himself some dip for his carrots? Not even hummus?
Freak.
Until Lando walks up beside him, peers at his very un-Max-like plate, and says, “are you getting his plates now, mate?” Which leaves Max feeling oddly defensive.
"Are you getting Carlos another drink?" Max shoots back, eyes darting to the empty glass in Lando's hand.
"That's different, I'm..." Lando trails off, and Max feels smug.
He laughs at Lando and tells him to fuck off, and Lando just wiggles his eyebrows in an unsettling manner.
Why is he getting a plate for Charles?
Well, because Charles had asked him nicely. And Max is a nice guy, he has manners. Charles is his friend.
But over the next few weeks, he pays attention.
First, it’s a plate of carrots at the gala.
The next time he notices he’s doing Charles’ dirty work, it’s only one week later during press day. Charles is grumpy, something about the upgrades not being what he had hoped (when are they ever, with Ferrari?), and they’re stuck in the same press circle. Fred had all but spoken to the press saying they were focused on the new regulations for 2026, they weren't going to put much more into the car for this year, which Max just didn’t fucking get. There were still races left to win.
“I wish I could have someone to answer my questions for me,” Charles says, looking miserable. His eyes are not sparkling right now, and Max isn’t a fan of that.
Max doesn’t comment, because they’re on. When the interviewer tries to address Charles, Max finds ways to make comments and deflects the direction of the interview. He jumps in once, and another time he picks up right when Alex stops talking so the host can’t pivot to Charles, and Max talks in circles for two minutes until their time clock has hit zero. At one point, an interviewer asks if they’ll be hearing from Charles at all today, and Max responds by asking “are my answers really that boring?” which earns him a laugh.
His throat is dry by the time they’re done. The lights are hot, and his Red Bull hat isn’t as breathable as he would like.
He should talk to someone about that.
The entire time, Charles says three words to the journalists present— “hello, thank you,” and Max has spoken more at a presser than he had in his life.
“Mate,” Alex says to him, once Charles has walked a few steps ahead, “what the actual fuck was that? I didn’t know you could say that many words when a camera is on.”
He doesn’t reply but when they all start to part ways, Charles thanks him with a light hand on his shoulder— and Max would do it all again. He does love to suffer.
Charles is a button he pushes, for punishment. Button for punishment, he thinks to himself. He almost laughs.
He doesn’t justify it with much, and instead tells Alex he needs to grab a water. As he heads off, he feels a hand wrap around his wrist, warm and sure.
Charles faces him, his face soft. His eyes roam Max’s face for a brief moment, and Max feels exposed.
“Merci,” he says softly, eyes bright, locked in on Max’s. It makes his breath catch in his throat, feet stopped cold, cemented to where they now stood.
“Op elk moment,” he replied, unable to fight the smile that tugged at his lips.
He meant it. He would do it again in a heartbeat.
He doesn’t have a crush on Charles, he’s just a good friend.
Charles changes his grip on his wrist, maneuvering softly to raise Max’s hand so it’s almost resting next to his face. He places a soft, quick kiss to the inside of Max’s wrist, right over where he can probably feel his heartbeat thrumming through his veins.
Max’s entire body flushes warm, sweat beading on the back of his neck.
Charles slowly lowers where they’re still joined, fingers slowly softening as he loosens his grip on Max’s wrist. His short fingernails (definitely manicured, Max noted— they’d look nice to hold, if he did want to hold Charles’ hands) trail along his skin, just barely ghosting, as though he’s having a hard time letting go.
Charles averts his eyes, so so green, as he finally steps away.
Max’s brain isn’t supplying him with anything, shocked at the previous thirty seconds. He’s almost grateful when Charles gives him a cheeky grin and turns to walk down the hallway, suddenly much more confident and himself than he had seemed earlier.
Maybe, on some level, Max has a crush on Charles. He’s fine admitting it to himself, but nobody needs to know about something that isn’t ever going to result in a win. He’ll bury it down, like he has done with so much.
He is a world champion at more than one thing, thank you very much.
The next time it isn’t even a race weekend. Max runs into Charles in “the real world” or whatever, not even somewhere where help would be required.
They’re at the market.
“Max Emilian!” Charles says, and Max doesn’t blush at the way he calls it out, almost excitedly.
“Hi, Charlie,” he says back, a little fond. He doesn’t run into Charles running errands very often, even though Monaco is small.
Charles grins, blindingly big for 2pm on a Tuesday.
It’s never awkward between them, which Max likes.
“Help me find the best plums,” Charles instructs Max.
Max has already found three that are perfectly ripe before he realizes he didn’t even try to object.
He ends up following Charles around, mentally cataloguing the way Charles always seems to rest a hand on Max’s bicep, or stands so they’re shoulder to shoulder, hips nearly flush, his arm so fucking close to snaking across Charles’ lower back, possessively.
They spend half an hour like that, making their way around their small shared neighborhood market, devastatingly domestic and familiar. Charles buys himself a pint of his own ice cream, which makes Max groan. He makes Max reach into the freezer to snag it for him, too. What a menace.
On the way out the door, Charles fishes the pint of Vanillove out of his reusable grocery bag, sneaking it into Max’s with a smug smirk. As he leans away, he places a brief, fleeting kiss to Max’s stubble-lined jaw.
He clenches it tight.
“Merci,” Charles beamed. He’s walking away backwards along the sidewalk, holding eye contact as he pops his sunglasses on. His dimples are so deep, smile splitting his face wide open.
“See you on the track,” Max replies, so fucking stupid. He’s dumbstruck, wonderfucked, coming apart over a friendly kiss to the cheek.
They’re European, for Christ’s sake.
Charles laughs, spinning around so he can actually fucking look where he’s going, one hand in the air, “Au revoir!”
Max feels his cock twitch, watching the way Charles’ waist narrowed and swung just right when he walked, confident and like–
Well, like he knew what he was doing to Max.
So he helped Charles pick out plums, whatever.
So he thought about the way his ass looked in his jeans—whatever.
There are other times Charles doesn’t even need to explicitly ask something of him, and he finds himself doing it. In Spielberg, Max notices Charles is warm during a brief photo call, and finds himself ripping the Red Bull branding off his chilled bottle of water and handing it to Charles, unprompted, so he can drink it without his team murdering him in broad daylight.
Only, Max hadn’t been on Charles’ photo call. He had been outside the Red Bull paddock, ten yards away.
He tries not to notice the way Alex and George snicker when he makes his way back to the Red Bull paddock.
“It’s like he’s under a spell,” he hears Alex say, and fights the urge to roll his eyes.
“Is Charles a witch or a Veela?” George responds. Max snorts; what an idiot
However… it could explain some things, for sure, if it turns out Charles is a witch. Or… Wizard? No, ‘wizard’ doesn’t seem fitting, he thinks.
He cranes his neck (subtly!) and watches the way Charles has at least six people around him, glued to his every move. All of the Ferrari red is eye-catching, but the man wearing it shines brighter.
Max looks away quickly, not wanting to get caught.
Okay, so Charles is a witch. And he, just perhaps, has put a spell on Max. (Honestly, what else would make logical sense?)
Max doesn’t have a crush, not really. It’s against his will.
And that’s why Max lies to himself, a little bit. A little bit of fibbing is a good time.
One time, he had told a club hookup that he was a taxi driver named Garmondo, but the guy had still said “Max,” when he came, which made him want to throw up. He hadn’t fucked a man again, after that.
So anyway–
Max tells himself it’s not weird.
Of course Charles is flying back with him from Azerbaijan—his jet had empty seats (Lando and Oscar hitched a ride with him, and they tended to keep to each other for the most part, and not nearly enough of it was about racing, in Max's mind), and it’s hardly a big deal to offer. Logistics, that’s all. Perfectly reasonable, generous even.
Except now Charles is in his jet. Max’s jet.
Which feels like a mistake. How had he not offered Charles a ride home before?
It’s a space Max only ever occupies with Lando and sometimes the occasional rookie who needs a pep talk, his manager, or maybe Jos’s grim silence stretched across the aisle, or a Red Bull handler flipping through a tablet of numbers. It’s his space. Controlled, predictable. He’s never thought of it as personal until Charles Leclerc drops his Ferrari jacket on the cream leather seat like it belongs there.
“Nice plane,” Charles says easily, padding barefoot down the aisle as though he designed it. He’s still in his travel clothes—wide leg jeans, Armani white T-shirt that clings in just the right ways. Max shouldn’t notice, but of course he does.
“Thanks,” Max mutters, buckling in with more force than necessary. Near the front, Lando and Oscar are sat together, facing away from Max. Across from him, Charles settles in.
The hum of the engines starts up, vibrating through the soles of his sneakers, grounding him. He likes that part—the steadiness, the thrum of power beneath him. Except this time Charles is also humming, tapping a finger against his knee, entirely at ease in a place that has never felt like anyone else’s but Max’s.
And suddenly Max feels like he’s the intruder. First of all, he paid way too much money to feel like that in his own space. Secondly, well– as long as Charles is comfortable.
Something about that makes Max feel really fucking good.
Charles leans back, glances at him with a grin that should be illegal in international airspace. “Do you always look this serious on your own jet?”
“I am serious,” Max says flatly.
“You look like you are about to be interviewed again.”
“Maybe I like interviews.”
Charles laughs, that warm, maddening sound, and tips his head back against the leather, throat exposed. Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle.
Max looks out the window fast, jaw tight.
The plane lifts smoothly into the sky, bound for France. They’ll stop to refuel before arriving in Nice, but Max hopes they’ll all be knocked out by then.
Thirty minutes in, Charles has grown restless. He fiddles with the screen of his phone, clicks it off, sighs dramatically, then (of course) abandons his row entirely and drops into the seat right next to Max.
“You have more room here than I do in my flat,” Charles observes, as if it’s his divine right to take up space. He buckles in lazily, shoulder brushing Max’s like it’s no big deal.
Max stiffens. “There are plenty of other seats.”
Charles softly tuts his tongue.
“This is the best one.” Charles stretches out, legs long, toes flexing in his socks. He tilts his head, studying Max like he’s the inflight entertainment. “Why do you sit so far from everyone?”
“Because I like space.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
Charles smiles slow, fox-like. “Not with me.”
Before Max can bite back, Charles curls sideways in the seat, knees bent, head falling into the space just under Max’s shoulder. His hair brushes Max’s jaw, faintly damp still, smelling like expensive shampoo and remnants of race sweat. They had left so soon after, knows Charles had showered off fast.
Charles fits nicely there, is the thing. He slides right in, all up in Max’s precious personal space, like they have done this dance before. They’ve been circling each other for twenty years, but they’ve never done this before, this thing that has him trying to steady his breathing.
Charles sighs softly, his warm breath ghosting Max's neck, and yawns so adorably Max wants to yell about it. Charles nuzzles deeper against him.
Max goes rigid.
He tells himself it’s fine—it’s his jet, he can let whoever he wants sleep wherever they want. It’s not weird. Totally normal. People fall asleep on planes all the time. Doesn’t mean anything.
Except Charles isn’t asleep. Not yet.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs against Max’s shirt, voice muffled.
“I run hot,” Max mutters.
“I like it.”
Max shuts his eyes like that’ll help. It doesn’t.
The hum of the jet is steady, but Charles isn’t. He keeps shifting, testing Max’s limits: leaning closer, sighing softly, brushing his fingers against Max’s arm as though by accident.
At one point his hand lands light on Max’s thigh, casual, almost careless, and Max’s heart does something violent in his chest. It’s revolting, threatening to explode, to give out, to take him down to the depths of hell with all of his impure thoughts.
The way Charles would look if he pushed him down into the mattress, ass up and face down, neck exposed for Max to crowd up against and suck bruises onto while he rocks into him deep, bare and sweaty and pumping him full–
“See?” Charles whispers after a long silence. “You can relax.”
Permission to relax. On his own jet. That’s fresh. Max wants to laugh. He feels like he’s one wrong move from disintegrating entirely. He might actually burst into flames.
At last Charles quiets, his breathing deepening, weight heavy against Max. He’s fallen asleep properly this time. Max should move, reclaim his space, shift the balance back to normal. Instead he stays frozen, because Charles is warm and soft and pressed against him in a way that feels like trust.
So Max lets himself look. Every second feels stolen.
Charles’ mouth is parted just slightly. His dark lashes cast faint, feathered shadows on his cheeks. He looks unfairly gentle, like someone has taken the edges out of him for this moment alone. Beautiful in a way that feels unearned, like a secret Max has no right to see.
Another piece of Charles he’s been granted exclusive access to, something he knows he would be a fool not to cherish.
He looks away, stares out at the dark sky. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that Charles is asleep and won’t remember, that this is just what happens sometimes when you offer your jet to someone.
But when they touch down in Nice hours later, Charles doesn’t stir right away. Even when the engines fade, he lingers there, warm against Max, as though leaving would be the harder thing.
Lando and Oscar had filtered out straight away, having left them alone the rest of the flight. Lando looks like he wants to say something to Max, but Oscar quickly eyes the scene and tugs Lando toward the exit with him, both of them with additional thanks for the lift. Lando raises his hand to the side of his head like a phone, mouths an obnoxious 'call me, what the fuck?' that Max pretends not to see.
So if Charles wanted to sit here a moment— who the hell is Max to argue?
He owns the jet, he’ll pay the crew extra for the little bit of time Charles seems to need. Like he wants to stay.
And Max (stupid, idiot Max) almost lets him.
Charles doesn’t ask Max to carry his bags, but he does. Doesn’t ask him to take the same car from the airport in Nice, but Max insists upon it anyway. It’s a half hour, and the privacy of the backseat is good for more of being wrapped up in each other.
Charles blinks a sleepy “merci, cheri,” at him when he loads their bags in the car, not letting the driver do it. In fact, his sleepy eyes sort of glaze over when he watches Max put his last bag (he doesn’t pack light) into the boot before climbing in beside Charles, who is physically affectionate as a sign of appreciation.
Max understands why men used to say they were going to war for the women they loved. He would burn down cities for Charles, if he asked it of him.
“You’re thinking something morbid,” Charles says at him, accusingly. Knowingly.
“I am, schatje,” he admits easily, “but it’s your fault.”
Charles looks at him then, a little more awake, and easily slides down so he’s laying across the seat of the car, his head resting in Max’s lap as though it belongs there.
“Okay,” Charles says to him, his voice a little different than it had been before. “It’s my fault,” he adds for clarity, so easily giving into Max’s bullshit. It makes something inside him flare up, makes the gentle hum of the road beneath them feel like they’re in a time bubble, moving at the speed of – god, whatever this was.
“Yeah, you’re going to take the blame just like that?” Max challenges him, their eyes still locked in a battle, but it’s gone soft and maybe a little bit hazy around the edges. “Let me bully you around like that?”
It was very unlike Charles Leclerc to take any shit.
Charles hitches in a breath, Max notices it even though the other man recovers quickly.
Max does not have a crush. He doesn’t.
He tries not to groan when Charles bites his bottom lip, white teeth leaving a mark against the flushed color of his mouth.
“I think so, yes.”
Max is going to light himself on fire, everything suddenly felt so fucking warm. Heady.
“But what would I be able to bully you about, Charles?” he asks in return. He doesn’t think about it before he’s got a hand moving up from where he had been digging his fingers into the seat beneath his own thighs, softly coming to rest in Charles’ hair, his fingers buried in the soft brown strands.
Charles fucking– he nuzzles into the touch, like one of Max’s cats, just like Max somehow knew he would. He kneads tenderly at Charles’ scalp, watching Charles’ lips part and his breathing slow. He’s not tired now, though. His eyes are heavy lidded with something else, looking like the embodiment of the desire pooling low in Max’s belly.
He hasn’t replied to Max yet, so Max tugs a little on his hair, locking their eyes together.
“Usually I’d expect an answer,” he starts, devastatingly thrilled with the way Charles is suddenly hyper attentive to him, chasing his touch. “But I think I should clarify. I couldn’t bully you, like that–” he started. He wouldn’t ever echo the worst thoughts Charles had about himself, or ruminate on the pressure placed upon him by his team or by the tifosi or the fact that right now he’s outdriving Lewis Fucking Hamilton.
“I would make you listen to the ways that you’re good,” he says seriously, watching the way Charles is trying not to squirm, trying not to ask for more. Max can see he’s hard, already straining against the zipper of his jeans. “You’d never pull some Monza shit like that, giving back a place in a championship fight. Not even to me, you’d take what was yours, because you deserve it. Because you’ve earned it. None of that papaya rules bullshit.”
Charles nods, just softly, barely. Max is bold now, bringing his other hand up to just barely ghost the pads of his fingers over Charles’ parted lips, tempted to slide them in, see how Charles would react.
He shifts a little, knowing Charles can likely feel him getting hard, so close to where his cheek is against him.
“You’re so much better at strategy than your entire fucking team, you could be the boss of all of them, baby.”
Charles blinks at him then, eyes soft, and whimpers. He fucking whimpers, and allows Max to soothe him, scratching at his scalp, other hand moving down to press softly along Charles’ collarbone.
“You always make me fucking work so hard for it,” he continues. “So I couldn’t bully you about being easy, not on the track. But I think–” he stops himself then, not sure if he should continue like this. Not sure if he should say anything more.
Right now, they can still laugh this off, chalk it up to friendly banter and sleep deprivation, the worn out high of a post-race delirium.
“You think what?” Charles asks him, voice gone a bit hoarse, like he was trying to resurface and come back to himself.
“I think, if the circumstances were right, you would like me to bully you a little bit. About how much you want my cock,” he says, just as his left hand leaves Charles’ torso to move down to where he’s still rock hard, pressing against his jeans so obviously it makes Max’s mouth water.
He cups him softly, knowingly, and nearly groans when Charles doesn’t break eye contact, just pushes up against the palm of his hand.
“Greedy,” Max chastises him, but doesn’t move his hand.
“Yes,” Charles exhales back, finally letting his eyes closed. “I would like that.”
“Let me give you orders and do just as I say?”
Charles nods, eyes still closed, hips just barely rocking against Max’s hand for friction.
Jesus fuck, they haven’t even kissed yet.
And now it’s all Max can think about.
And they’re in a car, with a driver on the other side of the privacy screen.
It makes him want to fuck Charles right here.
“Use your words, baby,” he instructs firmly, pleased when Charles opens his eyes and whispers, “yes, fuck–” and whimpers when Max moves his hand away.
“Do you want to go home, Charles?” Max asks him, trying not to drop his eyes down to Charles’ mouth, so eager now to cover it with his own.
“To yours,” he replies, making Max smile softly down at him, letting him know that, just like Max, he wanted–
He wanted–
It’s not a crush, because it’s so much fucking bigger than that. He would do Charles’ bidding, bring him plates of snacks and hold his helmet and let him take his jet home, and he would happily destroy anyone else who wanted to fight him for the privilege of doing those things.
Max texts the driver that there’s just one stop now, and slides his phone back into the door handle.
He knows they’re close now, wondering what the fuck happened on this drive. What possessed him to–
“Fuck,” he exhales when they’re finally nearing his building, willing himself to be less turned on.
When they exit the car, Max carries both of their luggage. He uses the penthouse entrance, so they bypass the lobby with the scanning of his fob, and Charles’ gaze is on him the entire elevator ride to his floor.
“Your arms look obscene carrying all of that. I could have done it myself,” he says, but Max sees that he’s still rock hard, and smirks.
“I like a little challenge.”
“Obviously,” Charles retorts quickly, “that’s why you want to fuck me.”
Max rolls his eyes, but doesn’t disagree.
Max knows his place is tidy, his housekeeper stays there while he’s gone, because the cats love her and she’s never been weird about Max, which is nice (and more rare than people would probably think). She’s French, and rambles at him sometimes, only catching half of what she’s saying, because her accent is not the same as Charles’.
He is going to tip her extra when they finally make it inside his flat, because she’s left him a note that says there’s a pizza on the way in less than an hour, and he knows he needs to feed Charles at some point. But if the delivery time is accurate, and if it’s in the lobby in an hour, that doesn’t leave them much time to– settle in? Adjust? Talk?
Max knows they need to talk, but he doesn’t think it’s going to happen before he gets to make Charles come.
Max looks then, at both of their bags sitting in the living room, at Charles standing there in his hallway with his fucking Ferrari jacket still on, and knows he doesn’t want this to be the only time it happens.
“Charles,” he begins, voice measured and serious. He’s taking a step, and then two, closer to the other man now, and they both know what’s coming.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he breathes out, Charles’ back pressed against his wall, his hand moving to grip at Charles’ hip.
“So you claim–” Charles starts, voice dripping with ire, but Max cuts him off, finally shuts him up the way he’s wanted to before, by pressing their lips together.
It isn’t fast or frantic, the way they can be on the track. Instead, it’s measured and soft, almost languid, like they don’t want to move too fast or it’ll be over. They fall into a rhythm easily, none of the awkward missed cadence between two people kissing for the first time. Charles tilts his head just slightly, letting Max deepen the angle, and he feels himself getting hard again when Charles moans into it, grabbing at Max’s shoulder and pushing his tongue back against Max’s like if he doesn’t keep going he’ll die.
“Baby,” Max pants, thumb sneaking up under the hem of Charles’ shirt to press against the skin there, gripping tightly at his hip.
“Fuck,” Charles hisses, pressing his hips forward against Max’s.
“Yeah? You like it when I call you baby?” he bit softly on the curve of Charles’ neck then, careful not to leave a bruise, and eager to see how he would react.
Beautifully, of course. He whines, high and pretty, and tries to practically climb Max right there in the hallway.
“Yes,” he hisses, and it sounds like begging for more.
Max groans, pressing harder, feeling Charles’ weight against him, the soft curve of his body fitting perfectly into the angle Max can’t believe he’s been granted. Every movement, every gasp, every tiny whine sends a thrill racing down Max’s spine straight to the heavy length of his cock. He’s dangerously aware of how warm Charles is, how perfectly soft, and how absolutely responsive he already is to the merest touch.
He tilts Charles’ head just so, lips meeting again, slower this time, dragging their teeth along each other in that perfect, maddening way that makes Max want to lose control completely. He can feel Charles’ hands running down his back, pressing, kneading, pulling him closer, and Max’s own hands roam freely now, grazing the slopes of Charles’ hips, tracing the faint lines of his torso beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt.
“Max…” Charles breathes, just a sound, a shiver, a warning. And Max knows perfectly well that warning is meant to entice him, not repel.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against Charles’ lips, tongue brushing teasingly, coaxing, claiming.
Charles whimpers, gripping his shoulder, pressing forward until Max can feel the undeniable hardness straining against the zipper of his jeans, hips moving with the slightest, maddening pressure. The thought alone (Charles trying to grind him into the wall like this, just a taste of what he wants) makes Max’s head spin, makes him nearly lose the strength to keep control.
“Stop teasing,” Charles hisses, voice ragged, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed in the heat of want. “I can’t— fuck, merde, I can’t handle it.”
Max smirks, presses one more, slow, deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, teeth grazing, tongue flicking. Charles gasps, throws his head back slightly, and Max uses the opportunity to slide a hand lower, fingers brushing the edge of his waistband, teasing him back, sending a shiver right through his spine.
“You want me to stop?” Max asks softly, though his hand keeps exploring, brushing just enough to make Charles whimper. He’s teasing, but also making sure. He needs to be sure, because for him– god, there’s no coming back from this.
“No,” Charles groans immediately, hips pressing harder, chest flush against Max’s, hands tangling in his hair. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”
Max laughs quietly, a deep, rumbling sound, and finally lets go of restraint. He pushes Charles back gently against the wall of the hallway, letting his own body press fully into him, hips aligning. Every nerve ending in Max’s body screams at him— he wants this, he wants him, he’s never wanted anyone like this in his life—but he also knows he could, could, drive him crazy with just a touch.
He does.
Fingers slide under Charles’ T-shirt, grazing the warm, soft skin, thumb brushing along the curve of his ribs. Charles arches into him, pressing forward, letting out a long, shivering moan that vibrates right into Max’s chest. He can feel Charles’ heartbeat, fast, fluttering, and it makes him groan, hard, the sound low and rough.
“You’re insane,” Charles hisses against his lips, letting Max suck a bruising kiss along the side of his jaw. “I swear,” He gasps, tilts his head, lets Max get a better angle, “I’m going to,” he let out a moan so obscene it makes Max grip him tighter, “fucking lose it.”
Max presses harder, hand sliding lower, teasing, brushing along the apex of his pants, feeling Charles’ hips shift, desperate, begging without saying a word. The friction alone is unbearable, teasing, and Max can feel himself tightening, cock aching.
“Shhh,” he murmurs, brushing fingers through Charles’ hair, tilting his head back slightly, giving him the perfect access to his neck, his collarbone. Charles’ hands clutch at his shoulders, nails pressing lightly, and Max knows exactly how to make him shiver. One hand moves lower, brushing along the curve of his ass through the fabric, squeezing gently, eliciting another whine, and Max laughs against his lips, muffled, deep.
“You like that, schatje?” he whispers, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just beneath his ear.
“Yes,” Charles breathes, soft, trembling. “I like it, fuck Max—I like it very much.”
The polite and correct grammar makes Max chuckle, which makes Charles retaliate by digging his nails into Max’s shoulder.
Max groans, leaning closer, letting his fingers slide a little lower, grazing the top of his boxers, teasing, pressing just enough to make Charles’ back arch. He leans down, lips capturing Charles’ again, tongue darting, exploring, and Charles moans, tilts his head, pressing fully into him, body trembling.
“Max, please,” Charles pants, hips rocking slightly, just enough to press against him. Max feels every inch of him, every twitch, every shiver, and it’s like the air itself is charged between them.
“You’re mine,” Max growls, teeth grazing the side of his neck, hand cupping his ass, pulling him impossibly close. “All of you.”
Charles gasps, head falling back, letting Max claim every inch of him, and Max knows he’s lost. He’s already lost, already addicted to the way Charles moves against him, how every touch makes him whimper and arch and beg.
“You’re so fucking greedy,” Max murmurs against his lips, sliding one hand under the waistband of Charles’ jeans, brushing firmly over him, teasing just enough to make him gasp, hips tilting, desperate. “Wanting me like this, right here, in my fucking hallway, practically begging me to fuck you open–”
Charles’ fingers dig into his shoulders, nails pressing frantically now so it’s going to leave lasting marks, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “Yes… fuck… right here…please, Max…”
“You gonna let me fuck you right here?”
“I’d let you do anything to me,” Charles confesses darkly. “Right here, or on your balcony. Let you fuck me and see if anyone wanted to watch.”
Fuck, and Max had been delusional enough to think he was in control. Just a few sentences and he was going to come unglued, completely lose his mind over this man.
He uses his hands to open the top button of Charles’ jeans, to quickly undo the zipper. Charles bites Max’s bottom lip, hard, and sucks it softly, soothing, enticing. Like he’s going to eat Max alive and savor every bite.
Max groans, gives in fully, pressing harder, hand stroking over Charles’ hard cock, teasing, dragging him closer, chest flush against Charles’. He can feel Charles’ warmth, can feel the quivering need beneath his touch, and it makes him desperate, hungry, more than he’s ever been for anyone.
“You like that, baby?” he murmurs, lips brushing Charles’ ear, teeth grazing lightly, hand sliding fully under the opened waist, cupping his balls, teasing. Not stroking at first, then slowly working his hand to grip Charles' hard cock, feeling where he was wet at the tip, all his for the taking.
"Gonna let me work my cock into you nice and slow? Gonna keep you so nice and full of me, baby. Have you squirming and crying on my cock, taking me so fucking deep."
“Yes,” Charles hisses, hips rolling into him, moaning, “fuck yes… Max—please—don’t stop…”
Max smiles against his skin, teeth grazing, lips brushing, fingers teasing, and finally, finally lets himself press fully, feeling Charles shiver, whine, moan, pressing harder into him, every motion calculated to drive him wild.
“Fuck,” Charles gasps, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, vulnerable and begging, and Max can’t hold back. He leans in, mouth capturing his again, tongue sliding, teeth grazing, hands exploring, and Charles cries out, body pressing fully into him, hips still moving, shivering, lost in the sensation.
Max groans, fingers tightening, hands pressing, hips moving, brushing fully against him, feeling him tense, shiver, moan, and he knows, knows he’s pushing him to the edge.
“Max, oh god, fuck—” Charles hisses, chest pressing, hands clutching, nails digging, and Max leans closer, teeth grazing, lips brushing, tongue teasing, pressing every inch, knowing exactly how to make him crumble.
And Charles does. Max feels him come, feels him make a mess of Max's hand and the inside of his boxers, entire body tensing, Max holding him up against the wall on sheer force alone.
Charles shivers, moans, cries out softly, arches, trembling, letting Max feel everything, everything he’s been holding back, everything he’s wanted, everything he’s never admitted (everything they’ve never admitted) and Max groans, hard, low, hands firm, mouth claiming every noise Charles exhales.
Coming from a handjob in a hallway like they’re eager university kids, sneaking away at some dodgy American frat party. Charles has never been hotter.
And when Charles finally collapses into him, trembling, spent, soft, he’s warm, he’s needy, he’s everything, and Max holds him, presses against him, lets him melt into him, lets himself feel everything he’s been hiding, everything he’s been craving.
“God,” Max breathes, head tilted down, lips brushing Charles’ temple, hand sliding through his hair, cock straining.
Charles lifts his head slightly, looks at him, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, voice soft, trembling, “Max…” He reaches out, somehow still eager, and brings a hand to press against where Max is hard in his joggers, big and heavy and dying for attention.
He hadn’t considered himself, not really. He just jerked off Charles Leclerc in his hallway, so he’s been a little bit preoccupied.
In fact, he still has his hands down his pants, covered in drying cum. Gross, but also– kinda hot.
Charles makes a noise when he feels Max fully, mouth crooked up into a little grin.
“Are you kidding me? Of course Max Verstappen has a huge cock,” he groans, and Max has no idea who the fuck he’s talking to but he doesn’t care, because his hand doesn’t stop moving. “I wanna suck it. Can I?” He just– he blurts it out, confident and like it’s nothing, like Max hadn’t thought about it a hundred times before.
About fucking into Charles’ pretty mouth, watching tears run down his pretty flushed cheeks.
Not a crush, not a crush. Obsession, maybe. He was obsessed with Charles Leclerc.
Max presses a kiss to his forehead, letting his nose brush the curve of his cheek, smile tugging at his lips, voice low, rough, satisfied, “Yeah, baby. It’s all yours.”
Charles shivers, head falling back, eyes closing, chest pressing, and Max groans, hard, low, deep, hips brushing, hands sliding, holding, claiming, wanting, needing.
And he knows, knows this is just the beginning.
"Hey," Max begins, right as the intercom buzzes and he knows the pizza is arriving, "are you by chance a witch?"
"What?" Charles barks out, and Max frees his messy hand from Charles' pants. He's laughing eyes crinkled.
"Playing it discreet, a likely answer," he fires back, moving away. Painfully rock hard, gonna accept this pizza.
To feed this man who probably has him under a spell.
He'll take it, he thinks it's worth the risk.