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As the internet likes to say, Charles Leclerc is for the girls, gays, and the Italian men.
Despite the fact that Max does, in fact, fall into one of those categories, he’s always felt that he was singular amongst the community, because in his opinion he is very much immune to Charles’ charm.
Others—Daniel and Lando—may have different opinions, but Max knows the truth. He is not obsessed with Charles. He does not think he is God’s gift to Ferrari. He doesn’t even think he’s God’s gift to racing.
Sure, is Charles the only person who has always been able to match Max through his whole life? Maybe. Does Max also occasionally find himself with a stray thought that would get him in trouble if anyone could read minds? Every now and then. Would he have sex with him if the opportunity presented itself? He may be singular, but he’s still human.
Daniel lectures him with alarming frequency about how Max is in denial. Particularly towards the end of this past season—and, yes, okay, he and Charles have definitely been getting . . . closer. Daniel—and Lando, now that he thinks of it—have said a couple times that he needs to pull himself together.
But, whatever! Anyone would have this reaction to their rival becoming a tentative friend.
All of which is to say . . . Max is absolutely, entirely, wholeheartedly unprepared for what Charles getting a motherfucking haircut does to his brain.
It starts on Instagram, as so many disastrous things do.
Max is scrolling through his feed, feet propped up on the arm of his lounge, Sassy curled up on his chest. By now, Instagram is attempting to recommend posts to him from people he doesn’t follow. He usually hates it, because the posts are either completely irrelevant or scarily targeted. There’s no in between, and Max hates both options.
But then.
Then, Max’s life is irrevocably changed.
He stops dead at the picture of Charles, shooting upright on the lounge, dislodging Sassy in the process. She hisses loudly at him and darts off, but Max isn’t concerned with that.
Because Charles fucking Leclerc has cut his hair off.
The photo is just a fan picture of Charles in a suit at a gala of some variety—an unimportant detail—and he looks great in the suit, crisp and blue, a black turtleneck underneath. Handsome, one might objectively describe it as. Sexy, a girl, gay, or Italian man would say. Not Max, of course, because he’s above that, but. Somebody else might describe it that way.
The sides are just gone, shaved short and gone. The top is still as long and fluffy as ever, styled very nicely but the sides.
The sides, Max laments.
He looks stupid. It’s terrible. Max hates it with a fiery, visceral passion. He knows there is no way Pascale Leclerc did that to her son. She would have stopped him from looking like some kind of dapper, handsome—
She would have stopped it, is the point.
Maybe it’s just the lighting, Max reasons frantically.
He switches over to the explore page, typing Charles Leclerc hair into the search bar. He’s never been so grateful for the girls, gays, and Italian men as he is in this moment, because a flood of photos dissecting every single angle of the haircut comes up for him.
He scrolls through each photo, dread mounting in his stomach the more he sees.
It’s real. He really did that. Somebody ruined that perfect head of hair.
It’s so ugly. A monstrosity. Max has never been so disgusted with another person’s choice in his life. What was Charles thinking?
So ugly, Max thinks, laying back down and unzipping his jeans, clicking out of a photo to go back and find a particularly unattractive video of Charles turning towards the camera and winking.
Terrible. Absolutely terrible.
Max wraps his fist around his cock, the video on repeat in his hand.
So.
That happened.
In the cold light of day, Max wonders whether he might have been hit with some kind of brief insanity. He ignores the fact that it was the cold light of day when he came all over his stomach while looking at a video of Charles, because that fact just doesn’t really suit him right now.
He was just surprised, he reasons. The haircut took him by surprise. The outfit took him by surprise.
There’s nothing unusual about seeing a photo of an objectively attractive person and becoming aroused. Even if that person happens to be your rival/tentative friend.
Max forgets about it, honestly. It was nothing. Just a—a blip in his week. It was really a totally normal event for Max.
It’s just that now his Instagram algorithm is totally and completely fucked up, and once there’s more footage of Charles’ new hair, it fucking shows up.
Charles is hovering around a brand new white Ferrari, smiling and laughing with fans, the Mediterranean harbour glinting in the sunset.
Shit. He’s here. He’s here in Monaco. In the same city as Max.
No, it’s fine. Max feels completely, totally normal about that. Even if they bump into each other, Max is cool. This whole thing is super chill.
So what if Max hates his new hair? He can still look him in the eyes. It’s not as if Max masturbated while watching a video of him and then came so hard he couldn’t breathe for several long seconds afterwards.
By about day three, Max is ready to admit he has a problem.
He can’t really stop thinking about this stupid hair. It’s just . . . why did Charles do it? The long, fluffy, curls were so—no, not good. That would imply Max had an opinion about it. Which he didn’t. Obviously. But if he were to have an opinion, he would say that it suited Charles. It looked good with his, like, face shape or whatever.
And it was . . . practical. For like. Touching and stuff.
If somebody were to touch it. During—
Anyway.
So, like, what is Charles’ deal? Why did he cut it off? What was the thought process? Max wants to know, in extreme detail, every single thought and moment that led to Charles making this insane decision. Max wouldn’t say it’s the most insane thing Charles has ever done, but it’s got to be at least top five. Maybe top three.
“Because everybody agreed,” Max tells Sassy, scrolling through a new video of Charles and his stupid head. “Everyone knew it looked good! There were whole accounts dedicated to his hair. So why did he do it, you know?”
Sassy meows.
“Exactly!” He agrees, nodding his head. “He mustn’t have been thinking.”
Sassy meows again, slightly louder.
“Oh, totally,” he says, rolling his eyes. “He never thinks. He is a bit of an idiot, isn’t he? This only proves that.”
She bumps her head against his hand, then settles it back down on the lounge.
“You’re right, I’m glad we settled this. Your input was invaluable, baby.”
Sassy hacks up a hairball, coughing violently until it dislodges and falls onto the couch with a disgusting plop.
So, yeah. Max has a problem.
Max Verstappen
Hey, I saw you’re in Monaco. Want to go out for
Max hurriedly deletes the message, then types a new one.
Max Verstappen
Hi, Charles. So, I saw you got a haircut and
No. No way. That’s not a good idea.
Max Verstappen
You busy? I thought you could come around for FIFA or
Max groans, throwing his phone down on the lounge.
What is wrong with him?
“It’s just, it doesn’t even look that good, you know?” Max rants, huffing angrily. “It’s way too short. And people agree with me! I’m not crazy. It’s bad. It’s really bad.”
Lando stares at him.
“Um. Are you, like, okay?” Lando asks worriedly.
“Yes?” Max answers, glaring at Lando. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Max, you’ve just been talking about Charles’ hair for so long. Like, super long. Almost five whole minutes. That’s a bit weird, even for you and your weird Charles obsession.”
“I don’t have an obsession,” Max snaps. “And you brought him up!”
Lando blinks at him. “Mate, all I said was his new car looks dope. You apparently took that as an invitation to wax poetic about his hair? I didn’t even know he got a haircut.”
Max’s mouth drops open, shocked and enraged. “How didn’t you know? It’s everywhere. The Internet is talking about it all the time. They’re obsessed, not me.”
Lando looks extremely sceptical. Max doesn’t appreciate it. Not at all.
“Maybe it’s everyone on the parts of the Internet you’re on,” Lando says, and it feels very much like some kind of pointed barb. Max feels a little too crazy to dissect what it’s supposed to mean, though. “I’m all for gay rights and such, but I think I might actually punch you if you keep talking about this.”
Max feels incredibly offended. “But it’s important!” He argues. “Because why would he—”
Lando picks up a pillow and smacks him across the face.
Max doesn’t pout about it, but it’s rather close.
When Charles posts sponsored photos from that stupid jet onto his Instagram from . . . whenever they were from, his hair is still long.
It’s so much better. Max misses that hair, a bit desperately. It was so much nicer. So soft and cute. Perfect for running his hands through, and definitely perfect for pulling—
But that’s not a thought for today. Because if he has that thought, then he’s going to be forced to admit things that he does not want to admit.
When Lando drags Max out for drinks, he makes a solemn vow to himself to not bring Charles up in conversation at all.
It’s totally fine that Lando doesn’t share his interests and hobbies. He can leave one topic alone, because he’s a restrained, disciplined man who has three World Championships. He doesn’t have the longest winning streak in F1 history for no reason.
Everything is under complete control, he says to himself, even though he swears he just saw Charles from the corner of his eye.
“Max!”
Max spins around, the third round of drinks he just got for him and Lando spilling all over his hands.
And there he is. White shirt unbuttoned an obscene amount, jeans tight around his ridiculous thighs, silver rings dotting his freakishly long fingers, and ugly haircut on top of his ugly head. Yuck. It’s not working for him at all. In fact, Max thinks Charles should probably go home, just to save himself the shame of being seen in public while looking so stupid.
“Charlie,” Max greets anyway, determined to be polite.
“I thought you’d be back home by now,” Charles says, flagging down the bartender with a bright smile and a flick of his indecently long eyelashes.
Does he flirt with everyone, Max thinks wildly. And then, a little more unexplainably, Why doesn’t he flirt with me?
When Charles glances back at him, brow furrowed, Max realises he still hasn’t answered him. How mortifying.
“I’m going tomorrow night,” Max says, then nothing else. He should probably ask Charles what he’s doing for New Year’s, but that would mean prolonging his agony.
He needs to get away from Charles immediately. And screw Lando, he absolutely has to listen to Max talk about this, because Charles’ hair looks way worse in person. It’s too . . . popstar-esque. Who does he even think he is, Harry Styles?
The sides are so short. They’d probably be prickly to touch.
Max just isn’t into it. He much prefers when the guys he’s with have longer hair, because he likes to touch—to pull, to grip, to caress. Nothing about Charles’ hair is inviting right now, and that’s a real problem because—
“Max?”
Max blinks, focusing back on Charles’ face. He can feel his cheeks going red with embarrassment at being caught out, not at all helped by how curiously Charles is looking at him.
When Charles next speaks, there’s a stupidly smug smirk curling up his lips. “Did you hear what I said?”
No. He didn’t.
“Of course,” Max says confidently.
Charles bites his bottom lip, stepping slightly closer. “Yeah?” He murmurs, lightly resting his hand over Max’s, his fingertips caressing the inside of Max’s wrist. “What did I say?”
Max’s brain has gone entirely blank. Like . . . frightfully blank.
He scrambles for something to say, but his brain is basically just screaming at him in one long, loud, high pitched ahh! His tongue is also stuck to the roof of his mouth, because what is happening right now?
“Hm,” Charles hums, the cool metal of his rings bumping against the back of Max’s hand. He shivers, but it’s totally involuntary. Which he knows, because he doesn’t want Charles. At all. Ever. “You look good tonight.”
What is happening.
What the fuck is happening.
“Come find me later,” Charles says, finally—and blessedly—taking his hand off Max’s. “I’ll save you a dance.”
“Dude, this drink is half empty,” Lando complains loudly, when Max gets back to their booth. “What happened?”
“That’s how it came,” Max says, trying to be casual. He doesn’t feel particularly casual, though.
Lando gives him a dubious look, but doesn’t say anything in favour of wrapping his lips around the straw of his drink.
“Did you see Charles is here?” Lando asks, once he finally comes up for air.
Max jerks so hard his knees hit the underside of the table.
“He is?” Max asks, still super casual, like he didn’t already know that Charles is around.
“Yeah, he stopped by the table a few seconds before you got back,” Lando says, then goes in for another long slurp. “You’re right about his haircut, by the way. Weird. Kind of looks like mine.”
Max hasn’t ever really paid much attention to Lando’s hair. He looks a bit closer now, trying to see if he’s right. Shockingly, he actually is—and it looks fine. Max doesn’t really have an opinion, one way or the other. It’s just hair, and it’s on Lando’s head.
“It doesn’t suit him,” Max says grumpily, staring down at the table and ignoring the fact he’d been struck dumb by Charles less than five minutes ago.
“Definitely looks better on me,” Lando says, sucking down the last of his drink.
Max frowns at him. That’s not very nice, he thinks. Charles looks good with everything, obviously, and who the fuck is Lando to say anything about it? No, it’s quite ridiculous.
“You look like a three-year-old pretending to be an adult,” Max says, scowling at him.
“Oi!” Lando gasps, hand flying up to touch the top of his curls. “That’s just hurtful.”
“Don’t be mean,” Max reprimands, leaning across the table to flick Lando’s arm.
“You have literally done nothing but be mean about it,” Lando complains. “I have been listening to you be mean about it for days!”
“Well, I’m allowed to be,” Max snaps, glaring. “He’s my—I’m his—look, it’s okay if I do it!”
Lando laughs, loud and obnoxious.
“How can one man be so capable, and yet so stupid?” Lando says, rather fondly.
Max scowls harder. “I hate you, and I’m leaving.”
Lando’s laughter breaks off. “Oh, come on mate, don’t throw a tantrum! I’m just teasing.”
Max catches sight of Charles across the bar, head thrown back in laughter, long neck glistening in the dim light, shirt parting to reveal the curve of his muscled chest, hair artfully tousled.
“Definitely leaving,” Max repeats, throwing back the last of his drink and standing up.
By the time Max gets home, showers, and gets changed into his pyjamas, he feels a weird mix of indignant and overwhelmed.
He is behaving like a complete lunatic, Max recognises, as he settles into his lounge and opens Instagram. At this point Charles Leclerc hair has a permanent spot at the top of his searches. If he could, he’d save a video or two, but he doesn’t have a burner account on Instagram and also he doesn’t care that much. So.
He’s half-hard by the time he finds the video he was looking for, like some kind of Pavlovian response. He turns the volume off, because he’s not a complete animal, then shimmies his pants down to curl a loose fist around his cock. It’s dry as fuck, so he spits into his palm to make it a bit better.
Maybe I should take this into the bedroom, he thinks, because there’s lube and lotion in there that would make this a bit more pleasurable. But if he goes into the bedroom, then he’ll be forced to admit that this is a thing, and if it’s a thing then he’ll be forced to admit that this is a problem.
And this is not a problem. Max is in complete control of the situation, and he can stop at any time.
He runs his thumb over the head of his cock, watching the screen of his phone closely; tracking Charles’ broad shoulders, the tight stretch of his shirt over his chest, the sparkle of the rings on his fingers and the chains around his neck, and the way the soft orange light hits the waves of his hair.
Max groans, head falling back on the lounge as his hand tightens around his dick. God, he just wants to run his hands through that hair, he wants to fist the strands at Charles’ nape and pull, which he would be able to do if he hadn’t fucking cut it all off—
The loud blare of his phone ringing rips Max out of his fantasy abruptly; he drops it in his shock, tugging his pants up before he realises that that’s stupid because there’s nobody here.
Except.
Except maybe it wasn’t so stupid, because it’s Charles’ fucking name that’s on his screen.
A wave of guilt washes over him all of a sudden, even though there’s no way that Charles knows what he’s doing. But, still, Charles is his (tentative) friend, and he shouldn’t be wanking off to fantasies about a mate.
He doesn’t really want to answer. Not while he’s hard and leaking because of Charles. Although . . .
No. No, no. Bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts.
The phone goes blank, thank God. The decision is out of his hands, which is great because the last few days have definitely proven that he’s not a great decision maker.
But then it lights up again, this time with just a text.
Charles Leclerc
Answer the phone.
Then it starts to ring again.
Cautiously, Max presses answer.
“Um, hello,” he says, trying to play it cool and not make it out like Charles’ texted command has made him a little breathless.
His cock is still so fucking hard.
“Hello,” Charles says politely. “You left before I got that dance.”
Max blinks. He hadn’t forgotten about that, but he’d definitely ignored it in an attempt to maintain his sanity.
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
Barely even a lie.
“Hm. That’s not what Lando said.”
Max bolts upright, the phone clutched tightly in his hand. “What did that fucker tell you?”
Charles laughs, joyful. Max hopes he never sees either of them again. “Just that you had a tantrum and went home. He didn’t tell me why, but I thought I could cheer you up anyway.”
“Thanks, but I’m not really in the mood for a chat—”
“That’s not what I had in mind,” Charles says. His voice has lowered, sexy and sultry, and it makes a shiver go down Max’s spine. “Open your door.”
Max wishes he had something smart to say. He also wishes he had a smart way to say it.
Instead, all that comes out is, “Um?” in an embarrassingly high pitched squeak.
Who even is he right now?
“Your front door,” Charles clarifies, back to sounding like he’s on the verge of laughter. It makes Max wonder whether he hallucinated the whole deep voice thing. “Open the front door and let me in.”
Max turns on the spot, blinking in the direction of the front door.
“No,” he says, panicked. His fucking cock is still hard. He’s not opening the door.
“Come on, I’m already here,” Charles coaxes. “I’ll help you feel better. Open the door.”
“No,” Max repeats, staring down at his stiff dick. He is not answering that fucking door in this state. Why the fuck won’t this stupid thing go down? “I’m in bed.”
“Perfect. Let me in.”
“Charles,” Max says a bit more firmly, because there is no way this is happening. “No. I—I want to be alone.”
That actually seems to work, because Charles goes silent for a moment. Thank God. Max is a weak and indulgent man at heart, so one more firm command from Charles probably would have sent him to his grave.
“Oh,” Charles says eventually, a bit tentative. “Alright. I just thought—ah, never mind. Um, are you sure you’re okay? I’m a pretty good nurse, actually, so I—”
“Oh for fuck’s—I’m having a fucking wank, Charles! Leave me alone.”
Charles goes completely quiet. Max drops his head into his hand in shame. At least finally his dick is softening, probably a result of the mortification, but that doesn’t really fucking help him now.
“Max. Open the door.”
Max blinks. Then blinks again.
“Uh, did you hear what I said?” He says, a bit confused. “Because—”
“Holy shit,” Charles groans. “I am trying to have sex with you, Max. Earlier, it seemed like you were into me. But if I read it wrong, just fucking tell me now because it’s never been this hard for me to have sex with someone in my life.”
That doesn’t seem right. That whole thing doesn’t seem right. It definitely lends credence to the idea that this is a hallucination, because in what world is Charles Leclerc trying to have sex with him? Not this one, that’s for sure.
“I think you have the wrong Max,” he says eventually. “This is Max Verstappen.”
“Oh my God,” Charles says faintly. “I always knew you’d be the death of me. Would you please open the door so we can have this fucking conversation face to face?”
Feeling entirely dubious, he makes his way to his front door slowly, phone still pressed to his ear. As he reaches for the knob, he isn’t really sure what to expect on the other side.
Nothing, probably, because this is likely just a result of all the blood leaving his head and filling his dick. Yeah. This is definitely a really-hard-dick induced fever dream.
But Charles is actually standing there. Phone pressed to his ear, white shirt still unbuttoned, chains around his neck and atrocious haircut still on his head.
“Finally,” Charles breathes, dropping his phone and ending the call. “Seriously, if you’re trying to play hard to get, I need you to understand it’s completely pointless. I already want to fuck you, there’s no need for games.”
Who is this strange man at his door? He looks like Charles Leclerc, he has the same voice as Charles Leclerc, but he’s saying words that Charles Leclerc would never say.
Or maybe they’re not speaking the same language. Maybe Max has been struck dumb by the monstrosity on Charles’ head, and Charles is speaking French and Max is struggling to translate.
“You want to fuck me?” Max asks, because he’s pretty sure this whole thing is . . . something. It’s something. He hasn’t quite decided between the hallucination or the Charles-impersonator theory yet.
“Obviously,” Charles says, with the exasperation of a long-suffering man. “But if you don’t want to, just tell me. I’ve been getting very mixed signals from you for months, and I’m rather confused.”
“Yeah,” Max says, because what has he got to lose? Either this is actually Charles and he’s already admitted to his intentions, or this is a dream and Max can pretend this never happened whenever he sees the real Charles. “Yeah, I want to have sex.”
Charles looks relieved. “Great. Can I come in, then?”
“Oh,” Max says, brows rising in surprise. “Now?”
Charles laughs, then rolls his eyes. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re being difficult on purpose.”
Is he being difficult? He’s not trying to be. Mostly, he just feels decidedly on the backfoot, and very much like this came from absolutely nowhere.
“Don’t worry,” Charles says reassuringly. “I’m rather partial to how difficult you are. Now will you please let me in?”
Max swallows roughly. This is really happening. He’s really letting Charles Leclerc into his apartment so they can have sex.
He moves to the side, clutching the door so tightly his knuckles are white. He feels more than slightly insane, because—because—well, because this is Charles. Pretty boy Charles, who Max has hated and been obsessed with in equal measure since he was about twelve years old. His first ever orgasm had been to a fantasy of him, fuck. This is all just too much for his brain to handle.
Charles doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to Max’s breakdown, however, because he keeps his eyes fixed on Max’s as he steps inside; and then he cups both sides of Max’s face, leaning forward to press their lips together.
He kicks the door shut with his foot, then drops his hands to spread his palms against Max’s hip bones, pushing until Max is backed up against the wall.
If he were in the mood to be honest with himself—which he rarely is—he’d admit that he always imagined this would be the other way around. Based on the way the night is going so far, he has no idea why he ever thought that.
If he were continuing to be honest, he’d also admit that he thought Charles would taste . . . musky. But he really just tastes like the beer he must have had at the pub, which Max can taste astonishingly well when Charles licks into his mouth and runs a line up his tongue.
Fucking hell. Max feels a bit like his brain is leaking out his ears.
“God, you’re so hot,” Charles mutters, leaning down to suck along Max’s jawline. “Been wanting this for so long, baby.”
“Huh?” Max squeaks out.
Christ. He should just move to Antarctica at this point. How much more embarrassing can this be?
Charles either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care—small mercies—because he doesn’t mock Max at all.
Instead, he says against his throat, “I’ve dreamt about this for so long. Can’t believe I finally get to have you.”
“You want me?” Max asks weakly, hands tight fists in Charles shirt at his hips. He thinks that if Charles weren’t pressing him into the wall, he might have collapsed to the floor by now. “You’ve been wanting me?”
Charles huffs against his throat, then pulls back enough to look at him. One of his hands has snuck underneath the hem of Max’s shirt, and the other is dangerously high on his thigh. Max feels drunk and lightheaded.
“Of course I have,” Charles says, with a slightly confused look. “Why did you think I was flirting with you for the entire second half of the season?”
Somebody might as well have punched Max in the gut, for the way all the air leaves his lungs. “You what?”
Charles stares at him with narrowed eyes, fingers drawing a soothing pattern on Max’s hip.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” Charles says eventually.
“You’ve been flirting with me?”
Max owes about seventeen apologies to Daniel and Lando, apparently. His life would have been so much easier if he’d just listened to their opinion on the situation, because they were somehow right.
“Yes? Did you really not know?” Charles is looking at him with some mix of wonder and awe. “That explains a lot, actually.”
“I thought you were trying to be friends,” Max says, stressed out of his mind. This is all just very overwhelming.
“I was,” Charles says, cocking his head to the side. “But friends who fuck and also go on dates.”
He wants to what? Oh, God. Oh, God. What is his life right now?
“I think I need to lay down,” Max says, eyes wide.
Charles preens before his eyes, smiling curling up his mouth and highlighting the lines around his eyes.
He’s so fucking beautiful.
“Can I join you?” Charles asks slyly, that same smile on his face that Max has seen all season. How has he been so stupid?
“I’d be rather offended if you didn’t,” Max tells him, then takes him by the hand and leads him into his bedroom.
Charles looks around curiously as they walk, peering into any room with an open door. Max would be annoyed by his nosiness, if he weren’t entirely focused on getting Charles into his room and getting fucked into next week.
When they get there, Charles continues his look around Max’s life, wandering around the room and taking a close look at all his shelves and photos. The hard-on that had never truly gone away is well and truly back by now, so Max is more than slightly impatient.
“Charlie,” he says, meaning to snap, but it comes out more like a whine than he intended.
“Yes, baby?” Charles asks, keeping his eyes fixed on a photo of Max from when he was younger, Victoria and his mum either side of him.
Max shifts on the spot, twisting the hem of his shirt in his fingers.
“Charlie,” he repeats, slightly more breathless, slightly more whiny.
This time, Charles glances over to him with a hint of a smile.
“Yes, baby?”
Max groans, head dropping back.
“I thought you wanted to lay down,” Charles continues, turning back to the photo.
Max has no idea whether that’s an instruction or not, but he takes it as one anyway, because why the hell wouldn’t he? He’s on the verge of a breakdown, and the only thing that’s going to fix it is Charles. Specifically, Charles’ dick.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, then bites his lip and lays down completely, resting his head on the pillow and curling his toes. He waits a moment, wiggling his feet in an attempt to expend some nervous energy, but as Charles continues to peruse his shelves, Max quickly becomes impatient.
He refuses to whine about it again though, so he stays quiet, fidgeting around on the bed until he finally can’t help himself and presses his palm into his aching cock through his pyjama pants.
The embarrassing soft whimper he lets out is enough to have Charles glancing over at him.
“Oh,” Charles murmurs softly. “We are going to have so much fun together, baby.”
Max doesn’t whine. He just doesn’t.
Finally, Charles makes his way over to him, stopping to stand by the edge of the bed. The way his eyes slowly travel down Max’s body makes him feel cut open, the entirety of his feelings and thoughts on display for Charles’ attentive eyes.
“Keep touching yourself,” Charles murmurs, leaning down just slightly to run his fingertips down Max’s bicep. “Show me what you were doing before I got here.”
Max’s eyes flutter. He kind of can’t believe that Charles has been walking around, pretending to be sweet and polite, all the while hiding a dirty mouth. He can’t wait to see what else might come out of him—what else Charles might be hiding.
Desperately, Max pushes his pants down to his thighs, his hard cock springing free and hitting his stomach. Honestly, he’s not sure he’s ever felt this way before—like he needs Charles, like he needs to be touched, like he might die if he doesn’t come. Certainly he’s never been so vulnerable with his desperation before, and it makes him feel even more raw than he already did.
He spits into his hand again, then rubs his thumb over the head of his cock to gather the precum there. He’s so fucking hard, and the unintentional edging he’s subjected himself to is making everything even more intense.
“Slower,” Charles murmurs, putting one of his hands over Max’s thighs and sliding it up until it sits on his hip. Max opens his eyes, but the sight of Charles’ hand so close to his dick makes him close them again. He can’t handle how fucking hot it is.
At some point, Charles had taken his shirt off, revealing his defined muscles. Christ, he’s so hot, so fucking beautiful, and it’s just . . . Max never expected anything like this to actually happen. He has to take several deep breaths to try and calm himself down.
Still, he tries to slow down his hand, dragging his palm from the base to the tip of his cock. It’s maddening, but Charles makes a pleased hum, the sound of which sends heat straight into Max’s gut.
“Charlie,” he whimpers, squeezing his hand a little tighter just to get a fraction closer to what he needs.
The bed shifts around under him, and Max opens his eyes again just in time to see Charles kneel between his legs, both his hands on Max’s thighs and spreading them further apart. The rings on his fingers are cool on Max’s skin, making them feel like a burning brand.
Max almost comes then and there.
Charles between his legs is a fucking revelation, and Max never wants him to be anywhere but right there.
“Move your hand,” Charles says, batting Max’s hand away.
Max groans, head flopping back on the pillow. Even when Charles is taking control, he’s still a whiny, dramatic asshole. Why does Max have any fondness for him, again?
And then, of course, Charles wraps his lips around Max’s cock.
Max can’t help it—his hips buck up, desperately seeking more of that tight, wet heat. Charles immediately presses one of his palms into Max’s hip bones, pushing him back down and keeping him pressed to the bed.
“Sorry,” Max gasps, which he only means because he knows how shitty it is to suddenly have more dick in your mouth than you were prepared for.
Charles pulls off, though not without a little lick to the underside of his cock.
“It’s alright,” he says. “But you’re going to be good for me and stay still now, aren’t you?”
Max is glad there’s nothing touching his cock right now, because the praise goes straight to his stomach. Any stimulation, and he’d have come right as Charles said be good for me.
“Yes,” Max whimpers.
“Perfect,” Charles murmurs, and then, a bit more slowly, with a bit more focus, he says, “I knew you’d be good, baby.”
He has to have done that on purpose. There’s no way that was an accident. Max still falls directly into the trap—he moans quietly, the sound stuck in his throat, hips rocking up slightly.
“Of course you have a praise kink,” Charles laughs softly, fingers caressing Max’s hip. They stretch out to his stomach, splayed over his abs delightfully. It makes him shiver, which only makes Charles laugh again.
This whole thing is going to be the death of him, isn’t it?
He wants to make some smart ass quip, but he can’t think of a single one. Fucking brilliant.
“Where’s your lube?” Charles asks, reaching out and lazily stroking his fingers up and down Max’s cock.
“Bed—bedside,” Max gasps, neck straining back as he tries desperately not to buck his hips.
“Get it out for me?” Charles asks sweetly.
Max scrambles for it, almost falling out of bed as he quickly turns to fumble for the drawer. Charles laughs again, and Max decides that he is entirely too in control here. He needs to be as out of his mind with lust as Max is.
He just . . . can’t quite think of what to do to even the playing field. All he can think about is how much he wants Charles to fuck him.
As if reading his mind, Charles says, “Can I fuck you? I’ll make it good for you, baby, I promise.”
His voice has gone low and gravelly, and Max wonders what Charles would do if he said no. Fortunately for him, Max isn’t in the right mind to even think about teasing either of them.
“God, please,” he groans, spreading his legs a little wider.
Charles wastes no time pulling the rings off his right hand, throwing them on to the bedside table. Then he coats his fingers in lube and settles back between Max’s legs, shouldering his thighs further apart. Max’s breath hitches in his throat as he watches, unable to believe what’s happening.
How the fuck did he go from miserably pretending he has no attraction to Charles, to now having his dick sucked as Charles presses a finger inside him?
However he landed here, he’s thanking God for it, because Charles really knows what he’s doing. Max would definitely not class himself as inexperienced, but he would easily admit to usually being the one doing the fucking—despite his partners being exclusively men, they typically assume that he’s the assertive one. He has no problems with taking on that role, but God is it nice that Charles has taken it on himself.
And it’s . . . Fuck. He’s fucking amazing.
As he sinks his mouth down Max’s cock, opening his throat and taking his dick until his nose presses against Max’s abs, he slides a second finger into his arse. Max’s eyes roll back, a groan ripping from his throat as his back arches.
“Fuck,” he slurs, the English barely intelligible. “Fuck. Ch—Charles.”
His hands scramble to hold on to something, skipping over the messy sheets to find purchase somewhere, anywhere. One hand finds the pillow under his head, and the other slides through Charles’ hair. He goes to curl it in his fist, but he finds it hard to get anything between his fingers.
And then he remembers why this whole thing started.
“I hate your new haircut,” Max gasps, the ceiling swimming dreadfully. He’s never been sucked so good he can’t see.
Charles stops short, both the fingers in his arse and his mouth pausing. Slowly, he pulls off, mouth popping obscenely as he releases Max’s cock.
Instead of being offended, Charles looks delighted. “You do?” He asks, grinning widely. “I think I look rather dashing.”
“You look fine,” Max dismisses, breathing so heavily his chest is heaving. “But it’s so . . . How am I supposed to pull on it while you fuck me?”
Charles’ delight melts into a smug grin that Max hates with a burning, fiery passion. He wants his cock back between those lips immediately.
“Keep going,” Max urges, rolling his hips in an effort to grind down on Charles' hand.
Despite the fact Max just insulted him, he obliges, curling his fingers until he’s got the pads of them pressed directly against his prostate. Then he stops moving, and simply maintains the pressure.
“Is that why you looked at me like that this evening?” He asks curiously.
Max rocks his hips again, desperate to keep the friction going. But Charles is ahead of him, reaching up to spread his hand over Max’s stomach and pressing down hard.
“Tell me, Max. Is that what made you look at me differently?”
“I—I—”
Was he looking at Charles differently? He can’t even remember. He has a vague recollection of being startled, but mostly he remembers being entirely overwhelmed by—
“Yes,” he gasps out eventually. “Yes, I— . . . Yes. Yes.”
“I did wonder,” Charles says, slowly starting to move his fingers again. It makes Max moan, one fist clenching in the pillow, the other pathetically cupping the back of Charles’ head. “This second half of the season, I thought maybe you might feel the same. But tonight . . . The way you looked at me. I knew you wanted me.”
Had he been that obvious? Has this stupid haircut really cut back all of the meagre defences he’s built? Torn back the curtains and exposed his heart to the world?
How embarrassing.
“It’s—I—” He breaks off into a groan as Charles moves his fingers again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it, okay? With the stupid sides—I want to pull, Charles. How can I pull when you’ve cut it off?”
Charles laughs again, then slides his fingers out to reach up and wrap his hand around Max’s wrist. Gently, he drags Max’s hand upwards, until his palm rests on top of Charles’ head.
“There,” he says. “Pull here.”
Max immediately closes his fist, fingers curled into a tight grip. It’s not what he wants, but it’s better than nothing. Charles seems to like it as well, if his muffled grunt is anything to go by.
Experimentally, Max pulls a little harder. Charles groans, eyes fluttering.
Fucking perfect.
“Keep going,” Max says, pulling again. He wants to sound commanding, but it comes out entirely breathless.
Mercifully, Charles does it anyway, actually thrusting his fingers and taking Max’s cock back into his mouth. With something to grip onto now, Max pulls—it makes Charles moan around him, which only makes Max’s fist tighten. It’s a frighteningly addictive cycle, and it takes Max right to the edge of pleasure.
Only when Charles adds a third finger does he take his mouth off, chin spit slick.
“Opening up so well for me,” Charles breaths, licking his tongue up Max’s inner thigh. “So good, baby.”
Max is shaking, he realises. Sweat is dotting his hairline, he can barely breathe, and his thighs are shaking.
“Charlie,” he gasps. “Not going to—not going to last much longer. Need you. Need—please, please.”
“And I didn’t even need to ask you to beg,” Charles murmurs. “So good, Max. So good for me.”
If he were a little less foggy with lust, Max might be of half a mind to kick Charles in the face. As it stands, his words are actually enough to have his eyes rolling back.
“Are the condoms in the drawer?” Charles asks.
Max has to actually shake his head to try and clear it enough to think about the question.
“Yeah,” he says, even though what he actually wants to say is I don’t want to use condoms. He’s not so far gone he’s going to be that much of an idiot, though.
Charles sits up, taking his fingers away again, and reaches over to the bedside table. And what is Max supposed to do, when presented with the perfect opportunity to touching a fucking god?
On shaking arms, he props himself up on his elbows, then tilts his neck so he can suck Charles’ nipple into his mouth. The shuddering gasp Charles let out makes satisfaction curl in Max’s stomach, because it’s the first chink in his armour. But he’s nothing if not immensely greedy, so he wants more. He wants Charles to be as overwhelmed as he is.
He sucks a bit harder, circling his tongue and then pulling Charles’ nipple between his teeth. He can’t even hide his smile when he hears Charles curse quietly in French, hand searching slightly more frantically.
When Charles lowers himself back down, condom clutched tightly between his fingers, he immediately swoops in for a heated kiss. He inhales sharply, pulling Max’s lip between his teeth and biting down.
“You’re a menace,” Charles murmurs against his mouth, once he’s let his lip go. “I should’ve known you’d be a brat.”
Max smiles, then arches his neck to kiss Charles again.
“Trust me, I’m on my best behaviour right now.”
Charles laughs and gives him a final chaste kiss. “I find that very easy to believe.”
When Charles sits back, Max realises he’s barely touched him. He wants to wrap his hand around his cock, or suck him off, or do anything, really, to reciprocate.
But Charles gets up from the bed before he can do anything, condom packet between his teeth and reaching for the button of his jeans. Max watches closely, trying to take in every second of this moment. He feels fairly certain this isn’t going to be the only time they do this, but if it is . . . he doesn’t want to forget a single thing.
Of course—of course—Charles has a huge dick. It’s not, like, the biggest Max has ever seen, but it will be the biggest he’s ever had inside him.
And he’s been around the Charles Leclerc side of Instagram, okay? This haircut disaster is not the first time Max has found himself sucked into a whirlpool of fan videos. He saw that stupid video of Charles on the boat with the baby, and he tried very, very hard to be respectful.
But he, along with the rest of the girls, gays, and Italian men, noticed. By God did he notice.
In some kind of deranged delirium, he’d convinced himself that it didn’t mean anything. Every bloke has a bulge when wearing swimwear! It’s one of the three laws of physics, in Max’s opinion.
Now, face to face with Charles hard cock, he’s forced to face the fact that maybe he wasn’t mentally prepared for this. It’s not ridiculously thick, so Max feels fairly certain that three fingers was enough prep, but it’s so . . . long.
“What the fuck is that?” He blurts out. “Mate. What the fuck?”
No fucking wonder he likes to boss people around in bed!
Charles blinks at him, then glances down to where Max is shamelessly staring.
With a barely concealed laugh, Charles spits the condom packet from his mouth and rips it open.
“This whole evening is doing wonders for my ego,” he says, rolling the condom down his cock and giving it a few slow strokes.
“Except for when I insulted your hair?” Max asks hopefully. He can’t have Charles’ ego being even bigger than it already is.
“Even that made me feel good,” Charles answers, quashing all of Max’s hopes and dreams.
Whatever. He’ll live, he supposes, as long as Charles puts his huge cock inside him soon.
Charles kneels back between his legs, getting the lube and covering his dick slowly, twisting his wrist as he gets to the tip. It hits Max, again, that this is really happening. He’s open and pliant underneath Charles fucking Leclerc, who is really about to fuck him.
When Charles moves forward, one hand resting on the back of Max’s thigh, he gently says, “Okay?”
“Come on,” Max groans. “Just—fucking—”
He lowers himself down, one hand supporting himself by Max’s waist, the other guiding the head of his cock.
“Deep breath, baby,” Charles murmurs.
Max complies, inhaling deeply and staring up at the ceiling in an attempt to relax his muscles. As he exhales, Charles presses forward slightly, just enough for the tip of his cock to push inside his hole. Max immediately feels like he’s choking, the burn of the stretch travelling up into his throat. His fingers grip down into Charles’ biceps, nails biting in.
“Alright?” Charles asks through gritted teeth. It’s the first time all night his facade has shaken more than just a little, and Max would revel in it if he could think anything other than full so fullfullfull.
“Yes,” he gasps out, for fear of Charles pulling out. “Just—been a while.”
Charles groans, head dropping between his shoulders and nose pressing against Max’s sternum. His breath pants against Max’s chest, fanning over his skin.
It takes him a solid minute to relax his body again, readjusting to having something inside him. It really has been a while, so long that Max probably couldn’t even put a specific time frame on it.
He had forgotten just how overwhelming it is.
“Okay,” he breathes out, when he thinks he has himself under a bit of control.
Charles tips forward, just slightly, but enough that Max gets overwhelmed all over again.
This is just what it’s going to be like, he realises wildly.
Fucking fuck.
“Oh, God,” he moans, barely able to keep his eyes open. His whole body is sweat slick and trembling, but there’s not much he can do about either.
“You feel so—” Charles breaths out, words hitching slightly as he inches forward again. “Fuck, Max, baby, you’re so—”
Max thinks he might be about to burst into tears. His eyes feel suspiciously wet, his cheeks burning, and he knows he’s never felt this way from cock in his life.
Charles lowers himself down until their chests are pressed together, burying his face in the crook of Max’s neck. He’s still not all the way in, but when Max hitches his legs up higher around Charles’ waist, he feels like he’s not sure he can take much more.
“Charlie,” he whispers, frantic, not sure if it’s a warning to stop or that he’s going to start to cry.
“Do I need to stop?” Charles groans into his throat.
But it’s not hurting—not anywhere near enough to stop. It’s more that Max just isn’t sure how much more he can physically take.
“Just—slow, slow,” Max groans, a bit nonsensically because Charles can’t really go much slower without pulling back.
“Doing so well,” Charles murmurs. His breath is hot and ticklish against Max’s neck, and it sends a shiver straight down his spine. “Knew you’d be good, baby. Always the best at everything, knew you’d be best at taking my cock.”
And Max—
That’s all he needed to hear, really.
“More,” he gasps out. “More, more.”
Charles groans again, then grinds forwards.
“Feel so good,” he slurs, nipping at Max’s throat. “Max. Max. Need’ta—”
As Charles finally bottoms out, Max realises he has, in fact, started to cry. Whatever. It’s not like he’s going to be able to stop.
“Ch—Charlie, can’t, so—good, so good, feel so full—”
Charles lifts himself up on shaking arms, cheeks flushed bright red and sweat making his hair stick to his temple.
“I’m not going to last,” he gasps, looking like he’s just realising it. “Max, baby, what do you—what do you need? How can I—”
“Just move,” Max groans.
He’s also not going to last. And, in his opinion, this will not be the last time they do this tonight. If Charles lasts two minutes, that’s fine with Max, because he’ll just make him go again later.
Gently, Charles moves back just a bit, then clumsily pushes forwards again. Despite the lack of finesse, Max’s eyes roll back.
The next time, the slide is smoother, and it forces an actual sob from his throat.
“Can you—” Charles starts, already breathless. “Roll over? On your stomach?”
“Can’t,” Max slurs, his abs already tight with an impending orgasm. “Can’t take it. Too much. Stay like this.”
“Okay,” Charles agrees, then hooks his elbows under Max’s knees and leans forward until his palms are against the mattress. It opens Max up even further, ripping a moan from deep in his chest.
The pace he sets is punishing, though if Max were in his right mind he’d say it’s not nearly the hardest he’s ever taken. But it’s Charles, and he’s so big, and Max feels a little like he’s going to throw up from how overwhelmed he feels.
“Touch yourself, baby,” Charles says, so breathless Max can barely hear him.
But he did, so he does, sliding his hand down to where they’re connected to gather some of the excess lube spread across his arse and thighs. While he’s there, he circles his thumb and index around the base of Charles’ cock, lazily letting Charles fuck into his loose fist as well as his arse.
“Oh, Christ, fuck,” Charles moans, face screwing up. “Max, baby, don’t—gotta last. Please, I can’t—”
Max takes his hand away, reaching up for his own cock. He can barely handle it because he’s so sensitive and stimulated, so he curls his palm around the head of his cock and lets the momentum of Charles’ thrusts move his hand, too.
It has him seeing stars, drool sliding down his cheeks and mixing with his tears in the pillow. He must look an absolute sight, but Charles is just drinking him in, lips parted and chest and cheeks flushed.
“Thought about this for so long,” Charles groans. “Wanted this for years, baby. You’re better than I imagined, so good and tight, squeezing my cock like this.”
Max sobs.
“Want to come on your face so bad,” Charles babbles. “Want to come on your chest, on your stomach, want to come in your fucking arse. Tell me what you want, baby, tell me where to come.”
Max can’t really think straight for long enough to do that.
“Charles,” is all he manages to gasp out, voice broken.
“Max, need you to make yourself come, baby,” Charles pleads. “Need you to come first, please, please.”
Max thinks he might actually be so overwhelmed that he can’t come at all, but then Charles leans down to kiss him again—wet and sloppy and so fucking hot—and suddenly he is coming, waves of pleasure crashing through him until his entire body locks up, come shooting up all over his stomach and chest.
He’s still crying.
“God, fuck, look at you,” Charles breathes. “So gorgeous, baby, you look so fucking good.”
Max moans pitifully, his body well and truly overstimulated. Charles, God fucking bless him, pulls out quickly, peeling the condom off and kneeling between Max’s legs.
Max can barely keep his eyes open as he watches Charles frantically jack himself off. He knows he should be doing something, should say something to help Charles along, but he’s so fucked out he can barely breathe. So he just watches with half-lidded eyes, trying desperately to stay in the moment.
It doesn’t take Charles long, muttering compliments and praise the whole time, until finally he’s coming as well, hot ropes of it hitting Max’s stomach and mixing with his own.
Truthfully, Max can hardly move. It takes real, concentrated effort to straighten his legs out on the bed, but that is about the extent of what he can manage. Charles, too, seems to be in a bit of a daze, shuffling slowly out of the V of Max’s legs and laying down beside him.
Despite being a professional athlete, it takes Max more than a reasonable amount of time to catch his breath. He feels fairly certain that that’s mostly because every time he thinks he’s under control, he remembers the way Charles fucked into him, or he feels a drop of come trails down his stomach.
Eventually, Charles rolls over, propping himself up on his elbow, bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He reaches out with a gentle hand, fingertips dipping into the pool of come on Max’s stomach.
Max shudders violently, so Charles pulls his hand back, sucking his index and middle finger into his mouth. Max shivers again, the distinct desire to kiss the taste from Charles’ mouth coming over him.
Before he can ask, Charles speaks.
“So,” Charles says, more timid than he’s been all night. “What, um . . . what do you think about going on a date? Is that—. . . are you interested in that, or . . . did you just want . . .”
Max can hardly stand to watch him struggle. It’s a little pitiful.
“Yes, I’d like to go on a date.”
Like he wanted, Charles leans down, gently pressing his lips to Max’s, running his tongue along Max’s bottom lip.
Max reaches up to slide one of his hands around Charles’ nape, palm curling around his neck as he kisses back slowly. It’s gentle, deep, sensual, but Max can feel the emotion behind it—he’d never been kissed like this after just a casual hookup.
He caresses the side of Charles’ neck with his fingers, moving his hand up slightly to cup the back of his head—and is, of course, met with the spiky new haircut.
He sighs into the kiss, pulling back just enough to talk.
“Any chance I can convince you to grow your hair out again, though?”