Archive of Our Own

The news drops at around three a.m. local time, the morning of Saturday’s qualifying session for the last race before summer break in Hungary.

While most people in the area are tucked away in bed and fast asleep, Charles is anything but.

While some people might be out drinking the night away at a club or a bar, Charles is anything but.

And while one person is alone in his hotel room, frantically reading and rereading the email summary about the late emergency meeting with Ferrari he just came back from a few hours ago, Charles is—ah, wait. No, hold on. Now that’s Charles.

As he sits on the bed—completely naked save for his boxers with his legs curled up so that he can wrap his arms around his knees—Charles is nervously biting at his thumbnail. For a brief moment, he considers calling Pierre and asking him for help—but then he quickly discards the thought.

Which only leaves one other person: the guy who’d just attended the same team meeting as he did.

Lewis.

Charles sighs and pulls up his teammate’s contact.

(Later on, when Lewis has retreated back to his own hotel room after teasing Charles the whole time he was helping him take the pictures—it’s mere coincidence more than anything else that, by the time Charles hits the ‘Share’ button on his Instagram post, it’s exactly three in the morning for him and everybody else in the area.)

⁂

“Max, Max! A word, please! We haven’t heard from you yet. What do you have to say about Charles’ announcement?”

Max ducks his head beneath his cap as he tries to get away from whatever media outlet is chasing after him for non-racing related news. He’s already finished with his post-qualifying interviews; what more could they want from him?

But the media seems to be particularly eager today—even more so than usual. He’s already managed to avoid most of their bloodthirsty cameras and microphones before he went into qualifying, but they just always have a way of being there—lurking, waiting.

Qualifying itself has been… not very good. Max ended up qualifying for a disappointing P8, while Charles had somehow gotten away with pole. He saves his thoughts and speculations for the debrief session, but still—such is what brings Max to his current question: Why is he being asked about Charles’ announcement of all things, (and whatever does that mean?) when he could be talking more about their respective laps instead?

Max looks around. He seems to have gotten away from the worst of the media, but somehow—this has only made him stumble upon one Lewis Hamilton instead, who looks to be hiding from the vultures as well. Outside Red Bull hospitality. Which is, what—? How?

He smiles at Max. Nice, polite.

“Looks like they've finally set their eyes on you now,” he drawls.

“Um.”

Max blinks. He still has a debrief to get to. Actually, Lewis probably does too. So what is he doing here of all places?

He says as much. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis ignores his question in favour of one of his own. “So, what do you think about Charles’ latest post?”

“What are you— What post are you talking about?” Max is growing increasingly confused. He doesn’t like this new development.

“You haven’t seen it yet?”

“You know that I’m not on social media that much,” Max grumbles. “Just tell me what the fuck you’re talking about already. Is this to do with why everybody is acting so weird about Charles today?”

Not that he’s been particularly keen on just about everything revolving around Charles, except, apparently, his newest Instagram post.

Lewis only cocks his head and smirks at him.

“I think it’s better for you to check it out yourself. You’ll definitely like what you see.”

⁂

After his vague and cryptic statement, Lewis had left without another word, sweeping off back to Ferrari hospitality and leaving Max jaw-dropped and even more confused than ever.

Max had needed more than a few moments before he could remember where he was, and what he was doing.

Debrief. Right.

Throughout debrief, Max is uncharacteristically distracted. He pipes up with his input every now and then, provides analysis where he sees it, but it’s as if his heart is not in it at the moment. He speaks, but his mind is elsewhere. Wandering, stumbling, through what he last remembers of Charles.

He’d missed the opportunity to see him before qualifying, which—yeah, was weird. Not that Max was actively looking for him, but. (Lies. Max is always actively looking for him.) And though that was weird, it still doesn’t explain just what is going on with Charles.

Looks like Max is left with no choice but to do as Lewis had said.

Afterwards, back in his hotel room, Max is sitting on his bed when he opens up Instagram and immediately searches for Charles’ profile, anxiously waiting for the posts to load as his phone buffers through the subpar connection signal. Lewis’ words are still ringing in his mind. Just what could the man have meant when he said that Max will definitely like what he sees?

Has old age finally turned on the man? Or maybe it’s the Ferrari employment getting to him.

After a few moments, Charles’ page becomes a grid of near completed loading circles layered over pixelated images, but the latest post is still an empty grey box. Max almost can’t take it anymore, and he’s just about swipe out of Instagram to test if Google can provide him with a news article for some better answers, when—

Oh, fuck.

—when he finally sees it.

His thumb is shaking when he taps into the post.

There’s no caption. Just Charles, lying in bed on his stomach, all but naked if not for the bedsheets tangled around his legs and covering up anything more salacious. He’s looking back at the camera, smiling in a way that can only be described as seductive, with his dimples on full display. The pupils of his eyes seem to be purposefully blown out, eclipsing green-green-green underneath the black void.

And yet, as scandalous as the image already is—nothing could’ve prepared Max for the small little demon horns perched on top of Charles’ head, each one the size of about half a fist, and the spade-tipped tail on his lower back, peaking out of the bedsheets as the fabric rode down the slope of his lower back.

It is only now, that Max finally understands what Charles’ announcement had meant.

Oh, fuck, indeed.

⁂

To Max, the world is an evergrowing, evershifting foundation of facts. It’s why he enjoys his neat little collection of geographic knowledge; there’s only so much to know about the names of every country around the globe, which makes being a certified professional in such a field very much possible. But, other than that, there are a few other facts about the world that Max can attest to.

Max Verstappen is a four-time Formula One World Champion (so far): this is a fact.

Max Verstappen is (currently) twenty-seven years old: this is a fact.

Max Verstappen is exactly sixteen days older than Charles Leclerc (which will never change): this is a fact.

And now, with the latest addition—

—Charles Leclerc is a succubus: this, too, is a fact.

⁂

Even with all the possible distractions as it is—when Sunday’s race comes, Max is determined to remain focused.

He’s also noticed a certain pattern by now. Charles seems to have taken to avoiding any and all public attention if possible, only appearing in person for the cameras with his red fireproof already zipped up and helmet over his head. Just once, does he flip up his visor, eyes sparkling as he goes to answer a quick question in rapid French, but that’s it. The telling succubus features he’d posted on Instagram yesterday are nowhere to be seen in sight.

Fred is also particularly protective of him today, even going so far as to try and keep the hungry media away from Charles, whereas usually he might allow a few through if they seem… obedient enough. Kind of like a shepherd dog herding the sheep away from wolves. Which is funny though, because by all means—Charles should be the wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Later on, when Max is in his car, right before the lights go out—he looks all the way ahead and sees him.

At the front of the pack, Charles is sitting patiently. Waiting for the opportunity to strike.

From P8, Max lets out a deep breath within his own helmet.

⁂

In the end, Max fought as hard as he could, but still dropped a place down to finish at P9. Charles had dropped all the way back for a finish in P4.

None of these are results either of them would be happy with. After he gets weighed, Max tries as best as he can to find him, but to no avail. He’s fairly certain Charles wouldn’t miss his media duties, but with the way he’s been acting recently—Max can’t be too sure either.

Still, though—this is the last race before the summer break, and will be justly celebrated as such.

Charles wouldn’t dare miss out on the opportunity to let himself go with a night out in a club, right?

⁂

Sure enough, Max is correct.

Within the more relatively secure and private confines of the exclusive club the entire grid is at, there Charles is: dancing along with a crowd of people, strobing lights flickering across his body in flashes, and—

—and his thin, black tail wrapping around the arm of a man behind him, head tilting back as one of his horns barely brushes against the guy’s neck.

Fuck.

From his seat at the bar, Max almost drops the gin and tonic in his hand. He downs it all in one go instead. He’s unable to discern the burn of alcohol from the acidity of—not jealousy, because he’s not jealous—but something close to it. Maybe it’s just desire. Desire, he’s familiar with. Desire is the sweet, fire-hot rush of chasing after a race win. Desire is the repressed coils tangled deep within Max for as long as he’s known himself.

He looks at Charles again. His throat is bared for all to see—vulnerable, raw.

Is that even safe? Charles’ horns being so close to someone’s neck. The tips of them look pretty sharp. Small as they may be, (the black protrusions are just large enough to own up a sizeable ratio seen through the fluffy mess of his hair,) they still look plenty dangerous. Max wonders how he wears his helmet. Actually, does he just make them disappear? With magic, or something? The details of his succubus identity are still relatively unknown. All he’s given to the public is the fact that he is one, but that’s it. Not that he owes people any answers. Max respects his privacy. But he can’t help but be a little curious. If he were to graze his finger over this tip of his horn, would he draw blood?

“You can talk to him, y'know.”

Max almost jumps. This time, the empty glass of gin and tonic that’s set on the smooth wooden counter before him does get knocked over in his rush to turn towards the voice beside him.

“Jesus, Lewis. You can’t just— Actually, nevermind. It’s— It’s whatever.” Max sighs. “And of course I know I can talk to him… What do you even mean by that?”

Lewis sits down beside Max and waves down the bartender for a cup of water. “Just that you look like you’re about two seconds away from running over the guy behind Charles with your car.”

Max frowns. “What? No I don’t.”

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. It’s just that when he sees the guy dancing with Charles like that, Max can’t help but feel something is wrong. Like a dread climbing up his spine in trepidation. A premonition.

“So you say,” Lewis teases. Then, offhandedly, “I took the picture for him, by the way,” he says, as if he did not just shatter Max’s world in no less than six words.

“You—” Max gapes. Quickly, he tries recollecting himself. He scoffs, “Yeah, right. Why would he need you to help him when he could’ve asked, like, I don’t know—Pierre, maybe.”

“Teammate’s privilege?” Lewis shrugs. “I’m not sure either, and I haven’t thought to ask. I was too busy laughing the whole time to care. But,” he takes out his phone, unlocks it, and with a few quick taps, shoves it into Max’s face, “if you don’t believe me, just look at this. It’s the other photos I took for him that didn’t make the cut.”

Max takes the phone from Lewis. The screen is pulled up to the WhatsApp chat conversation between him and Charles, but that’s not what he focuses on. What his eyes immediately land upon, are the images sent from Charles to Lewis, captioned, “which one do you think i should post?” to which Lewis, after a few minutes, had responded with a simple, “the third one” and then another two minutes later, “i’m sure max would like these photos ;)” which Charles never responded to. Max doesn’t even know where to begin with that one.

There’s a total of six images in the chat, seemingly going from order of inappropriateness with the first being least scandalous, and the sixth being most. The last image is, frankly, almost to the levels of soft-porn. Charles is sitting up against the bed’s headboard, front to the camera this time, with only a towel tied around his hips. The fabric rides low enough to expose his navel and a bit of his lower stomach, and—

Hold on, is that—?

Is Max seeing right? There’s a faint imprint, pale against his skin, and—

Max has heard of the rumours surrounding this, but surely this isn’t—?

He shakes his head, as if to clear him of his thoughts. His jeans are already getting a bit uncomfortable. If he goes further down this route, then he’s going to have a problem.

“Why are you showing me this? Isn’t this— I don’t think Charles would want me to see these.” A stab of something uncomfortable cuts between his ribs and settles there for the time being when he says that last part.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure Charles wouldn’t mind you seeing these,” Lewis brushes him off. “And I’m showing you this just to tell you what you’re missing out on.”

Max snaps up to look at Lewis. All at once, his blood feels too hot for his body.

“Missing out on? Are you saying that you’ve— You and Charles—?”

“I’m just joking!” Lewis laughs. “Mate, you should’ve seen the look on your face. You seemed like you were about to kill me with your bare hands.”

Max mumbles underneath his breath, “It would be for the good of the world.”

And himself, of course. But he isn’t about to mention this.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Max plasters on his best smile. Lewis just looks mildly perturbed. His grin slowly falls from his face. Hah! No more laughing for him. Serves the bastard right.

At that moment, Max turns back to look for Charles again, but is disappointed to find him nowhere in sight. He’s gone from the dance floor; maybe he went off to the washrooms, or something. Max is just about to follow him, when—

“But let me tell you man, if I didn’t already like men before, spending almost an hour with Charles while the guy was practically naked would’ve certainly turned me,” Lewis taunts, because he hasn’t a shred of self-preservation in his body and just can’t resist himself.

Max blames the gin and tonic he drank for when he takes Lewis’ water and dumps it all over the cackling man.

⁂

Following the chaos and revelations of the last race weekend, Ferrari isn’t shying away from the fact that one of their star drivers is a succubus. On the contrary, they seem to be embracing the fact instead.

Such is how, a day later, Max finds himself clicking off from Charles’ post for the third time since he’s woken up in his hotel room and moving on to the Scuderia Ferrari Instagram page, where he’s now watching the latest reel (that has only been posted minutes ago) on repeat.

Ferrari makes quick work when it comes to advertising Charles as a newly announced succubus. Of course; they must be positively salivating at this marketing opportunity of a lifetime. People like Charles are pretty rare, after all. Rare, but not non-existent.

Right before grid girls were no longer a thing, there was a brief period in time where centaurs had replaced them, just because. (Both the media and fans alike had a field day with that.) The more exclusive clubs might hire sirens instead of DJs. In the past, they’ve even had the odd animal spirit appear in the lower racing series and other motorsports every so often, but they don’t ever get too far, and never before have they had a succubus as a driver on the grid.

This just all goes to say that the world is hardly unfamiliar with the more extraordinary aspects of their overall population. However, this also doesn’t mean that Max is not currently one second away from hyperventilating if he thinks about the fact that Charles is a succubus for a bit too long.

(Lucky for him, he isn’t alone in this. Everybody and their mother is watching in anticipation at how this will roll out.)

But until then, Max will be busy with wasting his phone battery away on Instagram.

It’s this goddamn video. Apparently, a clip less than ten seconds in length is all that’s needed to make Max positively lose his mind.

In the reel, Charles is being filmed as sits in his car and talks with his team, head tilted up and smiling at them. He’s wearing the Ferrari t-shirt instead of his fireproofs, so he’s probably just there for some general testing and the like. The video is taken from an angle somewhere above the car’s halo, allowing the viewer to feel as if they were there, in person, talking with Charles and his team.

But what catches Max’s attention is how, when one of his team members offhandedly pat him on the head and accidentally brushes against the base of his horns, Charles actually leans up to the touch as his eyes flutter closed. The video then cuts off right after that. Like a tease.

And that’s just—

It’s—

It’s absurd. It has to be deemed illegal in some way, with how much time Max has spent in watching the video loop over, and over, and over again—just for that small segment at the end. It has to be a weapon against human productivity. The devil’s plan for humanity’s downfall. For the sake of everything good, Max believes this video needs to be outlawed. Taken down. But saved for Max’s private (extremely private) viewing.

However, none of this changes the fact that he is still, without a doubt, enthralled.

(Not that he wasn’t already, even before knowing Charles is a succubus.)

After what must be the hundredth time the video has replayed itself, Max finally succumbs and wraps a hand around his aching cock and relieves himself of the hard-on that’s been nagging at him from the very first time he finished watching the video.

⁂

Another day later, Ferrari boldly drops a YouTube video with GQ Sports titled: ‘Five Questions With Charles Leclerc About His Succubus Status.’

By then, Max is back home at his apartment in Monaco. He doesn’t find the video himself; it gets sent to him from Lewis, who follows up the link with a cryptic message of, “make sure to watch until the end ;)” like some sort of bad advertisement.

Whatever that could mean.

Max simply sends back a middle finger emoji in response before clicking on the video with a speed that has nothing to do with his F1-trained reflexes. He gets into a more comfortable position on his back as he lays across the couch, Jimmy and Sassy curled up somewhere on the opposite end, at his feet.

Offhandedly, he checks out the video description. It shows that the video was uploaded only less than an hour ago. Which means that it must’ve been filmed fairly recently and edited really quickly.

God forbid Ferrari passes up on the chance to show off their model lineup of a team instead of working on a better car.

Well, either way—Max isn’t too surprised that Charles is doing this. Not with him and that PR trained media persona of his, always looking to satisfy the fans. Actually, there has to be some sort of pretty privilege going on with the way people seem to just blatantly ignore how much of a menace he really is in favour of focusing on his beautiful looks.

Not that Max can blame them, but. Being terrorized at a young age by a crazy, teenaged Charles has traumatized him far too much to forget about that side of him. It was a fundamental part in making Max the person he is today.

As soon as the video starts playing on his phone, Charles is sitting in front of the camera with a picture-perfect smile already on his face. He’s wearing a plain, cream-white t-shirt. His horns still look as adorable as ever, perched on top of his head.

“Hello everyone! My name is Charles Leclerc, and I’m here today to answer five questions on what it is like to live as a succubus.”

Max immediately regrets using his phone to watch the video instead of his laptop when Charles’ tail then comes swinging into view, almost as if greeting the viewer. And, well—holy fuck. Max is going to suffer a heart attack and make Ferrari pay the hospital bills.

The video then transitions to Charles reading off of a slip of paper.

“What took part in your decision to tell the world that you’re a succubus? Ah, of course. I know everyone is probably wondering about this.” Charles chuckles. “Well, first off, there seems to be a bit of confusion here. I didn’t actually make the decision myself. It was kind of—ah—I guess you could say… it was forced out of me?”

Huh? Max frowns. He doesn’t exactly understand what Charles means.

In the video, Charles is already hurriedly explaining himself to clear up any confusion. “You see, succubi—the plural for succubus—are born, not made.” 

Okay, Max understands so far. He already knew that there are certain classes of animal spirits that can be transferred onto others, so to say. And succubi are not part of those—got it.

Charles continues, “But before being born, the parents can already know if the child will be a succubus with a few tests since it is an inherited gene. And afterwards, for most succubi, the succubus part of them will remain dormant for their entire lives. So it doesn’t ever affect them. But then for some—like myself—they might start outwardly presenting these traits in their early to mid twenties. And that’s how it went for me, even though I’m a bit of a late bloomer in that way.”

He laughs. The video then transitions to another clip, seemingly having cut off a portion in the middle.

“My family and I have always known that I was a succubus, though we’ve just been assuming that I was a dormant one. If I hadn’t woken up from a nap one day with these horns,” Charles emphasizes this by absentmindedly stroking the curve of one, “and tail appearing out of nowhere, it would’ve never been brought up. My little secret.”

Charles smiles mischievously.

Max’s heart jumps up to his throat.

He’s beginning to wonder if he can even get through the entire video.

Lucky for him, the next few questions go by a bit more quickly.

“What’s the difference between a succubus and an incubus?” Charles blinks, and then smirks. “I don’t think you guys actually want me to say. The answer to this would be too inappropriate for the cameras.”

Max raises his eyebrows at that. What could that even mean?

He shakes his head. Best not to dwell too long on that, lest Max’s heart actually gives out.

“How do you drive with the horns and tail?” Charles answers this one with a grin. “My horns can fit underneath my helmet, and my tail just gets tucked inside the fireproofs.”

“Was there anyone else who knew about your secret before you announced it? You mean other than my family? Well, of course. But that person will remain a secret as well.”

And then he winks—or tries to, at least. Max still finds it endearing all the same.

Then, it’s already time for the fifth question, and Max has the absurd thought to send a prayer of thanks up to whichever deity is looking after him for letting him get to this point. Until—

“Max doesn’t usually like any posts from the other teams, but he’s liked Ferrari’s latest reel of you. How do you feel about that?”

Max almost drops his phone on his face in surprise.

Forget about the prayer. This is— That is—

Now when did that even happen? Max doesn’t remember at all. It must’ve been an accident then, right? But still, how—

Jimmy meows at him and hops off of the couch, apparently having had enough of Max and his current breakdown.

Surely this question should’ve been deemed too inappropriate to air? Is this Ferrari’s grand plan to take Max out of contesting? Because if it is, then props to them—since it sure is working. Max is about two seconds away from spontaneous combustion. At the back of his mind, he even thinks to expect a scolding from his PR officer soon. If he isn’t already found dead by then.

What a hilarious gravestone that would make. Max Verstappen: 1997-2025. Cause of death: Ferrari’s weaponization of Charles.

Max is so deep in his mental spiralling that he almost misses Charles’ answer.

“—flattered? I’ll take it as a compliment. But—”

What?

Immediately, he skips back the last thirty seconds of the video, and arrives at the end of the question again.

“—Ferrari’s latest reel of you. How do you feel about that?”

Once he’s done reading the question, Charles raises his eyebrows in shock, lips parting without sound. It takes him more than a few seconds to gather himself before he can respond, and by the time he can, his face is visibly more red than before.

“I— Uh. I actually didn’t know this until now. I’m not usually the one checking on Ferrari’s social media accounts, so this is news to me. I guess I’m flattered?” Charles cocks his head, a nervous smile on his face. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

And then, after having given some more thought to the question, he hums and then says, “But if you’re watching, Max—next time, when you like something about me, I would enjoy it a lot more if you said it directly to my face. Maybe then, we could make something more out of it than just a notification to the Ferrari social media manager’s phone.”

⁂

The public’s reaction to the video is crazy, of course. Overall, the general reception is overwhelmingly positive. Most people were already in support of Charles and his announcement before, but this new video seems to have made his fans even louder—and bolder—if that was possible.

princessleclerc: day 247 of asking charles to be my wife. charles will you please be my wife?

 ↳ beloved16: just let it go already lil bro he doesn’t want you 😭🙏

  ↳ princessleclerc: the only way i am giving up is if i am on my deathbed. i do not play about my wife.

lestappen4ever: DID WE ALL NOTICE CHARLES’ ANSWER TO THE LAST QUESTION??? #LESTAPPIES STAY WINNING

 ↳ verslec3316: #LESTAPPEN CONFIRMED

 ↳ papayanorris: here we go again with these f1 ‘fans’ 🙄

  ↳ lestappen4ever: you have charles saying “we could make something more out of it” about max liking charles and you think WE are the ones seeing things??? they’re shipping themselves at this point

  ↳ verslec3316: you have to be some kind of delusional if you’re still trying to deny lestappen after this

   ↳ papayanorris: i just think anybody who spends any amount of time imagining the drivers fucking each other instead of focusing on the racing need to get a life

    ↳ verslec3316: who says we can’t do all of the above at the same time?

myluvpiarles: ok but how much are we betting that pierre is the “secret person” who knew about charles???

 ↳ gaslystripod: RIGHT??? THATS WHAT IM SAYING

 ↳ cSquared: nah it was carlos

  ↳ gaslystripod: source: just trust me bro 😂

beloved16: now i’m curious… what IS the difference between a succubus and an incubus 👀👀👀

 ↳ princessleclerc: i think charles was just teasing us actually. there’s really little to no difference at the end of the day. it’s just all semantics. or at least that’s what i’ve been told.

But, of course, even with all the positive reinforcements, there just has to be a few negative reactions out there. Fortunately enough, they get driven to the bottom of the comment section relatively quickly, what with everybody else piling on them.

HamiltonTheGOAT: This is why Max isn’t winning anymore. Too busy chasing after whores like Charles instead of properly racing. I bet he even slept his way into Ferrari and has now got his teammate under some spell so that he can look better in comparison.

 ↳ verstappensupremacy: your username is literally wrong

  ↳ HamiltonTheGOAT: Just like yours?

 ↳ princessleclerc: 156.33.241.5

  ↳ beloved16: oh you tell em!!!

  ↳ HamiltonTheGOAT: What is this?

   ↳ princessleclerc: your ip address. i know where you live.

    ↳ HamiltonTheGOAT: im sorry please dont hurt me

⁂

It is only after Max has taken a long, long shower under freezing cold water, does he finally feel well enough to look at his phone again.

Just as he’d predicted, his PR officer has sent a lengthy message reprimanding him about the use of his public (keyword: public) account to like Ferrari’s reel. Max sighs, and readies himself for how he will reply.

In summary, it went a little like this:

Max is not allowed to access his public account for at least a week. He’s grounded from it. As punishment. No, the damage to his reputation is not that bad; actually, this whole thing is kind of shining some good light on his name. Fans are going more insane than ever. (In a good way.) And yes, it’s okay if Max keeps on liking Ferrari’s posts, but just not on his official Instagram. Keep that under a private account. 

His PR officer then sends him the login information to a new private Instagram account made just now, already following both Ferrari’s and Charles’ official channels.

After tucking himself into bed, Max immediately logs into the new account and taps into Charles’ Instagram feed.

(And if he then ends up ‘accidentally’ screenshotting Charles’ infamous announcement post when his eyes were momentarily closed as Charles’ name fell from his lips—well then. That’s nobody’s business but his own.)

⁂

Over the next few days or so, Max is determined to get rid of this hyperfocused craze that has taken over his mind.

He goes to the gym. Puts himself to work with his fitness plan. Does some sim racing. Actually, scratch that—he does a lot of sim racing. Just because he can. And because he likes it. And because it’s fun. And definitely not because it’s the only thing that lets him not imagine Charles whenever he closes his eyes like he’s sin incarnate.

But it just seems that, no matter what he does, the universe has it out for him a hundred times worse.

Ferrari keeps on posting thirst traps of Charles. Charles uploads plenty of—well, let’s just say, more salaciously tasteful—photos during the break. Lewis sends him more video links to whatever PR activities Ferrari has them doing on their downtime. And sometimes they’re doing stuff that makes Max wish he can replace Lewis in. Fuck. This is why all he sends is a middle finger emoji each time he gets a message from the man.

(However, that’s not to say that he doesn’t watch every single video, every single time.)

All in all, Max is going insane. And not in a good way.

He’s even called up Daniel to try and rant his problems away, but the man just laughed at him non-stop for a solid five minutes as soon as Max mentioned Charles’ name, right before turning the call into a facetime just to flex his new dirtbike and then hung up on him.

Why is it that all of Max’s coworkers seem like they’re out to get him? From being a literal symbolism of lust, to tempting Max with Eve’s apple, to making fun of Max when he wants to bite into the plump, juicy red thing.

Whatever. Alcohol serves as much better company anyways.

Such is how Max ends up alone at some random, highly exclusive nightclub that Daniel brought him to once, nursing a cold gin and tonic in hand as he sips away at the drink in even intervals. Between the fast music playing in the club, Max can hear the soothing melody of a siren’s song accompanying the electronic beats.

He puts his drink on the wooden counter before him. From his seat at one of the more secluded booths in the room, he looks off to the side, and catches the siren just as she hits a particularly high note. She’s in her land-form, but has kept the telltale traits of her siren fins dancing across her cheekbones. She catches him staring at her, and winks at him.

“Oh, Max! What are you doing here?”

Max jumps up in his seat and turns around.

“Charles! You—”

Max cuts himself off.

Fuck. Is it just him, or is the club suddenly really humid? He feels warm—hot. Maybe there’s a ventilation issue. He should suggest a fixing of that.

“Uh—”

Charles smiles, dimples appearing. He looks to be mildly drunk, or at least well on his way to being drunk, if the dusky blush on his cheeks are to say anything. He’s wearing some low-waisted black jeans and a red mesh shirt. It’s translucent. His nipples are on show. And again, there’s that faint outline on his lower stomach just like how Max had seen in the photos Lewis showed him from before, which is—

Max has to swallow down the lump in his throat.

Without missing a beat, Charles sits down beside Max, gently pushing him aside to make room. Max goes easily enough.

When he turns towards Max, Charles’ horns immediately capture his attention. They seem to be… shining? Somehow? Like he’s applied some sort of glitter over the black grooves. Just like his horns, his eyes are also glimmering even underneath the darkness of the club, and—

Is that—?

Is that eyeliner he’s wearing? It has to be. It can’t be mascara; Charles wouldn’t have any need for mascara. So that just— That just leaves the eyeliner. And eyeshadow. If Max knows his makeup well enough.

Oh, fuck. Max is going to die. He is going to die in a random club in Monaco, on a random night in August. He hasn’t even won his fifth title yet.

This is so, so bad. Terrible. Horrible.

“Yes, Max?”

Max blinks.

“Wh-What were you saying again?” he asks all in one breath.

Charles giggles. Giggles at Max. Max wants to record the sound and save it as his ringtone.

“Oh, nothing. Just asking what you were—”

“Are you wearing makeup?” Max blurts out, because he’s apparently on some sort of one-man mission to embarrass himself in front of Charles. Also, the alcohol must be interfering with his already almost non-existent filter.

Charles freezes. Completely. Even his tail—which has been swinging side-to-side the whole time—stops moving as well.

“Ah, yes, I am,” he begins slowly. “Is it— Is it good? Does it look good?”

“Yeah,” Max immediately responds. “Yeah, very— Um. It looks very good.”

“Oh, great! I mean—that’s good!” Charles grins and lights up again. His tail is swinging anew. “A very nice girl did it for me in the bathroom. She said she watched my latest video where Ferrari brought in a makeup artist who would try to do my makeup while I was on a lie detector, and thought she could do better. But to be fair, I kept on lying, so the machine made me squirm around a lot. It made the makeup artist’s job very difficult.”

Charles is right. He did squirm around a lot and make the makeup artist’s job very difficult. Max, though, was thoroughly entertained. He’s watched the video at least ten times. All the while jerking himself off imagining all the ways he could make Charles squirm.

“Uh-huh,” Max intones, his tongue feeling too heavy for his mouth. Charles’ words aren’t really registering in Max's mind anymore. He’s too busy staring at the spade-tipped tail that keeps on moving side-to-side. Like a metronome.

Max wants to make it stop. Grab it. Maybe pull on it a little bit, if he’s feeling mean. Make it a game of tug-of-war.

“—ax, Max. Max!”

Max sucks in a breath and looks back up to Charles. Shit, his jeans are getting uncomfortable again. When will Max learn to not wear tight-fitting jeans when he’s going out?

Charles is leaning very close to Max. He’s nearly sprawled across Max’s lap like this, and Max even has to help him balance himself with a hand over his waist when he almost topples over.

“Are you even listening to me?” Charles pouts.

“Yes. Of course,” Max tries to defend himself. He’s still gripping Charles’ waist and oh my god he’s gripping Charles’ waist.

“Then what was I just saying?”

Max frowns. Wracks through his brain. “Something… Something about Pierre…?”

Charles gives him a look. “I was talking about how sad it was when Pierre ditched me to chase after a fox spirit from earlier. But it’s okay. I’ve figured it all out now. I think he has a type, you see. Likes to go after the ones everybody else wants too. Fox spirits are very popular in that way.”

Oh. Really? Max didn’t know that. Not that he’d care to know.

That last part of what Charles said, though…

“Like you?”

This takes Charles aback.

“Huh? What do you mean like me?”

“You’re very popular too.” Max’s voice is deeper now. More rough, husky. Desperate. “Everyone wants to have a piece of you.”

Charles’ blush further reddens at Max’s words.

“Even you?” he asks; teasing, taunting, testing.

Max doesn’t immediately answer. Just waits.

He licks his lips, watches the way Charles’ gaze follows the motion.

Then: “Why did you say that in your interview video?”

Charles’ lips part. “What interview video?”

Ah. He’s playing coy. Well, alright. Max can handle this. Two can play this game.

“Do you need me to refresh your memory? I can do that. What was it that you said again—something along the lines of, when I like something about you, you’d enjoy it a lot more if I said it to your face next time?”

Charles’ eyes focus all in on Max. His pupils are well and truly blown out. There’s not a speck of those meadow-like greens to be seen, not underneath the all-consuming void of black.

“I did say that. And yet, I still haven’t heard anything from you.”

Nevermind—this is not so bad at all. This is so, so fun.

“Now you’re just fishing, schat. You gotta try a bit harder than that, now.”

The pet name slips from him out of nowhere. Charles doesn’t seem to mind, and he probably knows what it means. His smile only grows sharper in response, like a shark that’s scented blood.

“I—”

“Charles, calamari! Ma petit calamardo, there you are!”

Pierre comes stumbling into the booth, nearly tripping over himself as he pulls Charles up and away from Max and hooking an arm around his shoulders. He’s definitely completely drunk. He doesn’t even notice that Max is in the picture.

He spits out a volley of incomprehensible French to Charles, who just chuckles and nods along. Then, after finally noticing Max, “Oh, hello, Max. Sorry—I didn’t see you there.”

He’s slurring around his words, stringing consonants together like he’s trying his best to ignore the vowels in between them.

“It’s okay.” No it’s not. Goddamn it, Pierre—why did you have to appear now? Max was just this close to—

As if Charles has just remembered something, “Did the pretty fox lady reject you, Pierre?”

Through the corner of his eye, he gives Max an apologetic look. Max gives him a look of his own back, one that’s meant to say, “It’s fine,” but in a way where he actually means it this time. No matter how disappointed he’s feeling.

“Ouai,” Pierre sighs.

Charles coos something pitiful to Pierre in French, and then switches back to English.

“At least now I know why you’ve come finding me again.” He laughs, while Pierre just grumbles to himself. Max thinks Charles is probably just trying to be placating, but in a way where he isn’t really. “Let’s get you going. You still have a flight back home to catch tomorrow, right?”

Now that’s Max’s cue to get going as well. Fuck, what time is it again? Actually, that doesn’t matter. He can catch up on some sleep in the morning. Max thinks he deserves it, this time.

“I can drive you guys back,” he suddenly offers. “I drove myself here, so…”

Charles turns to him with a soft smile. “That’s okay. Pierre has his own driver who can take us both back.”

Ah, right. Well then.

Still, Max has the absurd thought to ask Charles if he might want to hitch a ride with Max instead of Pierre’s driver. But he believes Charles will probably want to accompany his friend before he leaves instead.

“Oh. Okay.” Max doesn’t pout. Max is not pouting. Nope, not at all.

Charles barely escapes from Pierre’s grasp long enough to bring a hand up to Max’s face, patting him on the cheek twice. Max catches the sight of Pierre frowning down at the tail wrapped around his forearm, something like longing in his gaze. Max doesn’t exactly know what to make of that.

“You’re adorable, Max. Don’t be like this. We can talk more later, yeah?”

At that, Max perks up.

“Really?” No, stop. Too desperate. Tone it down a little, Max. Jesus. “I mean— Um. Sure. That sounds good to me.”

Charles bites his lip, smiling still with his dimples flashing. Then, without another word, he unwraps his tail from Pierre and tucks the drunken man underneath his arm, spinning on his heel and leaving a stunned Max behind.

Fuck. He needs another drink.

⁂

Despite Charles’ words from that night at the club, Max still fully expects to never hear from him again. Why? Because, well. For one—Max was a lot more drunk than he actually thought he was at the time, (that gin and tonic he was drinking when Charles approached him was nowhere near his first,) and second—why in the world would Charles want to talk to him again? Surely not because of Max’s fumbling charm from that night.

Also, it’s already been a few days since then, so Max has just been safely assuming he wasn’t getting that offer to talk more later anytime soon.

Which is why, when Charles has apparently found Max’s number from the drivers’ WhatsApp group chat that Max didn’t even know he was part of—he almost drops his phone from shock into the bowl of chicken caesar salad he’s eating.

Unknown Number
max
it’s charles

Me
Charles? Charles Leclerc
How’d you get my number?

Unknown Number
do you know any other charles
yes it’s charles leclerc
and i paid off a red bull employee for it of course
they couldn’t resist and gave it to me immediately

Me
What? Seriously???

Charles Leclerc
no max 🙄
i got it from the group chat

Me
Oh
I didn’t even know I was in a

Just as Max starts typing again to say more, his phone lights up with an incoming call.

Oh, fuck. Is this seriously what’s happening right now?

The way ‘Charles Leclerc’ is plastered all over his screen says, “Yes. It is.”

Max takes in a deep breath and accepts the call.

“Hey,” he coughs, swallowing down the last piece of chicken before he speaks.

“Hi, Max,” Charles drawls. “What are you up to right now?”

“Not much. I just came back from the gym and had some food.” Max looks down at his sad, empty salad bowl. Then, he quickly thinks to add, “How about you? What are you doing?”

Charles hums. “Ferrari has just finished filming another video of me, so now I’m back home and resting for a bit.”

Max frowns. Briefly, he thanks Red Bull for letting him get away with not doing half as much PR activities as Ferrari is doing. He then makes a mental note to check out what new form of psychological warfare Ferrari has dropped for him later.

But first: “Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Of course, Max.” Max can hear Charles rolling his eyes through his tone. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh.” Max tries not to sound too disappointed at that. Truth be told, he was only trying to fish for the chance to—

“But, if you are asking this because you want to take me out somewhere for dinner, then I can possibly be agreeing to that.”

“O-Oh.” Smooth, Max. Very smooth. “Okay, then—yeah. Yes. Do you— Do you want to eat somewhere with me for lunch?”

“I’d like that,” he responds, and then before Max can even ask where he wants to go, “There’s a place I know nearby. I’ll send you the location.” After which he abruptly hangs up without saying so much as a, “See you soon!”

Max’s phone dings with a new message.

Charles Leclerc
[📍Location Pin]
be there by eight
when you get there just ask for my name
also i won’t be waiting for you if you're late

Max deletes the unsent message he was typing before Charles called him so that he can send a new one.

Me
Brat
You won’t have to worry about me being late

Charles Leclerc
you better not be

Max reads that last message again before locking his phone and smiling to himself.

Does he know what he’s doing? Of course not. Does he particularly care? Not really, no. So what? It’s the summer break. Let it not be said that Max doesn’t know how to relax and enjoy himself.

Anyways, this leaves just under an hour or so to get ready. Plenty of time. He isn’t about to be late, after all.

⁂

Max arrives at the restaurant with around ten minutes to spare before the clock hits twelve. It’s an Italian pizza place, judging by the smell and decor.

Charles is still nowhere to be seen—yet. But Max isn’t too bothered by the fact. He knows that he can be a bit fashionably late, sometimes.

Instead, he walks inside and waits until a waitress—a kind looking middle-aged lady—has noticed him, which doesn’t take too long, thankfully. He remembers Charles’ message and asks for a table in his name, to which the waitress immediately brightens up at and begins leading him away.

As they’re walking, Max notices that the restaurant itself is simple enough, but with a veil of guarded privacy that speaks to its more exclusive patrons. There’s a few other people seated at their tables, but they all keep to themselves.

He’s purposefully dressed himself in a nondescript way—refined but casual, with a navy blue polo and simple pants. He’s not wearing jeans. That is a lesson he’s learned the hard way (literally) by now.

The waitress leads him to a table near the back of the restaurant, well-lit under the natural sunlight through the windows, and is also close to what must be the kitchen entrance.

“Here,” she says in a thick Italian accent. “You can look at the menus over there while you wait.”

“Thank you.” He smiles.

She nods briskly once, and then leaves him be. As he sits down in his seat, Max takes out a menu from the side while he, and checks the time on his watch.

Three minutes past twelve.

The restaurant has the air conditioner turned up. Max is thankful for this; it is a stark difference from the club he met Charles in last time.

Just as Max is flipping over to the next page, he senses a new presence sitting across from him.

“You’re late,” he says without looking up the menu, smiling behind the clean, glossy pamphlet.

“Ah. Yes, I hope you don’t mind.”

Max puts down the menu, looking up towards Charles.

And then immediately regrets it.

While Max has chosen a more discreet look for himself, Charles has gone for the completely opposite. The black shirt he’s wearing is only buttoned up two thirds of the way, leaving a sharp v-cut that emphasizes the silver chain hanging down his chest. Attached to the necklace is a small pendant weighing it down. A sparkling, clear jewel that Max has seen him wear before in his sponsorship posts. Additionally, he seems to have even done something to his horns. At the base of each black protrusion, there’s what looks to be a silver ring, embezzled in red rubies.

“Are those— Do you have rings on your horns?” Max gapes.

“Oh, you’re talking about these?” And as if it was unclear what he is talking about, Charles reaches up and twists the ring on one of his horns, humming absently as he does so. “These are from the people I was filming with today. They let me keep it because they thought it looked nice on me.”

Max doesn’t know if he should thank them or sue them.

“Aren’t they uncomfortable, though? I thought your horns were sensitive…”

Max wants to reach out and fiddle with them. The rings, not his… Well, he wouldn’t mind playing with Charles’ horns either. Not when Max has seen how he reacts when they’re touched.

“Sensitive, yes. But they’re not uncomfortable.” Charles puts his elbows on the table and lays his chin over his hands and smiles, tail coming into view from behind. “How did you know that they are sensitive, though?”

That catches Max off guard.

“Oh, uh— Y’know. I just thought, since, well—I was remembering that video, from before, where your mechanics were—”

Charles cuts him off with a sharp note of brisk laughter.

“I was just teasing you, chéri. I already know that you’ve watched that video, remember? It’s not a hard deduction to make.”

Chéri, Max tests in his mind. That’s new. He doesn’t dislike it; he thinks it means dear, or something.

Dear Max. Dear Charles. Dear.

He can get used to the sound of that.

“Right, right.” Max chuckles awkwardly. “I do remember.” It was a very painful and embarrassing memory at the time, after all. “That whole thing from a few weeks ago when you were asked about the reel I liked, yes.”

“Yes,” Charles repeats, seemingly satisfied with the torment he’s enacted on Max—for now. “Anyways, I am getting a bit hungry. Have you decided what you want?”

Charles lets Max order for the both of them, as a sort of appeasement for his earlier teasing, perhaps. He orders a Margherita pizza for each of them, and then tops it off with a bottle of the first red wine he recognizes the brand of.

When their order comes, it’s carried by the same waitress who’d guided Max to their table. After setting the food down, Charles rises and greets her with a kiss on both cheeks, after which they exchange a brief conversation in Italian. And though Max doesn’t understand a lick of the language, he at least has the social awareness to gather enough context clues and understand that most of it is just the lady gushing over him, to which Charles blushes and responds gracefully.

The sweet, tangy smell of tomato sauce wafts over them temptingly. Once the waitress has left, Charles finally sits back down, and they begin eating. Max uncorks the red wine and pours them both a glass each.

It doesn’t take them long until they’re finished with their food and are now slowly drinking the red wine Max has been continuously dutifully pouring. And then it’s only when Max is on his third glass, does Charles finally break out with a question.

“Y’know, Max,” he begins, after taking a long sip and setting down his wine glass on the sleek table. “I want to show you something, if you’d like.”

“And what’s that?” Max is curious now. But also slightly confused. Which isn’t really a good sign. Because the last time he was confused like this, it was because of Lewis mocking him for not knowing about Charles’ announcement, and the way that had ended up was—well… yeah.

Charles looks around, turning his head to check out the surroundings. Once apparently satisfied, he lowers his voice to a conspiratorial tone, and says, “If you really want to know, then you have to meet me in the men’s bathroom to see. Come a few minutes after I’ve gone.”

And—

Oh.

Fuck.

That’s—

Max has his mouth opened, though no words are coming out. But before he can even begin to respond, Charles is talking again.

“You don’t have to join me, of course. You can also leave, if that’s what you want. If I see that you’re still not here after ten minutes, then I’ll assume that you’ve left, and we won’t ever mention this.”

Fuck that. Max is already hardening in his pants. No way is he leaving the restaurant in such a state, loose and disguised it may be. (And thank god he’s not wearing jeans this time. Max is metaphorically patting himself on the back for this part of his preplanning.)

Charles rises from his seat, patting down invisible dust from his sleek, designer pants. He walks out of his side of the table, and as he passes Max, he leans down to his ear and whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”

Then, he’s leaving—sauntering off in the direction of what Max assumes is the bathrooms.

In the absence of Charles, Max sucks in a breath.

Fuck. Is he really doing this?

In his pants, his cock twitches. Which he takes as the only confirmation he needed.

Okay, fuck. He really is doing this.

Charles had told him to wait a few minutes after he left before Max is to follow him, so that’s what he does. He stares at the watch on his wrist, counting down each second as the clock hand ticks away. His cock is distractingly hard in his pants.

After exactly five minutes, he gets out of his seat, and follows the same path Charles had walked away from. He finds the men’s bathroom easily enough—a room tucked away at the back of the restaurant—and pushes the door open. When it closes, he locks it without looking back.

Inside, Charles is leaning over the sink and peering into the mirror as Max steps inside. His tail flickers in the air every now and then.

From the mirror, Max sees him smirk.

“You came.”

When Max cages him in from behind, a hand planted by each side of his body, Charles doesn’t move. Subconsciously, his tail strokes up the inside of Max’s arm. Max shivers from the touch.

“Of course,” he breathes into the back of Charles’ neck. “But you also made me wait for so long, when I’d just like to know what you wanted to show me.”

Charles turns around, still kept within the circle of Max’s arms. He leans back against the edge of the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Without saying a word, he hooks his thumbs inside the waistband of his baggy jeans and pulls it down, revealing—

—a sheer, black, fabric that’s translucent enough for Max to see the wet pussy underneath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, backing away just enough to get a better view of Charles’ cunt. “This is what you’ve been hiding the whole time?”

He looks back up to catch Charles nodding, seemingly having gone a bit shy, now with his panties exposed.

“You can take it off, y’know. This staring without doing anything is rude,” he huffs.

Max raises his brows. “Haven’t you heard of appreciating art? You can’t just rush into everything all at once.”

Charles’ tail flicks in annoyance. “Max, don’t you want to take a closer look at my pussy?”

And, well. Hearing Charles say “my pussy” already has his cock spurting a bead of precum in his pants.

It’s a good thing that his pants are dark in colour.

Max wastes no time in getting on his knees and grabbing onto the pathetic, flimsy strips of fabric that makes up Charles’ underwear, sliding them down his body so that Max can come face-to-face—or rather, face-to-cunt—with the wet folds of Charles’ pussy. And then, the thought strikes through Max, lighting-fast: Of course Charles would have a pretty pink pussy.

Instinctively, Charles spreads his legs a bit, and the smell of his slick—sharp and tangy yet a bit sweet around the edges—makes Max’s mouth water as he sits back on his legs.

“God, look at you.” The panties in his hands are still connected by a string of slick to Charles’ evidently leaking hole, and it stretches thinner and thinner until it snaps apart when Max fully drops the fabric. “Already so wet for me—have you just been like this the entire time?”

“Well,” Charles hums, “of course, it’s not all because of you. It’s a whole thing with succubi—we are frequently wet, just naturally like that. So you shouldn’t let it get to your head tha—ah!”

Max interrupts Charles by diving in and licking a long stripe over his pussy, from hole to clit, savouring the thickness of Charles’ slick on his tongue. He tastes like temptation incarnate, and Max moans into his cunt as his eyes nearly roll back.

“Mmm, Max, you—!”

Charles scrambles for purchase, hurriedly gripping on the edge of the sink behind him as he moans. With his hands over each of Charles’ thighs, Max spreads his legs further apart before thrusting his tongue inside of his hole, wet folds dripping all over his chin. He has the thought to wonder if there’s something mind-influencing about Charles’ slickness, with the way it makes him feel dizzy with want, his cock throbbing in need.

He backs off, for a moment.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying is true at all. I think that you are this wet all because of me.” He slides a hand over under Charles’ shirt to press down on his lower stomach, over his pelvis—his thumb rubbing smooth circles over Charles’ clit, flicking the sensitive nerves.

“Hah, ah, stop it, you— That’s—”

Up close, the faint outline Max has been seeing over is slightly more visible, but still hard to make out what it really is.

“Did you feel yourself dripping the entire time you were sitting down? Were you thinking about slipping a hand inside of your pants and touching yourself?” Max continues, unstoppable now that he’s started, grinning like he’s gone mad as he watches how Charles unravels above him. “Poor thing. You must’ve been so uncomfortable. Slut.”

Charles gasps, “No, I’m not— I’m not a—!”

It’s a beautiful, addictive sight—the way Charles has transformed from the confident cocktease to this: stumbling through his words, unable to form a whole sentence. Max doesn’t think he’s much better himself, though. He’d never usually say these sorts of things; it must be from some kind of effect Charles is having on him that makes Max like this.

“Enough, now. Up.” Max temporarily ceases his abuse on Charles’ clit to pat his hip, just around his lower back. “Come on, sit up on the table. It’s gonna be better for you that way.”

Charles obeys, though not without sending a heated glare at Max before he’s moving. As he pushes himself to sit on the free space of the sink’s table, both his jeans and panties have fallen to his ankles, allowing Max the room to push his knees apart, presenting Charles’ pussy for Max’s hungry eyes.

His tail wraps around his own leg, the spade-tip curling in against his inner thigh. Pouting, he says, “Y’know, you sure are wasting a lot of time talking, chéri. Maybe if you would just— Oh!”

Without giving Charles so much as a chance to finish his sentence, Max snaps and thrusts two fingers inside the tight heat of his cunt, plugging him deep as slick drops down to his knuckles, coating the entirety of his hand.

“What were you saying, schatje?” Max grins harshly, fucking Charles with his fingers. “Something about talking too much?”

He leans in then and licks Charles’ clit, feeling the pearly bead twitch underneath the tip of his tongue.

“Max,” he whines, hips bucking up and jostling the fingers inside of him.

Seeing how Charles is unable to respond to Max’s words except for the stuttering moan that falls from his lips, Max’s smile gains an additional edge of arrogance. He lays his tongue flat across Charles’ clit—not quite moving, but not quite frozen. Just there—teasing and drawing out a series of noises he tries and fails to muffle.

Max barely still has the sense to wonder if they could be heard from outside. Ah, well. Too late to be thinking about that. He just hopes that Charles might have some sort of trick up his sleeve to fix that issue.

“Max, I’m close, I-I’m gonna—”

Charles’ cunt throbs like a heartbeat around Max’s fingers, his inner walls clinging to him like he’s afraid to let Max go. As Charles nears his release, Max switches over to wrap his lips around his clit, curling his fingers inside of Charles, and then sucks.

The reaction is immediate. Charles throws his head back and clenches around Max’s fingers, legs tensing as his tail flinches. Lips parted in a silent scream, he comes—drenching Max’s fingers with even more slickness. Even then, Max doesn’t relent, licking everything up as he fucks Charles through his orgasm.

Right then, his cock jerks and spurts a bead of precum to remind him of the way it’s uncomfortably tenting his pants, leaking enough to form a wet spot on the tip. Looking up at Charles, Max sees that his eyes are closed, though his head is bowed forward as his chest heaves. When his eyelids flutter open, Max ensures to never break eye contact with him while he withdraws himself from Charles’ dripping cunt, smirking as he begins licking up all the slick from his wet fingers.

Charles’ eyes darken. “Merde, Max—that was…”

His sentence trails off when his gaze drops from Max’s lips to his lap, where it must land on the obscene bulge of his cock.

“You look like you need some help with that, huh?”

Charles’ eyes flit between Max’s cock and his eyes, watching him intently. Then, he hops off from the table, leaning down to grab Max by the collar of his shirt, and pulls him up until he’s standing.

Max grins meanly. He gathers himself as best as he can, and says, “I think it’d be the least I deserve after what I just did for you.”

Charles cocks his head, apparently not of the same opinion. He doesn’t say anything when he lays a warm hand over Max’s chest and pushes him until his back reverberates against the wall behind him, to which the same hand then snakes downward so that he can press the heel of his palm over his crotch.

Hissing through his teeth, Max’s entire body tenses up. Unfettered, Charles just licks his lips, and takes back the hand digging into Max’s pelvis to reach down to his cunt, coating himself with his own slick. Max can only watch, enraptured, as he then slips his hand into Max’s pants, grabbing his cock without so much as a warning.

“Fuck, fuck, Charles—!”

He strokes his cock from the inside of his pants, bunching the fabric of his waistband. Max knocks his head back against the wall behind him, hands grabbing onto Charles’ shoulders.

Embarrassed as he is, he has no choice but to admit that this will end soon very fast at the rate Charles is going; the absurd amount of precum he’s been producing and the slick Charles had gathered from himself makes for a smooth glide over his cock.

Charles’s head has been tilted down the entire time he was jerking Max him off, but then he looks up at him through his lashes, and he smirks.

“Already close, chéri?”

“Yes, fuck, please, I just—”

And then right as Max feels himself keeling over the edge of the cliff, his eyes squeezing shut and cock jumping in Charles’ hand—Charles closes his fist around the base of his cock, squeezing once, hard, staving off his orgasm, holding him over the precipice.

Max grunts in the delirious cocktail of pain-pain-pleasure. “Wh-What the fuck, Charles, I was, I—”

“Hm. Thank you, Max, but I think I need to get going now.”

Charles startles Max back to full awareness with a light pat on his chest, his touch leaving electrifying traces. Max barely gets his body reacting well enough to his mind’s command when he opens his eyes again, just in time to see Charles slipping his hand out of Max’s pants and pulling his own clothes back up, Max’s hands dropping from his shoulders. He catches Max staring at him and brings his hand up, spreading his fingers for Max to see the slick drooping down in between.

Unbidden, Max’s cock twitches pathetically. But before he can relish in the sight for much longer, Charles has already turned around and picked up some paper towel beside the sink and wiped down his hands before throwing it out. All evidence of their previous activities gone. He doesn’t even look like he just had his pussy eaten in a public bathroom.

When he faces Max again, he gives him a once-over—gaze dragging down the length of his body before rising back up—and gives him a satisfied look.

Max is not above begging for what he really wants.

“Charles, please, don’t— I need—”

“See you soon, yes, Max?”

Gaping, Max can only stare at Charles in open shock. Surely, he isn’t about to—

But then Max is quickly proven right, because Charles only throws him a wink in that typical style of his, and then spins on his heel for the bathroom door, opening it and walking out without looking back.

When the door has closed behind Charles, Max just groans and gets over there with a few long strides to quickly lock it, before he’s turning around to lean back against the frame and get a hand on himself. He has half a mind to drag his pants down his legs, cock springing out, so that he won’t be staining himself when he comes.

It takes him only a few strokes before he’s finishing the job Charles hadn’t for him. His cock jumps, and cum spurts from the tip in hot, wet ropes. Some of it slicks down to the base, but most of it lands within his hand. He cleans himself up with a paper towel just like Charles had, and sighs when it joins the same garbage can Charles threw his in.

At least his pants have been saved, so that he won’t look like a total mess when he walks out. Max counts his blessings where he can.

⁂

By the time Max gets back to his apartment—walk of shame and all—he lets himself expect a teasing text from Charles, something to taunt Max with like a dog with a bone. Or just nothing, because he doesn’t dare to let hope cloud him too much.

Either way, what he certainly does not expect, is a text from Lewis with a link leading to an article, followed up with a long string of consecutive question marks.

Max is sprawled across his couch when he sees it. He doesn’t bother responding and just clicks into the news outlet.

…On second thought, gossip journal might be the better term—he realizes this when he begins to read the title.

MAX VERSTAPPEN AND CHARLES LECLERC HAVE BEEN SPOTTED EXITING A RESTAURANT ONE AFTER THE OTHER! WAS THE FERRARI DRIVER ATTEMPTING TO USE HIS SUCCUBUS CHARM ON THE REIGNING F1 WORLD CHAMPION? Scroll to read more.

Max sighs and immediately swipes out of the article. But then, a thought strikes him right there, so he clicks back into the website and laughs as he forwards the link to Charles.

The response is immediate.

Charles Leclerc
ah
i tried my best to make sure nobody was watching us
but
i guess i wasnt careful enough
sorry
i know how much you hate these things

Max frowns. Hold on, this isn’t— That wasn’t what—

Me
Wait no
Charles no
That’s not what I was trying to say
I just thought it was funny

Max anxiously watches as the three dots indicating that Charles is typing appears, disappears, and then reappears again, before he finally sends a message.

Charles Leclerc
funny?

Me
Yeah
Like they’re trying to imply that you need to
Charm me
Or something
In order to win
As if you’d need that
It’s like they forgot your past crimes already
Because of this whole thing

Charles Leclerc
oh
i see hahaha

When Max waits for Charles to say more and he doesn’t, Max plucks up all his courage and calls Charles.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Max,” is all he says at first. He’s quiet; the other end of the call silent if not for the rustle of fabric. Then, “Why are you calling?”

Max flounders. He doesn’t know, to be honest. So he says as much.

“I don’t know,” he responds, breathless for reasons he isn’t sure of either. “Just wanted to check up on you, I guess. Are you in bed?”

“Yeah, I am.” More rustling. “Took a nice shower earlier and all.”

Hm. Max didn’t need to know that. Because now he can’t get the image of Charles underneath a stream of water, hidden behind the fogged up shower glass out of his head.

“Can I see you?”

“What? In the shower? Well, it’s a bit too late for that, Max. If you wanted that you should’ve—”

Max chokes. Oh, god. Okay. “No, no—of course not that. I know that you— Well, nevermind that. I just meant if I could see you, like, in general. Can we video call?”

A beat of silence, with tension thick enough to cut. Max is almost beginning to regret asking.

Until: “Okay.”

Almost.

Charles hangs up the phone call, and Max’s screen immediately lights up with an incoming video call. He picks it up.

Charles is lying in bed, just as he said, when he comes into view. The camera only shows his face and a bit of his torso, where Max can tell he’s taken off his necklace.

“Hi,” Max says, grinning a bit goofily. “It’s good to see you.”

“You just saw me,” Charles scoffs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s not always good to see you.”

Charles huffs out a breath—not quite chuckling, but almost there. “Alright, enough.”

Max’s cheeks are hurting from how hard he’s smiling. “No, I don’t think so. This is payback for everything you’ve been doing recently.”

“And what is it that I’ve been doing?”

“Well, if I were to really list everything, then we would be here forever.”

“Max,” Charles whines. Max saves the memory of that sound so he can replay it in his head later. In private. “That is not fair.”

“Hm. How so?”

“I really haven’t done anything,” Charles argues, petulant.

“Really?” Max raises his eyebrows.

“Really.” Charles nods.

“Then, back at the restaurant? When you left me hanging even after I worked so hard to get you off?”

Charles pouts. “But that’s not my fault, Max. That was just a bit of fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was fun for you. Not so much for me, though. I had to finish myself off in an empty bathroom like some shameful pervert. I don’t think I can ever enter that place again.”

This does the expected job of making Charles laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. I made sure we wouldn’t be heard, after all.”

Max’s curiosity is piqued at that. He did wonder at one point if they could be heard.

“Is this some sort of magic trick you have access to, now?”

“Something like that, yes. A simple sound muffling charm worked well enough for this purpose.”

Max hums in response. He still doesn’t really know how exactly magic works for Charles, or in general. But that’s a topic for another day.

The rest of their conversation diverges towards an assortment of other topics. Truth be told, Max does know why he wanted to call Charles. He just couldn’t handle the thought of him feeling bad for something that wasn’t even his fault, all for Max’s sake.

But seeing his face now, laughing at one of Max’s silly recounts of something that’d happened—Max thinks he’s done a good job of driving that specific worry away.

And it is only when Charles has switched over to lying on his side, cheek pressed into the pillows as he yawns, does Max end the call with a reluctant farewell, clutching his phone in hand once the screen darkens.

That night, he falls asleep repeating the memory of how Charles sounds when he comes.

⁂

Afterwards, things begin to change.

Max begins talking to Charles frequently, practically on a daily basis.

And they hang out—a lot. Charles makes Max play padel against him, laughing when Max gets absolutely destroyed by Charles. Max takes revenge on him later on by cornering him in their private changerooms and eating him out until his legs give out.

Because other than hanging out—they’ve also begun meeting up to fuck. A lot. But here’s the thing: they’ve never gotten anywhere further than anything nonpenetrative. It’s like some sort of unspoken bridge that they’ve agreed not to cross, or even walk past. Max suspects that it must have something to do with the whole succubus thing, but. Who is he to say anything about that?

Nonetheless, the point is—that they’re fucking a lot. Like animals. Especially in the past few days, where Charles seems to have grown almost insatiable in his demands for getting Max’s mouth or hand on his cunt, and his mouth or hand on Max’s cock. They’re fucking a lot more than Max has ever fucked any of his relationships within the same amount of time, for sure.

And Max has still never really done his research on succubus lore and history. He keeps on meaning to, but it just keeps on slipping from his mind.

Which, he supposes, is why he’s wholly unprepared for what awaits when Charles calls him during an otherwise unassuming night of the summer.

⁂

The call comes at around three a.m. local time, around a week before the first race back from the summer break.

Max is fast asleep by then, like most of everybody else at the time. The first time his phone rings, he completely sleeps through it, and it’s only by the second time his screen lights up—does he grumble and blindingly try reaching for the buzzing device.

His eyes are still closed when he picks up the call through pure muscle memory.

“Hello?” he mumbles groggily into his pillow.

“Max? Are you there?”

The voice is quiet, but instantly recognizable. Max immediately blinks himself awake, blearily reaching to turn his lamplight on and puts the call on speaker mode.

“Charles, what—? Why are you calling me at,” Max rubs his eyes and looks at his phone, “three sixteen in the morning?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, even though Max isn’t really sure what exactly he’s apologizing for. “I… I didn’t know who else to call, I just— I need—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp whine, followed by a rustle of fabric and a slick sound.

Max frowns, heart beginning to pound inside of his chest. “Charles, are you okay? What’s wrong? Do you need help, I can, I can try to—”

“Yes, yes,” Charles responds, an edge of desperation in his words, like they’re being rushed out of him. “I need— I need your help.”

“Schatje, just tell me how—”

“Need you to come here, my place,” Charles gasps, and Max hears what seems like the sound of something being knocked over. “You know— You have my address already, yes?”

Max does have Charles’ address. He has it saved to his phone after he’d dropped him off once, though that wasn’t really necessary, since he thinks he can get there through his basic knowledge of the area too. But also because his brain has some sort of knack for latching on to just about everything and anything related to Charles.

“Yes, I—”

“Then hurry, come here quick Max, please—”

And that’s what does it. Charles never begs, and yet here he is—begging for Max to help him.

“Alright, I’m coming over right now, okay?” Max hops off of his bed and reaches for the few first pieces of clothing he sees, turning off the speaker mode before he clutches it between his ear and shoulder. “Do you want me to stay on call while I get there?”

“Yes, that’s— I’d like that.”

Max grabs his car keys and takes his phone in hand again. Somewhere in the corner of his dark apartment, Sassy yowls, and Max turns to apologetically hush at her before he’s stumbling through the halls to arrive at his doorway.

“Charles, I still need to know what’s wrong. Can you tell me what you need my help with?”

Looking down, he realizes that he’s put on his shoes in the wrong order—left foot in right shoe, and right foot in left shoe—so he quickly fixes that before he opens the door and steps out.

“I… You don’t need to bring anything. It’s to do with my… succubus thing.”

“Your succubus thing,” Max echoes back. “Well, I think I’ve been pretty well acquainted with your succubus thing by now, so I don’t think you should be scared of telling me anything.”

Standing in the elevator as it goes down, he waits for Charles’ response, and the slick sound plays again. Max thinks to compare it to the sound of Charles’ pussy when he’s wet, and then has to immediately mentally slap himself for the thought.

Not the time or place right now, Max.

Charles sighs, like there’s something heavy weighing him down. “No, Max, you— You don’t understand. This is a lot more… complicated.”

The elevator dings, and Max walks through the opulent lighting of the lobby like a man on a mission, stepping out of the building and into the cool air of Monaco to arrive at his car. The summertime nights make for a balanced temperature in the otherwise scathing daytimes.

“Charles, I’m literally about to be at your apartment in less than—ten minutes, probably, so I will be finding out what’s wrong sooner or later. But sooner would still be better.”

He opens the door and steps into his car—not something too flashy, lest he attract any unwanted attraction—and inserts the key and starts the car. His phone automatically connects to the vehicle’s Bluetooth system.

“Please, can’t you just… It’s too weird for me to say.”

Max responds bluntly: “You are weird.” Even though most people don’t see this. “It’s why I like you.”

He could add on to that and say more, say something like: It’s also why I have been liking you ever since we were just young teenagers fighting for tooth and nail in small karts, and why that time you crashed us both out felt more like a dance than a disaster. Why I don’t think I could ever let you go now that I’ve had you, even if I still want more than I should from you.

But he doesn’t—because, well. He just can’t. Too afraid of ruining the bare beginnings of what he and Charles have been building, he is.

Charles is silent after Max’s words for a few moments. As Max drives, he ignores any and all speed limits as he speeds through the lamplit streets of Monaco. Hopefully the cameras don’t catch his face and only his license plate, since he hasn’t been seen in public with this car before. He’ll just pay for the fines later on.

The speakers play out Charles’ muffled groan. Then, he proceeds to destroy Max’s world in four simple words.

“I’m in heat, okay?”

Max nearly crashes his car when he hears this. He doesn’t, though, because he’s a Formula One driver, thank you very much, and crashing his regular road car would be an embarrassment to both himself and his ego. (He’s also trying not to learn after a certain someone who rear-ended a car when it was stopped, too.)

“You— You’re in heat?” Max repeats, feeling a bit like a broken record.

“Yes,” Charles groans.

Max makes a turn a bit too fast, jerking the car sharply. It works in shaking himself out of the temporary daze he’d found himself in, at least.

“I… That’s—”

“Just get here quick, Max. I can tell you more later.”

“Right…”

With a few more turns, Max is pulling up to Charles’ apartment complex, parking his car in an area near his specific building. He yanks out the key and turns off the engine before stepping out of the vehicle, his phone disconnecting from his car and in hand as he walks towards the grand entrance. He stops some paces away, when he sees that by the doors, there’s a very French looking man hovering nearby. He hasn’t noticed Max yet.

Max covers his mouth and whispers into the phone. “Well, I’m here. But there’s a guy by the door who looks like some kind of guard. What should I do?”

A string of French. “Ah, just come in. That’s the concierge. He won’t mind.”

The French concierge finally spots Max and raises an eyebrow at him. He looks a bit mean.

“Are you sure? What if he—”

“Max, if you aren’t in my room in the next two minutes—”

Max gets the message. With the best smile he can muster up, he steps up the stairs leading to the lobby doors and wordlessly greets the concierge. Luckily, he doesn’t give Max anything but a narrowing of the eyes.

Though Max has dropped Charles off here a number of times, he’s never been inside of his apartment, or even the general building, so it takes him a few moments to navigate through the lobby floor and find the elevator. He clicks for the right button and waits.

“I’m in the elevator right now, so I’m gonna hang up, okay?”

Charles rushes to say, “There’s one more thing, actually. It’s… well, when you see me, I might look a bit… different.”

The elevator arrives at Charles’ floor fairly quickly. Max walks down the straight hallway that leads to the door of Charles’ actual apartment.

“How so?” he asks, genuinely not understanding what Charles is saying.

He raises a hand to knock on the door, but before his knuckles even get the opportunity to meet wood—it opens.

“Like this,” Charles says with a pained smile, his phone nowhere to be seen after having ended the call, standing in the doorway, apartment lights turned on.

Max almost drops his own phone when he sees him.

Holding on to the door handle, Charles is slightly hunched over, making himself appear shorter than usual. His horns have grown to become slightly longer and thicker, curling downwards kind of like that of a ram’s. And then there’s his eyes. The blue-green-gold earth globes of his eyes have been replaced by a blazing red—almost like his car, actually, but darker—with pupils eclipsing the irises like an inverted blood moon. His tail appears to have remained unchanged, but what catches Max’s attention the most, is the outline near his abdomen that’s been haunting Max’s dreams—because now, the faint imprint has coloured itself a red that matches Charles’ eyes. It glows through the white t-shirt he’s wearing that’s long enough to cover his upper thighs.

And, if Max is seeing right… Yup—he’s also not wearing any pants. Or underwear.

Openly staring like he’s afraid Charles will disappear if he so much as blinks, Max can only say: “Oh.”

“Yeah…” Charles bites his lip, stepping out of the doorway to make room for Max to enter. “I told you, it’s weird.”

Max steps through and spins around to gape at Charles. “What?”

“Is it not?” Charles sighs, closing the door behind Max. “I’m— I look like some sort of weird sheep with these horns! And then my eyes look completely demonic and then my stomach is literally glowing and everything is just so—”

“Charles, just… breathe.” Max puts his phone into his pants’ pocket and reaches out to place his hands over Charles’ shoulders. “Jesus, you— You’re burning up.” Max can feel the heat of his skin even though the shirt he’s wearing, as thin as it is. “How long have you been like this?”

“Mmm.” Charles frowns, sinking into himself and leaning up to Max’s touch. “I’m not too sure… I fell asleep not long after dinner and woke up around midnight with this headache, and then when I checked myself in the mirror, my horns were like this.”

“So, three hours you’ve been like this?” With the back of his hand, Max touches Charles’ forehead. Now, he’s hardly a doctor himself, but three hours of a fever this high surely doesn’t seem right. “Fuck, do we need to get a doctor for you?”

“No, Max,” Charles groans, eyelids fluttering closed. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m in heat. You have cats, yes? Surely you know what this means.”

And of course Max does. He just doesn’t know how to apply the concept of breeding cycles to a—well, a succubus. Damn, he really should brush up on his magical knowledge. He’s been too busy caring about racing, and only racing, that it seems like there’s a whole other world out there he’s unaware of.

“Um, so I— Do you—?”

Charles snaps his eyes open, all sharp and heated as he glares at Max, red rings encircling the black hole of his pupils and all.

“I need to get fucked, Max. Right now or I think I might die. And I’m not kidding. Joris has actually given me a few warnings about all of this some time ago.”

“Oh,” Max says for the second time already, gears churning, eyes blinking.

“So, yes, I called you here for the singular purpose of fucking me, because if I do not get fucked soon, I might just… I don’t even know, actually, but I think I might just explode, or something.”

Well. Max can do that. However—

“Charles, you— Are you completely sure about this? It doesn’t have to be me,” but please let it be me, “and if you have someone else you want, I can try to—”

Faster than lightning, Charles presses Max to the wall by the doorway with a steady grip over his shoulders, pinning him in place like a butterfly and knocking the breath out of him.

Max is a little dazed.

Though Charles may have gained a certain… softer iridescence of sorts due to his succubus awakening, he still is an athlete, with an athlete’s body to match—something that Max has admittedly forgotten in the past few weeks. 

The reminder makes him a bit dizzy in the head.

“No,” Charles growls, a hint of something powerful lacing his voice in a way that makes Max weak in the knees. He probably would’ve buckled underneath his own weight by now, if it weren’t for how Charles is currently keeping him up. “I don’t want anyone else, and you are not going anywhere while I am here. You came here to help me with—whatever this is, so you are not allowed to back out. Not unless I say so.”

Then, without any preamble—he drops to his knees and transfers the grip on Max’s shoulders to his hips, unbuckling his pants and sliding that along with his underwear down to his ankles in a few quick motions, letting Max’s cock—which has been hard since he first laid eyes upon Charles—spring out. It twitches in the air, a bead of precum leaking at the tip.

Tail swinging impatiently behind him, Charles looks up at him through his lashes, sitting back. “Now, would you please fuck my mouth, Max, unless you want me to turn to ashes at your feet?”

Max isn’t about to let that happen. And who is he to refuse such a tantalizing order?

Taking Charles’ hair in hand, right in the area between his horns, Max grabs the strands—hard. His cock slaps against Charles’ face a few times—not anywhere near his horns, thank goodness—before he’s taken him in hand, eliciting a hissed out curse from Max. He’s almost unable to wrap the entire circle of his fist around his cock’s girth.

“Ah—! Charles, y-you can slow down, you don’t have to—”

Charles shuts him up by taking the tip of his cock in his mouth, all the while glaring at Max.

“Fuck, schatje—”

Charles hums, sending vibrations up Max’s cock that makes him jerk and spurt more precum inside of Charles’ mouth. He swirls his tongue around the head of Max’s cock in a way that makes his eyes roll back, right before licking up the side of his length and breathing him.

Gritting his teeth, Max can only groan when Charles goes back to wrapping his lips around the tip of his cock, sinking his head down the length slowly—like a tease. He almost chokes at some point two thirds of the way, to which Max tries to get him to take a break, but Charles—as stubborn as ever—just swallows around Max’s cock and pushes himself all the way down.

Tilting his head down, Max moans at the sight of Charles looking up at him with his mouth stretched wide around his cock, eyes wide with unshed tears.

And Max knows he’s big, there’s never been a point of contention there. It’s something that has been both a factor in pleasuring his bed partners and straying them away, sought out for his size or scared he won’t fit. If Max didn’t know better, he would’ve put Charles in the former category, if only for how the first time he properly took a look at his cock, (that time in the bathroom doesn’t count,) and immediately licked his lips with a look that let Max know he was done for.

Another low hum around his cock that sends pleasure licking up his spine startles Max out of his thoughts. Charles has his cheeks hollowed out as he sucks, all the while maintaining eye-contact with Max. He then remembers Charles’ earlier words, and strengthens his grip over his hair, thrusting himself in and out of his mouth.

When Charles whines in response, Max takes this as a sign to go even further. He begins fucking Charles’ mouth in earnest, dragging his cock through the smooth glide of his throat. Charles grips his own thigh with one hand while the other trails down to where he spreads his legs, his pussy dripping with desire, slick pooling over the floor beneath him.

“Look at you, schatje,” he pants, nearly keeling over in pleasure. “Sucking my cock so good—just made for it, aren’t you?”

Even if Charles wants to deny it—he can’t, mouth full of Max’s cock as he is, proving him right. Max only further punctuates his point by snapping his hips forward, fucking Charles’ mouth with his cock roughly. His cock is impossibly wet—his own precum and Charles’ mouth slicking him entirely, drool gathered at the edges as tears fall from his eyes. His hand is a blur between his legs, constantly switching between rubbing at his own clit and fingering between his wet folds—an entire slick mess.

And if he were to really try and look, Max can even see the glowing outline under Charles’ shirt apparently… pulsing? The red prints seem to be beating like a heart, growing stronger and weaker in waves.

But before he can explore that train of thought further, Max feels his orgasm building up in his core like a molten volcano about to erupt. When he comes, he grunts and tries to lift Charles’ head up, but he only shakes his head with tears in his eyes and wraps his lips around the base of his cock. Max curses and his cock helplessly jerks in Charles’ mouth as he releases hot ropes of cum.

Slowly, Charles lets off, leaving wet trails of spit over Max’s cock in his wake, and making a show of swallowing down every drop of Max’s cum, throat bobbing as he does so. He then brings up the hand that was between his legs to lick up the slick between his fingers.

“Mmm,” he hums, voice hoarse. His tail bobs in the air pleasantly. “Thank you, Max. That was very good.”

Somehow, sucking Max off has made Charles calmer in a way, more relaxed. Like a hunger that’s been sated.

But that’s when Max also realizes: he’s still hard. He just came the hardest he ever has in his entire life, and he’s still hard. Fuck, how is that possible?

He seems to have said as much out loud, because in the next moment, Charles is tilting his head up at Max with a smirk curling up his lips as he says, “Oh, that’s just because of me. It’s another succubus thing. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t break your dick.”

Max blinks, seemingly at a loss for words for the nth time, at this point. He leans down and pulls Charles up by lifting him under the shoulders, tugging him in close enough so that Max can get his hands over his waist, stroking up and down.

“And… would your succubus thing also explain this?”

By this, he means the glowing thing under Charles' shirt, which he exposes by lifting the hem and pulling the thin fabric all the way up until the entire thing can be seen. It’s Max’s first time seeing the intricate patterns without any obstruction—made up of swirling waves and curls of red around the area of his lower stomach, with something that looks like a heart at the center of the design.

Charles hums. “Ah, yes. The… glowing thing I mentioned earlier. It’s a… I suppose you could call it a tattoo. Weird, I told you.”

Max frowns. “Weird?” he says, disbelieving. “This is— It’s—”

He struggles to find the words to express himself, but that soon proves no longer necessary when the understanding dawns on Charles either way.

“Oh,” he says, his lips frozen in a perfect circle around the sound. “You… like it.”

“Well, yeah, I’d like anything about you, I think,” Max says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Because is it not?

Charles blinks, frowning with his head cocked, like he’s trying to decipher what Max is saying, even though there’s not much to decipher in the first place. He’d laid his words as facts—easy and to the point.

“And, anyways, as much as I like all of this,” he continues, trailing the curve of one part of the tattoo with his finger, “you still haven’t told me why you have it.”

Charles shivers where Max is touching him.

“So… ah, you see how it’s glowing, yes?” he starts. When Max nods, gaze still fixated on the subject of their conversation, he continues, “All succubus have something similar, but it only looks like this while we’re in heat.”

“Why does it glow?” Max asks, frowning in concentration as he observes the tattoo intently.

“It’s a sort of… meter, I guess. It tells me how much more until my heat is satisfied.”

“Like a stamina bar in video games, huh?” Max laughs at his own joke.

Charles’ smile gains a mischievous edge to it.

“Sure. But also, in order to satisfy the demands of my heat, I need to feed off of another person’s sexual energy. Preferably by having their cum inside of my body.”

Max nearly chokes, finally turning his gaze away from the tattoo and back to Charles.

“I— You mean—” he clears his throat, “So when you wanted to…” he waves his hands between them as if to communicate, swallow my cum, “it was also for…”

“Exactly,” Charles confirms. Then, frowns. “Max, a lot of this is very basic succubus lore, except for the details with this tattoo and stuff. Don’t tell me you don’t know any of this.”

“Well…”

“Max,” Charles sighs.

“Sorry, sorry! You know I don’t keep up with a lot of this magical stuff.”

But Max vows to start doing so soon, if not just for Charles.

Charles rolls his eyes. He moves on.

“I mean, I’ve been fucked before, obviously.” Obviously, he has to say, because of course. (If something sharp and acidic tangles deep within Max’s guts when he hears that, then that’s neither here nor there.) “But never after this whole… yeah.” Here, he gesticulates and talks with his hands like the honorary Italian he is. “Because after I’d presented, it’s like all of my senses have been turned up to the maximum. Everything is so much—too much, sometimes even.”

Max swallows. “And yet, you still want me to be the one fucking you? To be the one getting you through your heat?”

Charles presses his lips together, looking away. He doesn’t need to say anything; Max knows him well enough.

“Fuck, god— Charles, you—” Max takes hold of Charles’ jaw softly, smiling when he gets him to turns his head back and look at him. “Where’s your—?”

“Down that hall, the first room on the right—”

That’s all Max needs. Before Charles can finish his sentence, Max has stepped out of his pants and underwear, leaning down to scoop him up, his hands gripping him behind his upper thighs. His hard cock jerks at the near stimulation.

“Max, what the—!”

Laughing, Max begins walking and takes them towards where Charles had instructed him, tail naturally wrapping around one of Max’s arms for balance.

“Is someone else taking care of Leo right now?” he thinks to ask, just out of basic curiosity.

Above his head: “Uh, yeah, my trainer—”

Ah, Andrea. Max wonders what he would think of the fact that one of Red Bull’s own is currently helping out one of Ferrari’s drivers. He knows how this works—this close to race week, surely Charles was even debating on if he’d be fit to go by then, what with this heat now wracking through him.

He kicks open the door, fumbling momentarily when he has to continue carrying Charles with only one hand while the other turns on his room’s lights, before getting to his bed and dropping Charles on to the soft mattress, tail unwrapping from his arm. He lets himself fall with a small huff, taking off his t-shirt and then crossing his arms over his naked chest. Licking his lips, Max quickly does the same and strips himself of his polo, joining Charles in bed and spreading his long legs crawling between them.

“How do you want to—?”

In lieu of words, Charles responds with actions. He flips the two of them over so that Max is underneath him, head pressed against the pillows, while Charles is hovering over him, straddling his lap.

“Like this,” he says cheekily.

Max’s cock is flat against his stomach, weighed down by its own weight, when Charles’ hips gyrates over his crotch, wet cunt drooling slick all over the length. The first drop that lands on him has Max moaning, hips bucking up trying to get his cock inside of Charles.

Charles looms over him, a hand planted by each of Max’s arms—where they lay limply at his sides—leaning down to whisper in his ear, “Ah—not yet, Max.” 

After saying this, he willingly topples over, careful not to hit Max with the sharp points his horns when his head lands on Max’s shoulder, and nuzzles into his neck.

“God, you— You smell so good, merde…”

What does he even smell like? Max thinks to himself. Maybe soap and laundry detergent—none of which he thinks would appeal very much to Charles. He truly doesn’t know what to make of this.

Without waiting for a response, Charles breathes and licks a long stripe from the base of Max’s neck to his jaw, nipping at the skin there. Afterwards, he then kisses and sucks a bruise over the same spot.

“Charles—”

Then, he feels soft lips over his own, parted as they are when he gasps, his breath stolen by Charles. Max brings his hands over his hips, then his waist, then his upper back, hugging him tight against his own chest as he slips his tongue inside of Charles’ mouth. He kisses Max like he’s trying to eat him whole—all hungry and ravenous, desperate to have every last bit of him.

When Charles backs off, a string of saliva connects their lips before breaking off and landing on Max’s chin, the sight of which his gaze immediately attaches itself to.

“That was our first kiss, right?” Charles asks, smiling with his dimples.

Oh. Right. It was.

“Yeah, um—”

At the same time Max is talking, Charles sits back so that he can glide his cunt over Max’s cock, wet folds separating as he grinds the length between them.

“Fuck—!” he gasps.

He’s so hard that he hurts with the weight of how much he wants Charles, cockhead an angry red and leaking.

Breathlessly, Charles says, “Looks like we’re checking off a lot of firsts today then, huh?”

Grabbing Max’s cock, he bites down a whine when he slaps the tip across his wet folds, over his clit, spreading precum all over him.

“Charles, please—” A moan escapes from Max as his hands fists the sheets underneath him.

And then Charles is raising himself up on his knees, Max’s cock in hand as he aims his hole over the tip and begins sinking down.

“Schatje—”

“Ah—!” Charles throws his head back, cunt fluttering around Max’s cock, already halfway down, slick dripping all over. “Fuck, you’re so big…”

“Hah, Charles, you can—”

Max has already proved before that he isn’t above begging, but he also doesn’t want to rush Charles into anything. However, this all proves to be for moot when Charles takes matters into his own hands and drops himself all the way down, taking all of Max’s cock inside of his cunt.

“Oh—!”

Max is biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, hips thrusting up to meet Charles, and fists tangling and untangling the sheets around him. He thinks he’s about to lose his mind.

When Charles begins moving, Max proceeds to lose the last bit of sanity left within him.

Honestly, when he first heard Charles telling him that he was in heat, he was expecting something along the lines of a mewling mess, a desperate Charles who wouldn’t know what to do with himself. What he would’ve never expected is this: Charles bouncing on his cock with a practiced ease, an otherworldly strength fuelling him, back arching in pleasure. The red tattoo over his abdomen pulses and glows, and his tail hovers in the air, swinging only with the course of his movements.

“Charles, schatje—”

His hands unconsciously reach out to grip Charles’ hips, but they lack the strength to actually do anything, and all he can do is succumb to Charles’ eager pace. He’s rubbing quick circles over his clit while he fucks himself on Max’s cock.

Charles cries out, “Max, I’m—”

And then his cunt is tightening around Max like he’s trying to suck the lifeforce out of him, dripping slick growing even more abundant as he comes on his cock. He grinds himself back and forth on Max, wringing the last of his orgasm out, eyes closed shut. The tattoo on his abdomen pulses once, and then stops—a shade less vibrant.

While Charles is catching his breath, his head bowed over as he sits on Max’s cock without moving—Max seizes the opportunity to grip his waist and flip them back around. Charles’ eyes fly open just as his breath gets knocked out of him, gasping when Max drags him across the mattress to fuck his cock back into him.

“Mmm—Ma-ax,” he whines, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead, ruffled against the pillows. “Faster, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Max hisses and grabs Charles by the inside of his knees, pressing his legs back as he watches his cock glide in and out of his cunt, slick and precum mixing together to drool over his pussy lips and gather into the sheets beneath him.

“Yes, take it, you fucking—slut.”

And there it is—the part of Max that only shows with Charles affecting him like this. He snaps his hips forward, rough and hard—punishment, for how much of a menace he’s been, making Max suffer these past few weeks. A bit of fucking the brat out of him.

It doesn’t take long until Max finds himself with his orgasm creeping in on him through the edges again, washing over him briskly, submerging him deep underneath the pleasure with a full body shiver. 

“Charles, I’m— I’m close, I’m gonna—”

He’s mid-thrust when it happens, his cock halfway inside of his cunt, halfway outside, which is how Max sees the base of his cock jerk as the first spurt of cum shoots deep inside of him. Immediately, Charles escapes the hold Max has on his legs, and locks his ankles together behind Max’s back, pulling them close together, wet folds trapping him in as he milks his cock when he comes. Max’s eyes roll so far back he swears he can see stars.

“So—full,” he pants out, hand snaking down to his heated core, sliding through the wetness. “Merde, so good for me, Max…”

When Max slips out, his cock jerks, wrung out after another orgasm. And he’s still hard, but he’s simply too tired to continue, so he just collapses on top of Charles, head tucked into the crook between his neck and shoulder.

He has to blink himself back to full awareness when Charles huffs out a breath, chuckling, by his ear.

“Look at this.”

Max raises himself on his elbows, still breathing deeply and panting when he looks down to see Charles grabbing his hand and putting it over his own abdomen, where the tattoo is no longer a flaming red, but more like a shade of dull pink. At least, that’s what Max thinks is his point in showing him that. What Max is actually seeing, however, is how full of his cum Charles must currently be.

“I— It’s getting better?” he tries; not his most eloquent of words, but, what is he to do when he can only think with his cock right now?

“It is,” Charles agrees, laying the palm of his hand over the back of Max’s. 

“So, every time you have my cum inside of you, you…?”

He nods. “But it is also not just your cum that helps. Any sexual energy will do.” Then, he smirks and grabs Max’s cock, squeezing it gently once, before saying—

“—and I am not nearly finished with you yet.”

⁂

It takes the better part of the whole night, and a bit of the morning, until the tattoo has turned back to its nearly invisible colour from before Charles’ heat had struck him. By the end, Max was sure his cock would be broken, and that he would die with his face between Charles’ legs, suffocated by his pussy while he sat on him.

Thankfully, none of that actually happens, though it’s a close thing. Max has been giving much thought to how his death will be inevitably tied to Ferrari these days, but he does think that dying during such an act wouldn’t be the worst way to go out, at least.

At his side, Charles is fast asleep—having fallen unconscious at some point after his uncountable number of orgasms. Not long after, Max had followed him to the depths of sleep.

Now, though—his room is no longer lost to the midsts of darkness that came from the dead of night. His window is letting in a steady stream of sunlight, streaking across the bed. Charles’ hair looks even more lighter than usual underneath the warm bask.

Max turns and nudges him awake.

“Mmn, no…”

“Wake up, schatje,” he whispers.

When Charles just grumbles and curls further into the sheets, Max resorts to laying a playful but harsh nip over the back of his shoulder.

His reaction is immediate.

“Max!” he shouts, affronted, sitting up to pout down at Max while rubbing at the location of attack.

With the sheets pooled around his lap, Max can see that the tattoo on his abdomen has fully returned to its original state with its faint tones. His horns have also gone back to their regular size, and his eyes are back to their endlessly green states.

Max doesn’t apologize. Instead, he joins him in sitting up as well, grinning at the offended look Charles is giving him, groggy as he slowly awakens.

“C’mon, you have to eat after doing all of that exercise.”

He means for it to be a tease, something Charles could use to jab back in kind, but then he only keeps staring at Max without saying anything, and his look of offence slowly drops for one of confusion as he eventually comes to himself. 

He looks genuinely confused when he asks, “Why are you still here, Max?”

“What—?” Max frowns, taken back from the sudden change of topic. “What do you mean, why am I still here? Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I—” Charles starts, then stops, and turns his gaze away.

A sense of dread washes over Max.

“Charles, did you think—” he feels like each word is being choked out of him. “Did you— Do you not want me here?” 

Charles rushes to say, “No! I… I don’t want you to be gone, but I’d… expected it.”

“Why— Why would you think that?”

This time, Charles is slower to respond. When he does, he’s quieter than before.

“I didn’t think you’d want more from me than just… what we’ve been doing recently. I just thought that you were only wanting me once this whole succubus thing came out, like a lot of other people. And when I was believing this, I also thought—if that's the only way I can have you, then, okay. I was happy with that. Well, maybe not happy, but. I’d accepted it. So I thought that after last night, we wouldn’t be doing anything more.”

It takes a moment for Max to understand what Charles is saying.

“That’s— That has to be the farthest thing possible from what I—” Max takes a deep breath. Lets it out. “Charles, that’s not what I was thinking at all.”

He’s still looking away. Max decides to try employing a different tactic.

“But, Charles, are you— Do you want more? From this?”

Finally—Charles looks back and locks gazes with Max.

“Has it not been obvious?”

And there’s something sad in his eyes, like he’s expecting to have his hopes crushed by a cruel fist, like he’s facing the end of what was a very good dream.

Max hurries to fix that.

“Charles.” He looks around and reaches for the first part of Charles he sees, which ends up being his hands, so he takes those within his own. “Charles, you don’t even know the end of it. Lewis keeps on terrorizing me with anything related to you. Daniel has been laughing at me ever since he accidentally caught me just looking at you for a bit too long. A look was all he needed to figure out how I felt about you. I have been going crazy about you for—I don’t even know how long, actually, because it feels as if I’ve never had a moment in my life where I wasn’t crazy about you.” And then, just because he’s Max, he adds on, “Also, I literally told you I liked how weird you are. Was that not obvious enough for you?”

Charles is staring at Max, lips parted, eyes wide, taking everything in.

“Oh.” He blinks. “You… Are you really…”

Max sighs. “I like you. I want you. I love you, Charles. For as long as I’ve known what love actually is, maybe.”

“Oh,” Charles says again. “Well, that’s—okay. I— Then…” He clears his throat, as if readying himself. “Then, I guess I should also tell you now that you’re kind of bonded to me, which means that if you even think about being with another person, I will know about it immediately and run you over with my car in the pit lane. Don’t question it, it’s another succubus thing. Because I love you. And you will not ever forget that too.”

Max smiles, bringing Charles’ hand up and laughing into them. Oh, what has he gotten himself into?

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Charles smiles back, steadily chuckling along.

(There’s no way of answering that question of his, but Max finds that he doesn’t particularly care. He’s satisfied with himself, sated at last, and that’s all that matters.)