oh my god i so desperately need that tattoo bonus scene
im going to be so for real. i am worried i am about to create more enemies than friends with this. below the cut does answer the question of whether max gets a new tattoo for charles but uhhhhhhh. i dont want to spoil anything but just know i did cry while writing this so perhaps read at your own risk (it is a happy ending still ofc just. BE WARNED)
we'd keep all our promises bonus scene below the cut :)
He remembers the day Charles got the tulip tattoo. He'd been going on about it for weeks, wanting to get something new for just Max.
--
“You already have the 33,” Max had said, kissing him lightly where the numbers were inked behind his ear.
“Yes, but — well someone decided they weren’t wanting to match with me anymore,” Charles said with a wink, digging his fingers into Max’s side.
“You can’t keep bringing up the– we were children,” Max scolded lightly, squirming at Charles’ attempt to tickle him. “And anyway, I got the mimosa branch, surely that’s enough.”
Charles’ fingers pressed into where the flowers sat on Max’s bicep. They were beautifully done, Max can admit – delicately etched into his arm, the yellow flowers subtle along his skin. He had worried about the design for the entire day leading up to the appointment, but one look at Charles and he had felt settled.
Max hadn’t gotten the tattoo to even anything out, tie up their imaginary scorecard (though it was always fun to use as leverage) – but because he wanted to. Because he knew Charles was always going to be a part of him permanently, ink on skin or not. And the mimosa flowers reminded them both so vividly of their years in Monaco together as children, how they bloomed alongside Max and Charles’ own relationship.
Charles let go of his arm to continue scrolling through options. They were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, and Charles started to rattle off various things that reminded him of Max. The list was getting more and more ridiculous, and Max was giggling while he tried to read through his latest student’s paper.
“What if I covered my leg in a Delft pottery pattern?” Charles asked, turning his phone towards Max. On the screen was a photo of a Delft tile, undeniably beautiful, the delicate blue and white design.
Max chuckled. “I'm not even from there, Charles, that doesn’t make any sense.”
Charles pouted, that same pursed-lipped look Max knew from when they were teenagers.
“What about a tulip?”
“Charles, you can’t just pick whatever Dutch thing you—“
“But you’re Dutch, it makes sense!” Charles said, poking his thigh with his toes. “You got the mimosa, and now I could do this. Why not a tulip for you?”
“When have I ever mentioned tulips? If I were British, you'd, what, get a rose?” Max asked, placing his pen down and looking at Charles through his glasses. He'd been needing them more lately, to read through the small print of the students' papers. Charles had made fun of them, and then bought a stand for the bathroom, this wacky little thing that holds them while he showers. Max had caught him more than once cleaning the lenses for him, something that Max lets go unnoticed until the lenses are practically foggy.
“Maybe I will get a rose. Maybe I should,” Charles said back, turning to look back at his phone. “Well I've booked the appointment already, so you have two days to decide.”
Max sighed, going back to the papers. It was always hard to focus when Charles was in the room. He rearranged his body to continue scrolling, the fire crackling in the living room. Charles insisted on having one every time they moved because he loved the one in their first proper house so much. It wasn’t even a good fireplace in that first house – the fan never seemed to quite work so the living room would get too smoky, and then Charles would open up all the windows and cancel out the heat of the fireplace anyway. But Charles loved it, and he often sat on the couch with his feet hanging off the armrest, toes unintentionally dancing along to an unknown beat as they warmed up by the flames.
Max was never sure if it was the fireplace or Charles that warmed him up, really.
Two days later, when Charles left the house for his tattoo appointment, still dead set on the tulip, Max waited for him to disappear around the block, and then left the house to dash to the store.
Charles got back not that long later, the simple line art of the flower hidden beneath the bandage. Max sat at the kitchen table, watching Charles enter the room. He had that same giddy look about him, green eyes lit up so brightly. Charles looked at Max, then looked at the new bouquet of tulips that sat on the kitchen counter. Max had picked these light pink ones, hoping they would complement the blues of their kitchen.
Charles burst into tears. He hugged Max tightly, pressing a kiss into his lips, then his eyelids, his nose, his forehead.
“One for me, and many for you,” Max said, thumb caressing the bandaged skin of Charles’ arm.
“I love you so much,” Charles said back.
—
That day remains clear as day in Max’s mind, so vividly detailed even now, even after over fifty years have passed.
He tells the story with a shaky voice, knowing his words come out much slower these days, trying to grasp the right sounds and syllables.
A tear falls and lands on the worn piece of paper that shakes in his hands. He keeps going.
“Charles wasn’t wrong when he picked the tulip — I am Dutch. Tulips are, of course, our thing.”
He pauses, the silence disturbed by a sob from someone, a sniffle from another.
“But they meant nothing to me, until Charles. The tulip never existed to me until Charles turned them into something which I could never find the words to thank him for. I had never thought twice about them, and now every time I think of tulips, I think of Charles. He became a part of me as much as anything else.” Max voice breaks, the raspiness of old age choking up the words.
There’s people here whose names he will never remember, whose faces he may have seen before but won’t recall, and he wishes he could thank each and every one of them. Charles would have loved it.
There was a time, years and years ago, when Max had more ego than sense, and Charles was full of wild ideas, where Max hoped his funeral would be so large and grand there would be people lining the streets. Where that was the only marker of a life worth living, where so many people would need to mourn him.
Charles had always rolled his eyes and furrowed his brow, and said that wasn’t the goal of life. That some big funeral and hoards of mourners wasn’t what mattered, wasn’t what defined a good life, and Max dismissed him time and time again.
But here, now, in a room not very large, full of a collection of people from across Charles’ life — this is all Max could have ever wanted.
To have lived a life so full of love.
“Everyone knew that Charles lit up a room. but he did more than that. He added a warmth to my whole life that I never knew existed.” He takes a deep breath.
He thinks of Swiss sunsets, of dishes in the sink, of wine-stained glasses and paint brushes in cups of water.
“To sit with Charles, was to sit in the sun.”
He closes his eyes, then looks up towards the ceiling. Towards Charles.
There’s not long to go for Max. Not without Charles in this world. His hands shake now, and his legs don’t move very quickly, and the other side of the bed is perpetually cold.
He turns around to face the casket.
It has been over fifty years of buying tulips for Charles, placing them in vases at different houses watching them bloom and wilt and refilling them with water.
Today, he places the last bouquet of tulips he will ever buy for Charles on top of the wooden case, right where his heart lays underneath.
I love you, he whispers. Until I see you again.
i wrote this (the start of 'eyes on me' chp 6 - working chp title was 'Set His Heart on Fire (Like Gasoline)') back in dec 2025, and since then, i've solidifed my feelings on this fic remaining a WIP that probably will not progress any further at this point in time. however, i received a really lovely comment on ao3 and thought that there might be some who are still interested in the fic and would be interested in reading where it was going to go next.
please don't read this if you don't feel comfortable with cliffhangers/knowing it's likely going to stay a WIP.
here's 4k more of my writing for 'eyes on me':
Content warnings: brief mention of male breastfeeding
When PR for F1 the Movie Goes Too Far
penqueenzero ☑️
3.3M views 1 day ago
Transcript:
I know what you’re thinking – penqueenzero, you don’t normally cover celeb gossip. The movie was trash, just by the way. I watched it in at an IMAX advanced screening, so maybe the only good thing was the audio production. Anyway, when my buddy told me this had happened, it got me in a real doozy. The title is not clickbait. Have a look at the video.
[A short, shaky fan-taken video shows a few seconds of the intense kiss between Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc on the red carpet, before it swerves back to the person recording, whose eyes are wide with shock and is holding her hand over her agape mouth.]
Yeah, that’s right, and that’s not the only angle of it, but that’s the only angle I’m including in this video without feeling like one of those hentai-gooning incels jerking it to their waifu pillows in their man-cave basements.
PDA – no fucking way. They kissed. They were raw-dogging each others’ mouths, all sloppy, spit flying everywhere like they’re in a dental clinic. They made out for a solid thirty seconds before one of their handlers had to physically pry them off each other and remind them where they were. Irresistible pheromones in the air or not, I’m pretty sure they would’ve started fucking if no one had stopped them. For free, in this economy?
Okay, all right. Big deal, big whoop. They aren’t officially together in any sense, but they do that in front of how many people in Times Square on the red carpet? I, for one, get performance anxiety. Can’t even get it up in the cuck chair, so I can’t relate to doing any of that, but you know, who cares? They’re movie actors, right? They do this for a living.
Well, actually, they aren’t even the main stars in the movie.
In fact, one is the four-time world champion F1 Red Bull driver and alpha, Max Verstappen, who has spent so long processing his daddy issues that he still defends his father to this day, and the other is the notorious Monegasque omega camboy – yes, the one and only who squirted all over his camera and made bank from selling his own bathwater and pussy juice perfume. I don’t know if the pussy juice perfume thing was a scam or not. I didn’t buy it. If I had a pussy, I’d be doing it too, y’know. I don’t blame him. And I definitely don’t blame his omegapilled audience who want to gain a Monegasque citizenship by claiming him as their mate. Legal tax evasion? Say no more!
Back to the point, Max Verstappen plays himself in the movie. He gets like three minutes of screen time, but he’s mostly in his F1 car the whole time. The camboy, Charles Leclerc – yeah, it’s a French name, so you pronounce it Sharl – gets a bit less screen time, and he’s mostly in the background looking pretty and shit. You don’t really notice either of them unless you’re a) a fan, or b) really fucking horny. I was neither. Don’t ask me why I somehow remember how much screen time they both got.
Meanwhile, my buddy, who has even less of an interest in F1 than I do, joined me at the advanced screening to quote unquote see if they’d continue the mouth-fucking in the movie. All because of this one incident. Spoiler: they don’t. They don’t even interact throughout the whole movie. Oh, they got us good. We’re both just sitting there, big buckets of popcorn over our crotches, but then next thing you know, we’ve unintentionally watched the whole fucking movie.
Now, why does the internet think it’s a PR stunt?
This is an unmated alpha and an unmated omega, who are arguably both at the peaks of their careers. Despite the rumours that they’re fucking and on camera too if you’re willing to believe the conspiracy theories on the camboy’s most recently uploaded video, they haven’t mated each other. Instead, they pull this shit on the red carpet?
Look, let me read out the highest up-voted comment from the F1 subreddit that went haywire over this:
“Max Verstappen hates all kinds of PR bullshit. He hates the press. He apparently didn’t even want to attend the F1 movie premiere. There is no way he would ever agree to doing anything like this, but remember how much bad publicity Red Bull and Max were getting from the reappearance of Mad Max at the Spanish GP? So, the fact that this happened and it’s real? The fact that Charles Leclerc also coincidentally started popping up at the paddock when the promos for the movie started? It was a guaranteed way to get PR – good or bad – for the movie and distract from Max’s toxic alpha moment. You pair the current WDC who is known to not do this shit so therefore it must be legit enough to pay attention to, with the sexiest F1-adjacent omega you can think of who just happens to also star in the movie, and what do you get? A diabolical PR stunt that unsurprisingly has everyone talking about what they actually want you to be talking about. All according to plan.”
Okay, and this one too. I’m not going to read it aloud. Take a look.
[The screenshot shows the following from the comment section:
miniscuderia99: I’ve actually met Charles Leclerc. When I was younger, maybe high school, I got roped into watching my 3 month old niece while my sister got her hair done at Charles’ mother’s hair salon. So there I am, sitting in the waiting area of Pascale’s salon with my niece, and who walks in but Charles Leclerc!
I was nervous as fuck (he is so fucking gorgeous irl like prettier than the photos and videos we’ve all seen) and just kept looking at him, as he played with his phone and waited. I didn’t know what to say. Soon enough, my niece started crying, and I’m trying to quiet her down because I didn’t want her to bother Charles, but she wouldn’t stop. Then Charles gets up and walks over. He first asked me if it was OK to try and settle her, and I said yeah, she’s probably hungry or something. So, Charles put down his phone, picked up my niece, and lifted his shirt. He breast fed her right there in the middle of the hair salon. Chill guy, really nice about it.
↪ bawllsixtynine: ngl you had me in the first half.]
Now that you’ve also been baited by the same comment I was, I’ll move on to discuss why this matters. Why do I care so much if it’s a PR stunt? I don’t even allegedly know these two people. But you see, now, I do.
In fact, the first thing I did was subscribe to Charles Leclerc’s camboy site. No, I did not jerk off. Yet. But, I will be doing that right after I upload this video. Secondly, I did, indeed, go and watch all of the recommended videos on Max Verstappen’s race-craft that suddenly appeared on my homepage thanks to the YouTube algorithm. I won’t lie – those compilations got me harder than the boner I got from looking at Charles’ pretty face. One might say Max in the wet is his natural habitat, although I’m sure Charles himself can attest to that. 2024 Brazil? Two words: nut busted.
Honestly, if they announced they were releasing a collaboration alongside the movie in the form of a limited edition Charles Leclerc pussy juice flavoured Red Bull can with Max Verstappen’s face plastered all over it, I wouldn’t even blink. I’d chug that shit like no tomorrow.
Anyway, don’t kink-shame me. I know you’d do the exact same. That’s about it. See ya.
*
The Red Bull factory at Milton Keynes is Max’s home away from home. Not because it is comfortable in any sense, but because it is familiar, the buildings a sight he has become acquainted with since signing his first ever contract with the company. Hours and hours spent there working with the team eventually transformed into four consecutive World Driver’s Championships.
Inside the white walls of the factory, the team is already busy at work, developing the engine for next year, with new regulations and stipulations to follow. But instead of being in the simulator to fine-tune the RB21 for the upcoming Austrian Grand Prix held at the Red Bull Ring where Max is expected to win – Red Bull’s home race – he is in Christian’s office.
Christian doesn’t grant him a friendly greeting, slamming the door shut and enclosing the both of them in privacy. “What the fuck were you thinking?” Christian shouts, loud enough that his words can probably be heard from outside the room, as he makes his way to his seat.
I wasn’t thinking, Max thinks. Max doesn’t speak as he sits down opposite Christian. Upon reflection, it had been more difficult to think than to not think, when Charles had kissed him on the red carpet. Rational thoughts of breaking the kiss and pulling away from Charles – what he should have done – had disintegrated into the ether, almost as though the alpha part of his brain had irreversibly rewired itself around Charles, around his imprint-bonded omega.
“We need to terminate this contract,” Christian says, leaning back in his ergonomic chair and crossing his arms. “This omega has completely ignored everything, made a mess, played you and us like a fucking fiddle. Your father was right. Jos was right. You can’t bargain with these omega bitches – they’ll start thinking they have some power over you and then act on it, and he did, didn’t he? Made a real fucking fool out of you – us. He could cost us our sponsors if I can’t persuade them to stay on despite the damage to our image this has created. An omega outside of Red Bull having sway over you, an alpha driving for us, is not a good reputation to have, least of all how it’s going to fuel the rumours that you’re the alpha in his videos. Never mind the fact that he’s the brother of a Ferrari driver.”
Processing the entirety of Christian’s superfluous tirade, Max reels back at the implication Christian has been speaking to Jos about more than just racing-related matters. “What does it matter what my father says? I don’t want to terminate the contract. I don’t care if Charles breached whatever clause about keeping this a secret. It would’ve been an impossible feat anyway. It shouldn’t be on him.”
“He showed no discretion. Zero!” Christian fumes, an acrid, burning scent emitting from him in waves. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows you didn’t want your relationship with him aired out to the public, but he still kissed you in front of all those cameras. Why? You know why, but you won’t admit it and you keep protecting him even though he’s doing you and your rep – our rep – more harm.”
“What am I not admitting, Christian? Tell me,” Max deadpans, standing up and levelling him with an unimpressed stare. “You think you know me so well, but you don’t. We might both be alphas who work for Red Bull, but we are nothing alike.”
Instead of replying immediately, Christian opens a desk drawer and slaps the small pill bottle down, its contents rattling from the force of his action. His voice is steady, serious.
Max fixes his expression in apathy, glancing between Christian and the innocuous medicinal container. He waits for Christian to speak first. He won’t give him the satisfaction of his curiosity.
Christian falters in the duel of indifference. “Look. I’ve discussed it with the medical team. We’ve procured the medicine we need. It is fucking expensive and hard to get due to the rarity of your condition. You take this – you’ll be free from the imprint bond. No more behaving like someone else, like an unchained alpha. This isn’t you, Max. You never slept with omegas before. You never let another person broadcast your relationship to the world like this without retribution from yourself. You’d never do anything like what you did. Now, you’re telling me you’re fine with all of this? For an omega attention whore like him? You’re better off breaking the bond before he humiliates you when he goes running off with other alphas. You know it will happen – it’s just a matter of when.”
Max grabs the see-through container, examining it. The label is in an incomprehensible language. Only one lonely white tablet is inside. He slams it back down on the desk in front of him. “No. I am not breaking the bond. I already told you that. Plus, it needs to be reciprocated by Charles, or it won’t work properly.”
Christian doesn’t take back the container. He peers at Max with a knowing gaze. “You need to do this before you go into rut. Before he goes into heat. Don’t fret – I am not that cruel; I have procured the meds for him too. But of course, I cannot give it to him unless you accept this too. Max, you possibly don’t realise this, but you have become very different since being around this omega: uncontrollable, reckless, impulsive. These are all symptoms that occur when the alpha inside you is unable to fulfil the imprint bond. Don’t you remember the medical report? Critically high alpha rut hormones that will eventually not be able to be managed by rut suppressants. That is why you must make a choice. Soon. For the sake of your health, at least, and to keep yourself in contention for the championship. If you want to keep doing your job safely.”
Max huffs in disbelief. “I was fine in Canada.”
“And what happens if he leaves you on your own for more than a few days? You know very well, Max. You either claim him or you move on. And we both know which option your omega will refuse.”
Gritting his teeth, Max wants to snap back that Christian doesn’t know Charles at all. That they can manage this adequately, without the need for interference from a third party or medication. But what kind of alpha would he be if he knew there was a possible way to break the bond safely and didn’t provide the option to Charles? He had refused all this time, unable to swallow the idea of Charles sleeping with another alpha to break the imprint bond, but now that Charles can be freed from the bond without needing to do that? What kind of person would he be if he didn’t let Charles make his own choice?
He would be no better than Christian, or Jos, or every other alpha who has challenged Charles’ volition and made his life difficult.
Taking the pill bottle and pocketing it in his jacket, Max says, “I’ll talk about it with Charles when I see him again. But I’m not… I’m not breaking the bond or the contract unless he wants to.”
“Fine.” Christian sighs, rubbing at his temples as though he has a headache. “Also the PR department has decided to play that incident off as a one-off publicity stunt, since that’s what everyone on the internet thinks of it. You’ll be briefed on it by Gemma before media day.”
“Great,” Max replies, lying through his teeth. He would much prefer to head back to Monaco now. At least, the conversation is over now. Heading out of the office, by the doorway, Max says as way of farewell, “I’ll see if they need me on the sim.”
Max doesn’t wait for a response.
*
Gemma’s revenge comes swiftly on content day for the Austrian Grand Prix. Because it is the Red Bull Ring, Max has come to anticipate having to participate in more media duties, but when Gemma requests his presence there earlier than usual, he knows to prepare himself mentally.
“New agenda on your docket. Confirmed last minute, sorry,” Gemma says, sounding wholly unapologetic whilst typing on her phone. Max can’t blame her, considering what she has had to see. “You know what happened last week can’t happen again. We’ve been through that. Just keep that in mind for today.”
Max doesn’t bother explaining again that it had never been his intention to even kiss Charles in public like that. He couldn’t be livid about the incident or Charles’ spontaneous actions, because on any occasion, if it had occurred in a private setting, he would have wanted that. He would have wanted to kiss Charles and not care or think about anything else. But Max is a F1 driver, and the one with more to lose from a situation like this – as Gemma had amicably reminded him over emails and in person since it had happened.
Red Bull had underestimated Charles. Max had underestimated Charles, and now he must pay the price in the form of needing to endure more PR obligations.
Standing on the circuit, Max remains stock still, a predictable Red Bull can in his hand like a picture-perfect advertisement. In the middle of the track is a sleek car with its hood vandalised by the Red Bull logo. It reminds Max of the Ferrari GT3 he had driven when he had completed his Nordschleife test at the Nurburgring.
Around them is a filming crew. One cameraman is already tunnelling in on Max’s face, as if hunting for his reaction. Max refrains from stepping backwards to create distance.
“So,” Gemma starts, sensing Max’s unspoken question. Shoving her phone into her pocket, she claps her hands together. “The reception to the incident has been significant, not just immediately afterwards but over the past week. Both positive and negative. We are going to capitalise on it. You’re going to be filming content with Charles Leclerc, doing a hot lap segment. He’s agreed. He should be here but seems like he’s running a tad late.”
Max nods. He hadn’t seen Charles since the New York premiere. Charles hadn’t set up a time to film another video, and Max isn’t sure if there might ever be another one – if Charles still wants him to be in his videos. Max had checked Charles’ camboy site daily, the page remaining empty of new posts or livestreams, and yet the pussy-eating video continued to rack up a considerable amounts of views, somehow nearing even the views for the squirting on camera video that was a few years old.
Max shouldn’t be surprised – Charles likely anticipated this result. Probably devised the machination with the sole intention of proving that attention is everything, even when Max thinks himself to be above it. That Red Bull and Max shouldn’t have been so naïve to presume someone like Charles could be kept concealed. Such a PR stunt should have infuriated Max by its mere principle, but it was hard to be mad when the person he was kissing was Charles Leclerc.
“It’s an opportunity to sell,” Max quips. Now that the amount of time and distance between himself and Charles is realised once more, Max feels the nagging need to seek Charles out. Perhaps all the contact previously had sated the alpha within, having felt mostly fine in Monaco, but hearing that Charles will be here, alongside him, once more has him giddy. Excited. Even if the imprint bond ties them together, Charles isn’t required to join in on PR content devised by Red Bull.
The topic of Max’s thoughts arrives with his entourage. Max’s gaze narrows in on the scent blocker patch visible on Charles’ neck, then trails down to his disorienting choice of outfit. Charles is in white shorts, tan calves and thighs on display, but more than that, he looks like he is being swallowed up by his oversized Red Bull-branded hoodie.
Max glances at the other Red Bull staff, wondering if they recognise the offending piece of clothing. That it belongs to Max. The same one he wore and gave to Charles in Montreal. Though the scent blockers prevent alphas and omegas from sniffing each other’s pheromones, the hoodie might still smell like him. A quiet and innocuous declaration that only the paddock-goers would realise; the video viewers would remain unaware.
When Charles steps close enough, Max doesn’t even need to strain to recognise his own scent. It clings to Charles like cologne, except no one comments on it, everyone too engaged with the task at hand. Or too polite – with Max being right there too.
Meeting Charles’ gaze, Max nods in greeting. “Ready for your hot lap?”
Charles grins, bright and dazzling, dimples on show. For the cameras. Max is incidental. Charles replies, “You are the passenger. I will be driving.”
“Oh.” Max notices the sheepish expression on Gemma’s face. Accepting the helmet proffered to him by a staff member, Max busies himself with securing his safety gear, unsure of what else to say.
“Not looking forward to my driving?” Charles challenges, teasing. His green eyes are twinkling, and Max wonders if the screen will ever be able to display this visage of Charles faithfully, the way Max sees him now.
“No, I—” Max frowns, wondering why it feels like he is lisping, his tongue feeling heavy and twisted. “I am looking forward to it. I remember how you were with karting, and now you do sim racing. You must be good—”
Already with his own helmet on, Max finds himself distracted by Charles still fiddling with the straps of his helmet. Leaning in, Max helps, fingers brushing Charles’ as he buckles the chin strap for him. Max sees Charles swallow, eyes dropping from Charles’ lips to his neck. Max hesitates, his touch ghosting over the skin. Stepping back, Max doesn’t ache to rip away the scent blockers like before, realising that perhaps Charles smelling like him seems to be enough to sate his alpha’s possessiveness.
“Thanks.” Charles winks at him, failing to shut only one eye. Endearing, if Max is allowed to comment.
Gemma fakes a cough behind them. “Keep it friendly and professional for the filming,” she says, voice quiet even though she doesn’t have a mic attached to the collar of her shirt like Max and Charles do. Even if the mic does pick up on her words, the video editors will know to cut it out.
Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc are not mated or courting. The kiss on the red carpet was a publicity stunt. This will be a planned marketing manoeuvre that will now benefit Red Bull Racing. Viewers will believe they are capitalising on the online chatter. Sponsors will be satiated by the increased engagement rate. It is a win-win situation for everyone involved, or so Gemma has laid out.
Max waits for Charles to step into the car first before he follows suit. He has done this before – filming hot laps with celebrities and the like, although usually he is in the driver’s seat – so it shouldn’t be a big deal.
There are cameras everywhere inside the car too, aimed at them. The moment Max sits in the passenger seat and straps the seat belt on, he notices Charles is already mid-making-Max’s-life-difficult. He has underestimated Charles once again.
Having peeled off his scent blocker patch with nary any consideration for Max’s mental wellbeing, Charles explains, “I can’t focus on driving if I have it on. Hope you don’t mind.”
Even if he were to say that he minds very much as he tries not to make a show of inhaling, Max stares at Charles shoving the scent blocker in the pocket of his jacket. “Uh…” Max blubbers, snorting in a lungful of irresistible pheromones.
“Don’t worry, mon ami. Only the super fans will notice there’s something missing from my neck and it isn’t your mating bite,” Charles reassures, completely unabashed, while Max sinks further into his seat.
The engine starts. Hands on the wheel, Charles looks away from Max to the track in front – the Red Bull Ring. A smirk rests on Charles’ lips; Max finds it impossible to look away.
Foot to the pedal, and away they go.
(in terms of what happens next, there's a reference to it in the first chapter xD)
My friends told me that there were some bad cmts about this fanfic because its chussy. YALL ARE CRAZY. This is fanfic?? Its fiction yk?? AND ITS FREE??? The most important rule is that if you dont like it then dont click, dont like, dont interact, just block, scroll, wtv. Fanfics are written based on what the authors like, not any of you. If you want to have sth exclusive, commission someone. Bullying writers because they wrote a fic randomly is so rude and unfair. Whoever bullied her, i think youre uneducated. Anw, whoever supports LGB but not T, you are not supporting anyone you homophobe
The Haunted House motifs are frequently used in fan works to express the morbid tendencies of Ferrari (killing its drivers, killing champions)
That being said, I wanted this to shift the focus on Sebastian and his complicated feeling towards Ferrari and how that pertains to his bond with Michael (because I sincerely believe these are all tied together). I do wonder how everything wouldve transpired if Seb had Michael guiding him after Red Bull.
ANYWAYS, finding prose/material that hasn't already been used in Haunted House Ferrari weaves was a painnnnnn
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
vaporwave
gummygunk
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
