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DNFs are not fun. They hurt. They sting. They’re the bane of his existence. They eat away at him. They kill him every time. It’s the same spiel from his team week in and week out. We’re sorry Pierre. We can do better. We’ll get them next race. We’ve got new parts coming in, they’ll be better. They’re empty promises that never hold up. Words that lost meaning many months ago.
It’s the same shit, different week. When it’s not another forgetting how to fucking drive their own car, it's the car under him giving up on itself. It’s pathetic. He switched to Alpine to carry on the momentum the team was having. Carry the team to the top of the midfield, maybe even fight with the top dogs. To carry the bleu, blanc, rouge with pride. Make his country proud. To do it for his family, himself and for Anthoine. Not to be in the TV pen before the race even ends.
He’s seething with anger by the time his usual apology fest team meetings finish. It’s not good enough. Words mean nothing if nothing changes. It feels like a knife plunging and twisting into his gut over and over again. The words are hollow, they don’t register in his mind. Apologies have fallen flat yet again.
He’s tasted victory, the butterflies in his stomach swarming when it happened—the tears of joy, the overwhelming feeling of his heart racing in his chest, battering his ribs. It’s a distant memory. It feels too far gone. It’s sand slipping through his fingers, sand he can’t catch. The feeling of his car slamming into the barriers is still playing on his skin. It hurts. It stings. It kills him.
He’s on a warpath after that meeting, storming out before the last word was said. Esteban doesn’t question it when Pierre growls out a ‘ ta gueule’ at his suggestion of getting a beer and having a vent, thankfully. Esteban’s been where’s Pierre’s at. Esteban knows what it’s like to have this very team let him down the way they’re letting Pierre down right now. He’s wise to give his teammate space because Pierre couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t have tried to fight Esteban. Instead, Esteban gave him a tight smile and backed off.
The drive to his hotel room was incredibly awkward, and couldn’t be fast enough. His performance coach was trying to talk Pierre out of his anger. It wouldn’t work. Pierre was past his anger. He was so incredibly frustrated. He needed… something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his coach trying to get him to participate in small talk about the race he just crashed out of was not it. Pierre practically threw himself out of the car, not bothering with goodbyes before barrelling his way up to his hotel room. Once he knows the door is closed, he lets out a scream of frustration. He feels fat, hot tears running down his face. They’re tears of absolute frustration. He needs something to grasp onto. Right now, he’s floating in the middle of space with no tether. A ship lost a sea. Stranded on a desert island with no rescue mission bothering to save him. His pity party is disturbed by a single ping on his phone. Max. It’s the only contact on his phone that pings from the get-go regardless of whatever setting it’s in.
MV: Had to hear from Charles of all people regarding how you chewed out all the Alpine staff for the nth race this season. He heard it from George, who heard it from Alex. Shit like this spreads like wildfire. That’s not the Pierre I know. That’s not how anyone worthy of being in F1 behaves. I’ve sent a car for you. Black Mercedes class A. It’ll be outside your hotel in 5. You’ll get in it if you know what’s good for you. It will leave without you if you’re late. Text me on arrival. Brad will fetch you.
It’s a threat and a promise wrapped in one. It’s like Max knew that he needed this. Pierre splashes water on his face, desperate to hide the tears that spilt. He changes out of his team gear quickly and into clothes he prefers, throwing a hoodie over it all. He runs out of the hotel room when the 5 minutes are up. He sees the car Max mentioned in the text and slips in. The driver only shoots him a glance through the rearview mirror, before driving off. Pierre spends the whole ride staring out the window, mind still clinging to the anger.
“We’re at your destination, sir.” The gruff voice makes him jump. He didn’t realise that he zoned out. He thanks the driver and steps out of the car, sends his text to Max, and waits. He hates that he’s having to wait. He hasn’t been escorted to Max in months at this point. Pierre thought they were past that point. He lets out a puff of air in frustration.
“Pierre. This way.” He’s called over by Max’s performance coach, the other man expressionless. It feels very sterile the way he’s being led up. Not a word is exchanged. It’s more awkward than the car ride from the track. He’s led all the way to the door, where Brad knocks twice, before unlocking the door. He’s ushered in, the door closing behind him. It’s intimidating. Pierre takes off his shoes, socks still on, and wanders into the room. Max is there. Max is right there. He’s sat at the table, typing away at a laptop, papers spread all over the table. He’s wearing his glasses which Pierre hardly sees him with, and Pierre thinks they soften the hard exterior Max builds up. Max’s eyes dart up to take Pierre in, before darting back down to the screen.
“Socks off. Hoodie off. Leave your shirt on if you’re wearing one. Do not look at anything on the table or I’ll have to go to the FIA and report you. You’ll kneel next to me, in position. And you will wait. I don’t want to hear a fucking sound from you.” Orders. Those were orders. Short. Sharp. Direct. Max wasn’t even looking at him. Max wasn’t pleased with him. He was mad at Pierre. Pierre felt his bottom lip tremble at the realisation. Tears sprang to his eyes in worry. He follows the orders quickly and to the letter. He keeps his head dipped as he darts into position next to Max. Kneeling, hands flat against his thighs, head bowed. And he waits. He waits. And waits.
“You’re older than me, Pierre. Yet, you insist on acting like a fucking child with your team and all these temper tantrums.” Pierre feels the anger bubbling again. His anger is merited. It was merited at Red Bull when he was so far off the fucking pace and no one was helping him, and it was definitely merited with Alpine now. He wants to scoff. Wants to remind Max that he still has angry outbursts against his own team. The very same team that nurtured him into being a double World Champion and was setting him up for his third. His hands clench into fists the longer Max goes without talking, without sparing a glance at him. It’s ridiculous how long this schtick goes on for. Pierre loses track of time, his knees starting to scream. He can tell that the room is definitely darker than before, shadows no longer where they used to be. It’s the longest he’s had to kneel yet. But, he waits. He wants something from this. Even if it’s crumbs.
He’s not sure how long he’s waited. But it feels longer than any other time. Max shoots off one last email, takes off his glasses, packs away the paper on the table and walks away. Not sparing him a glance, not giving him any attention. Pierre rolls his eyes, letting out a quiet huff, frustrated. Max is back in an instant, twisting one of his arms back painfully. Pierre lets out a whimper, fighting back a yelp as Max twists further, eyes screwed shut at the sudden sharp pain. He’s lifting himself off his knees, trying to relieve some of the pain his arm and shoulder is in. It’s not helping, pain seeps into his thighs and feet instead.
“None of that. You will behave.” Max lets go, words muttered into his ears are breathy and threatening. Pierre slowly feels the pain diffusing into the rest of his arm before dissipating. It’s terrifying how fast Max metamorphoses into a whole different person now that he’s been made aware of Pierre’s list, and how receptive Pierre is to submitting to Max. He doesn’t want to let Max bully him into submission today. Today isn’t the day for that. He wants Max to understand why he’s mad, to validate his feelings. He wants Max to make him feel cherished and whole, not like a bad dog sent to the corner. He currently feels like said dog. Max walks away and Pierre finds himself resuming his potion, head dipped, palms on his thigh, waiting. Max returns soon after, turning the chair he was sitting on to face Pierre.
“Look at me.” The words were direct, but they weren’t a sharp order. It’s terrifying. Pierre has no idea what he’s going to be faced with when he looks up. Hesitatingly and very slowly, Pierre tips his head up, finding it very difficult to keep his gaze on the intensity of Max’s.
“Good boy.” The praise envelops him, it temporarily soothes the burn that’s settled deep in his knees. Silence fills the room once again, and Pierre is trying to keep his face as neutral as Max’s. He’s failing. Miserably.
“You’re so expressive, Pierre. Your heart’s always on your sleeve. What’s on your mind? You can speak.”
“Why the fuck am I here, Max? You had a fucking fantastic race, winning everything, smashing records, no worry in the world. And last I knew, all of this-“ Pierre gestured between them, he was breaking rules, but he didn’t care, “was supposed to be for you when you were pissed off at everything and everyone. Yet here we are.” Pierre didn’t know what Max was thinking, the man standing in front of him was as stoic as ever. Pierre holds his breath, realising how pointed his words sounded hitting him, frightening him.
“It was about me, yes. But it stopped being about me when it became obvious you needed it more. And given today, it’s clear to everyone that you need it more.” Pierre couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping. He never once considered that Max was helping him rather than helping himself out. Pierre has to look away in embarrassment. He feels incredibly foolish, so extremely immature. Max places a hand on his jaw and leans over, forcing Pierre to look back at the Dutchman.
“Whatever you’re feeling, let it go. Get off your knees and sit on the floor, if you want. Whatever’s more comfortable. You can strip to your boxers if you want. We’ll start playing, Pierre. You’ve been mostly good for me since you arrived, but don’t think that I’ve forgotten that you’ve been a total brat with your team. Or missed that you’ve broken position three times without permission. And sworn at me.” Pierre’s want to keen at the praise shatters just as soon as Max’s firm and dangerous words hit him. With a short nod, Pierre takes off his shirt and trousers but decides to keep in position once the clothes are folded in a neat pile next to him. He wasn’t a brat. At least, not with with Max. He could be good, so good. He would be the best for Max and stay in position even if his legs were screaming. Anything to be forgiven.
Max had gone into the other room, giving Pierre a little privacy and time to let go of the ugly feelings from earlier. It didn’t mean that the anger and frustration were gone, just redirected into anticipation. Max came back, unfortunately for Pierre, still dressed, but in his hands were a set of metal bars with cuffs on each end, the other, empty, promising a wicked turn to the night.
“We’re starting your punishment. You’ll address me as Sir, but you can scream my name if you want. In fact, I encourage it. Let everyone know you’re mine, schattig.” Pierre lets out a long whiny moan. They hardly talked about what their relationship really was, they slept around, sure, but Max had never called him his before. It was doing a lot for Pierre, a lot more than he cared to admit.
“We’ll keep traffic lights, but instead of red, we’ll use our safe word. What’s the safe word, darling?”
“Monza, Sir.” It’s Monza because it was the only track they shared a victory. Before that, it had been Interlagos (the only podium they had shared).
“Good, do you know what these are?” The bars are starting to intimidate Pierre a little. He thought he was well-versed in BDSM culture and all the gear and toys.
“No, Sir. I’ve seen them before though, I just don’t know they are, Sir.”
“These are spreader bars, Pierre. They’re a type of restraint. I’ll put you on the bed, on your knees, face down. Your feet will be spread apart, close enough to keep you stable but just far enough to make you work to keep still. Your arms will also be bound, the bar will be behind you and your wrists will be shoulder level. I have a length of rope in my bag, if you move while I’m spanking you, I won’t hesitate to restrain you further. Don’t think that just because I understand your anger it means I’ll go easy on you. I don’t think you want me to go easy either, do you?”
“No Sir, I’ve broken rules,” Pierre mumbled out through gritted teeth. He was playing a role now, but he was still simmering under the surface. Max wouldn’t have submission from the Frenchman easily tonight.
“Good, this is your last chance to give me a colour before we start.” Pierre feels his whole body prickle with anticipation, hanging onto every word, watching the molten desire swirl in Max’s deep blue eyes. He’s convinced. He would trust Max with his punishment. He loses track of the time he takes to respond.
“Give me a colour, Pierre.” Short, sharp words indicate that it was a little too long.
“Green, Sir, very green.”
“Good boy. Let’s go, up.” Pierre barely has time to scramble to his feet before Max grabs him, pulling him close, mouths clashing in a searing hot kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything. He’s being led to the bedroom (one perk of being Max Verstappen is to have hotel rooms with separate rooms it seems), like a lamb to slaughter, Max the hungry lion waiting to get a bite of Pierre.
Pierre is guided onto the bed, Max’s free hand never leaving him, fingers tracing nonsensical shapes into his skin. They kiss, languidly, Max taking his time, kissing wide expanse of skin, leaving light marks. Pierre would have been more worried about the marks if summer break wasn’t happening so soon after. He tries to resist becoming a moaning pile of putty, but that fight is short-lived for now.
Max catches his wrists, trapping Pierre under his solid body. Pierre wants to be forever under Max, it is safe, it is secure, it is everything he needs. He could breathe and think better every time he was under Max.
Max rolls him over, straddling him, and Pierre’s wrists firmly in his grasp. Pierre tries to wriggle out of it, the sliver of a fight in him showing its face.
“I wouldn’t do that, Pierrot, you might regret it.” The words are rumbled into his ear, Pierre barely had time to register the words before Max is nipping the skin of his shoulder and neck, dissolving whatever comeback he had in the blink of an eye. He was still going to fight back, but when Max was touching him like there was no tomorrow, it was hard.
“I’m going to cuff you now.” It’s one thing Pierre loves about Max when they’re doing a scene, Max is so communicative and doesn’t do anything until Pierre gives him the green light. But words are hard for Pierre. He wants to say them with conviction, with eagerness but they’re dying on his tongue.
“Green,” he finally squeezes out, between a gasp and a sharp inhale. Max mutters out a praise into the skin of his nape, a praise Pierre thinks might have actually been in Dutch because the words fly right over Pierre’s head, before securing his wrists in the cuffs of the spreader bar. It was a little uncomfortable, but not overwhelmingly so. The way his shoulder blades were pulled together was worse than when Ben made him go a little heavier than usual in the gym, Pierre already knew that he would be a little more than sore in the morning.
“Legs now, schattig.” Max quite literally manhandles him, and Pierre is equally impressed, turned on (if he could be even more turned on), and terrified at Max’s raw strength. It always causes that swirl of feelings in Pierre’s gut every time Max demonstrates that strength. Pierre finds himself undressed on his knees and chest, anticipating Max’s next move.
“Wait here, baby, I’m grabbing the flogger and rope, just in case you break my rules,” Max announces, a hit of excitement lacing all of his words. Pierre held his breath, mind swimming, body tensing, trying to keep stable and every single one of his muscles was screaming. He had time to recover though, so Max could do his worst, and Pierre would take all of it willingly. Maybe he would break the rules after all. Max comes back and grabs one of Pierre’s ankles gingerly. It throws Pierre off his balance, tipping him over, but Max is there to catch him as he falls.
“Sorry Pierre, that wasn’t the smartest. Here are the new rules.” Max wraps one cuff around an ankle, and Pierre is shaking from the anticipation.
“You’ll stay as you are now, you relax, move, or collapse, I’ll restrain you further and you’ll end up hurting yourself more than I hurt you.” Pierre wants to break that rule, just for his own entertainment. All of today has been so out of his control, he could claw back a little.
“Secondly, and you can tell me no, I’ll start spanking you with the flogger, and once you’re all nice and red, we’ll switch to my hand, because I know you would like that better. Give me a colour.” Pierre’s mind was focused only on the incoming pleasure.
“Green.” He could hear Max’s eyebrows shoot up as the second ankle was being cuffed.
“Green, what?” He would never admit it to Max, but Pierre loved how snarly the Dutchman got with him every time he defied rules.
“Green, Sir-oof.” The air was knocked from him as Max spread the bar wide. As promised it was close enough so that Pierre could balance, wide enough to be a full body workout. Max had set him up for failure. He was going to collapse. Max knew Pierre was going to fight him, so Max knocked out that possibility before they even started. It made Pierre want to fight back even more. Max didn’t listen to his anger and had been the biggest hypocrite out of the two of them. He wouldn’t even let Pierre explain why he was angry.
“Stay in position, baby, at least, do your best,” Max chuckled.
“Trust me, I fucking will, Sir. ” Pierre hated nothing more than being laughed at, and he knew he was in a compromising position, which made it even worse.
The first strike would’ve come out of the blue if Pierre hadn’t just sworn. He knew Max like the back of his hand. The Dutchman had a notoriously short fuse, and Pierre had figured out months ago which buttons were the right ones to push if he wanted to see a bit more retaliation, a bit more bite. It took everything in Pierre to stay in the haphazard position Max had wrangled him into. He manages, but the yelp he wanted to hold back, slips out.
“Do you want to say that again?” It wasn’t a challenge, but Pierre took it as one.
“I said, I’m staying in fucking position, Sir, whether you like it or n–” Pierre was cut off by Max striking him again, harder than the first and Pierre howls. The skin of his rear is starting to burn from being hit twice in a row in the same spot. Leather was not forgiving, and Pierre seemed to forget that every time. That prick. Pierre grits his teeth, keeping quiet as Max taunts him again.
“If only we weren’t racing next week. I’d go so much harder on you. Consider yourself lucky.” Pierre just closes his eyes, the anger rolling under his skin like molten lava rising to the surface, threatening to burst through. The next few hits don’t hurt as much, they actually feel good in a fucked up type of way. It’s like Max and the flogger become one. Pierre is conscious of the sounds he’s producing. The grunting after each strike, the moaning when Max caresses him with the flogger’s tail, giving Pierre momentary relief, fills the room. Max plays him like a fiddle, temporarily diffusing the pooling anger, luring him close to peace, to his subspace, to comply and fold. It almost works, every blow, every hit, every strike, it lulls him so close to that warm feeling in his chest, one that would make him feel like he’s flying, soaring, free.
“I would have never thought a good spanking would tame you, schatje.” Amusement tinges Max’s voice. That was Max’s first mistake. Pierre contorts himself enough to both stay in position and glare at Max, mouth in a hard line, eyes ridiculous blue and razor sharp. Pierre could be scary when he wanted. Max’s second mistake is hesitating. He doesn’t return to the scene fast enough, Pierre’s glare makes him stutter, hand pausing, hovering in midair. Max’s third mistake is losing control of the scene. The pause is growing, and Pierre can tell Max’s confidence is slipping slowly.
“Spank me again to tame me, Max, and I will show you just how good that works,” Pierre growls, words hissing through clenched teeth. He’s a firestorm, a wildfire is burning him deep, and all the anger is back four-fold. Max’s steely demeanour returns, the brief show of emotions quickly shoved to the side. They both know that Max is on the edge of losing control.
“Pierre, you know I don’t have a thing for brats, but you make it look cute.” Max’s smiles, but it’s menacing, wolfish. There’s an edge of authority in his eyes. Max grabs him by the hair, blunt nails grazing Pierre’s scalp, making Pierre whimper as Max shoves his face down into the mattress. The flogger is tossed to the floor, discarded like yesterday’s trash. Max doesn't give him time to think, time to start fighting back, his hand moves with precision, delivering a series of swift, stinging smacks that leave Pierre gasping for breath, air unable to return to his burning lungs. The anger that had threatened to consume him now melts away, replaced by a surge of intense sensation and a tinge of surrender. He's pushed closer to the edge of subspace, where defiance and submission meet. Pierre doesn’t want it to end. He’s going to play with limits, the same way the two of them do on track.
"Not cute," he hisses, pushing back again. "Make me submit, if you really want to, Maxy ." Max's control wavers once more, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he readies himself for another round. Max is breathing heavily.
"You're playing with fire, Pierre."
"Isn't that the point, Sir? " Pierre taunts, a wicked grin playing on his lips. Max doesn’t have to see the grin to know that it’s there, Pierre is purposefully spreading his knees out wider, curving his back further, teasing Max, testing Max. Max's reply is another powerful strike, and this time, Pierre doesn't hold back his cries. The room reverberates with the sounds of their play, the tension between them crackling like electricity. Each spank ignites a different facet of Pierre's desire, the firestorm within him burning hotter, brighter, and more uncontrollable. It’s a feeling Pierre chases, with every fibre of his being. He's on the edge, a wild mix of defiance and arousal, his body throbbing with need. His taunts become more audacious, pushing Max's patience to its limits.
"Is that all you've got, Sir?" Pierre's voice drips with insolence, and he arches his back, inviting Max to hit him harder. Max's eyes narrow, a storm brewing in his gaze. He's determined to rein Pierre in, to show him who's in control. With a calculated move, Max delivers a particularly harsh smack to the skin where thighs and buttocks meet, making Pierre scream. It’s as painful as anything, Pierre pants, trying to recover. He could play this game. Max wants him to hurt, and little does he know, Pierre wants to hurt.
"Come on, Sir, you can do better than that. Show me what you've got." Max's grip on Pierre's hair tightens, making him yelp in both pain and pleasure. The room is charged with their energy, a whirlwind of desire and defiance. Pierre is panting like he’s just run for his life, Max isn’t fairing any better. The air is so thick, they both feel like they’re suffocating in each other.
"You're pushing your luck, Pierre," Max warns, his voice a low growl. Pierre suppressed a shiver, barely, he’s losing his own control.
"Or maybe you secretly love it when I'm bratty." Pierre just smirks, his bravado wavering ever so slightly.
Max's response is swift and forceful, a flurry of blows that leave Pierre gasping for breath. The line between pain and pleasure blurs, and Pierre teeters on the precipice of submission. He revels in the power struggle, knowing that in the end, Max will assert his dominance, but making Max work for it, it’s fueling some fucked up demon living in his mind.
Pierre feels himself slipping, it hits him like a runaway train. He’s aware that he’s screaming Max’s name, each impact of skin against skin is a shockwave of ecstasy shooting its way through Pierre's body. Pain morphs and blurs with pleasure, the pain on the precipice of vanishing. He’s lost complete track of time, lost in a haze of sensation and desire. His cries and moans are no longer a challenge to Max but an unfiltered expression of his need and vulnerability. He starts feeling like he’s floating, soaring. Max is in control, and Pierre is not fighting him, he’s too busy chasing his own climax.
Max's strikes become more deliberate and calculated, each driving Pierre deeper into subspace. Max was always so good at guiding him under during play. Pierre feels safe and cherished. The room is filled with the sounds of their play—Pierre's moans, Max's measured breaths, the rhythmic thud of flesh meeting flesh. The energy in the room is electric, a palpable connection between the pair feeding it.
Pierre's body quivers, a testament to the exquisite torment he's enduring. He's lost in the sensation, his world reduced to the bed, to him, to Max, to them. His climax is imminent, a tidal wave of pleasure building within him, threatening to consume him whole.
And then, with a final, authoritative strike from Max, it happens. Pierre's entire body tenses, and he cries out, his release crashing over him like a thunderous wave. It's an orgasm that hits him so hard, that he swears he blacks out, his whole body going lax, body finally slumping on the plush bed. He can still feel the strikes, but they are gentler, easing Pierre further into his subspace, something he could thank Max for.
He’s no longer in the same plane of existence as Max, his whole body alive to the world, every sense so attuned to the finer details, but he feels foreign to the body. Every breath he cycles through almost overwhelms him. He feels Max undoing the cuffs around his ankles and wrists with so much care he could cry, only managing to turn his head and gaze at Max, appreciating how Max's touch is a soothing balm, his fingers tracing calming patterns over Pierre's tingling skin.
Max never stops touching him, keeping him grounded, working through their aftercare ritual. Max leans down, his lips brushing tenderly against Pierre's forehead, his warmth a comforting presence, bringing Pierre closer to the surface. Pierre's eyes, once glazed with desire, begin to regain focus, although they still hold a dreamy, far-off quality. He gazes up at Max, his trust and gratitude shining through the haze of his subspace. It's a look that speaks volumes, one that Max completely understands. I trust you.
Max wraps Pierre in the duvet, knowing that Pierre is still too far under to get dressed, whispering a litany of comforting, soft words as he moves, Pierre sighs contentedly, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, as he’s cocooned in the warmth and safety of the duvet and Max’s arms.
With a slow and deliberate pace, Max eases Pierre into a sitting position. He cradles Pierre against his chest, holding him securely, their heartbeats in sync. Pierre's head rests on Max's shoulder, and he nuzzles into the familiar scent of Max, the smell enveloping him, warding off any doubts Pierre could have regarding Max.
It’s a quiet moment, and Pierre is now teetering on the line of being under and being present. He feels very vulnerable, but Max’s arms around him make him feel safe, and let him feel everything as honestly as he can. The blanket got unwrapped from Pierre after it got too hot, yet they’re still in each other's arms. They’re so entwined, that Pierre doesn’t know where he ends and Max starts.
“Thank you,” Pierre mumbles, eyelid heavy as he’s fighting sleep.
“You did good, schatje, I’m proud. Sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.”
─── ･･⟡･･ ───
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. Pierre stirs, his body heavy with a languid exhaustion that lingers from the intense scene the night before. His limbs feel like lead, and his mind is a fog of hazy memories and emotions.
Pierre's eyes flutter open, and the first thing he notices is the absence of Max beside him. He’s alone. Panic surges through him, a sharp jolt of anxiety that tightens his chest. He scrambles to sit up, searching the room with wide, frantic eyes.
Max is nowhere to be found, and the realization sends Pierre's heart racing. He bolts out of bed, the sheets tangled around his legs as he stumbles across the room, calling out Max's name. Then, he hears it, the sound of water running in the bathroom, followed by the faint hiss of the shower.
As he reaches the bathroom door, Pierre's hand trembles as he pushes it open. Steam billows out, and there, amidst the swirling mist of the shower, stands Max. Relief floods over Pierre, washing away the panic.
“Pierre? What’s wrong?” Max shuts off the water, steps out of the shower, wraps a towel around his waist and crosses the short distance between the pair. Pierre’s body sags against the doorframe, tears springing to his eyes, his racing heart gradually slowing. The fear had been intense, a sudden rush of vulnerability that had taken him by surprise.
“I woke up, and I was alone. I don’t know why, but I was so scared, Max, I thought you left and I just couldn’t think straight. I just panicked.” Pierre struggles through the words, voice incredibly shaky and they can both tell that he’s bordering on tears.
A sense of vulnerability washes over Pierre, the familiar ache of a subdrop settling in. The adrenaline and endorphins that coursed through him during their scene last night have left him on an emotional knife edge. It's a complex cocktail of feelings, one that makes him feel raw, exposed, and fragile.
Max pulls Pierre in close, his concern evident as he wraps his arms around Pierre, holding him tightly. Pierre's tears flow freely now, his sobs escaping in wrenching gasps. Max's strong, reassuring presence is like an anchor in the midst of Pierre's emotional storm.
"It's okay, Pierre," Max murmurs softly, his voice a soothing melody. He presses a gentle kiss to Pierre's forehead, his lips warm and comforting. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. You're safe with me."
Pierre clings to Max as if his life depended on it, his fingers gripping the damp fabric of Max's towel. The fear, the vulnerability, all the intense emotions he'd been holding at bay during their scene last night spill out in a torrent of tears. Max continues to hold him, offering the solace and reassurance Pierre needs. He strokes Pierre's hair with a tenderness that speaks volumes of his care and affection.
Pierre's breathing gradually steadies as he lets out his pent-up emotions, the weight of the panic and fear slowly lifting. Max's unwavering support provides the stability Pierre needs to navigate the storm of emotions his current subdrop.
After a while, Pierre's sobs begin to subside, replaced by shaky, uneven breaths. Max eases Pierre away gently, his hands cupping Pierre's tear-stained cheeks as he looks into his eyes with warmth and understanding.
"You're so strong, Pierre," Max whispers, his thumb brushing away lingering tears. "And it's okay to feel vulnerable sometimes. I'm here to catch you, always."
Max lifts him up, and carries Pierre back to the bed, kissing the Frenchman with such tenderness that it makes Pierre melt.
“Thank you, Max, I’m sorry for all of this.”
“Don’t apologise, Pierre, I should be the one apologising. I shouldn’t have pushed the scene that far last night, your anger was justified and I made it seem like you weren’t allowed to be angry at your team or that you DNFed and all that. I let you believe that I was mad at you, that I was disappointed, but I wasn’t. I took that scene too far and didn’t give you proper aftercare. So, this morning, it’s all about you and then we do really need to check out, the hotel isn’t happy I extended my check-out time.” Pierre snorts and gives Max a shy smile.
“Can we start with a shower? I know you already got showered and just carried me out of the bathroom, but I still feel a little gross,” Pierre mumbles, gaze unable to meet Max’s fond one.
“Anything you want, schat. C‘mere.” Pierre's cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and gratitude. He hadn't expected Max to be so attentive and caring, and it touches his heart deeply. Max lifts Pierre once more, eliciting a surprised squeal from him. Pierre wraps his arms around Max's neck, feeling a rush of affection for the man who has always been there to catch him, both in their dynamic and in moments like these.
They return to the bathroom, the steamy air a soothing contrast to the earlier panic. Max adjusts the water temperature again, ensuring it's just right for Pierre's comfort. With a loving smile, he steps into the shower, holding Pierre close under the spray.
The water washes away the remnants of Pierre’s emotional turmoil. Max takes his time, lathering a gentle shower gel and washing Pierre's skin with a tenderness that makes Pierre's heart swell with affection. Pierre leans into Max's touch, allowing the sensations to ground him once more. The scent of the shower gel, the warmth of the water, and Max's unwavering care all combine to create a symphony of comfort and reassurance
As they step out of the shower, Max wraps Pierre in a fluffy towel, peppering him with kisses as he dries Pierre off. Pierre is thoroughly amused throughout the whole process, and it does help with settling his mind that’s so on edge. Max then produces clothes for Pierre, leaving the Alpine driver confused about how he got them.
“I didn’t bring any belongings here.”
“I had Ben drop off your stuff this morning while you were asleep. He also left you a granola bowl in the mini-fridge for your breakfast. I already ate, but you should eat, and I’ll pack your things from last night.” Pierre’s heart swelled at how thoughtful Max was. It was a little out of character for the Dutch driver to have planned the morning after the way he did, but last night was also out of character for the two of them. Pierre gets dressed between bites of food, trying to scarf down the food as fast as possible so that he can rejoin Max in the bedroom. When he does, Max is sitting in the chair in the corner, looking out the window, deep in thought.
“Max?” Pierre approaches him carefully, not sure at what had the Dutchman so perplexed.
“I’m still so sorry about last night, I actually planned things to go so differently, and then I got caught up in my bullshit frustrations and anger for you. I should have been there to listen, to let you set the pace based on what you were feeling, and there I was, the hypocrite.” Pierre opens his mouth to respond, but Max motions him to wait and let him finish. So, he waits.
“I used your anger against you, when I’ve always used mine before. That was the agreement until now. What I did was unfair. It was wrong, it was selfish, it was not good. I want to make it up to you. I want to pamper you and treat you well and reset this relationship. I know it started out with you helping me, but we’re equals, and it’s my turn to help you. We’ve always been equals, despite what everyone has wanted us to believe.”
“You’re forgiven for last night, I should have made you listen. But for the rest, I’m a little lost here, Max.”
“What I think I’m trying to get at is, I want us to be exclusive. We can figure out if we want to date or not or something else, but I haven’t slept with anyone else but you since Saudi ‘21.” Pierre gawks at him.
“You what?”
“Please don’t make me repeat it.” Max sounds genuinely embarrassed, and all Pierre can do is laugh. They were ridiculous.
“Maxy, it’s been only you for the past three years, you idiot. I’ve only been with you, in bed, since 2020. You’re such an idiot. We’re such idiots. We’re already exclusive, you idiot.” Pierre is laughing, and Max is doing his best not to turn bright red. Pierre pulls Max up into a hug, and kisses him softly, unable to stop laughing.
“Great, so now that we’ve established that, I was wondering if you want to spend the next three days in Monaco with me, before Spa? No scenes, no pressure, just a safe space. I know it’s not the easiest track for you to be at.” Pierre’s heart could burst at the levels of kindness Max is demonstrating. It was one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for him.
“I would love to, Max, thank you.”
─── ･･⟡･･ ───
Pierre endures the quick flight back in Max’s jet, trying to ignore the flip-flops his stomach does at every lopsided smile he receives from the Dutchman. The drive to Max’s flat was also done in relative levels of silence, which Pierre appreciated, trying to get his mind back in order after all its turmoil.
“Did you actually punch Charles, by the way?” The question is asked out of the blue, and Pierre needs a second to remember why he needs to punch Charles. He’s reminded of their post-scene talk in Barcelona.
“Oh! Yeah, I did, not hard, but I promised to key one of his cars if he talked to you about my sex life with other people again, and threatened to tell you about his and-” Pierre cuts himself short, realising that he almost told Max about who Charles was hooking up with. He didn’t have permission to share that nugget of information.
“Charles and…?”
“I promised not to tell! Charles is going to kill me,” Pierre whined dramatically, Max laughing as they finally pulled into Max’s garage.
“You don’t have to tell me, Pierre. I can live without knowing who Charles is hopping in bed with.” Max grabs his bags from him, and pecks Pierre on the cheek, guiding him up to his flat.
It’s instant comfort, being in the sanctuary of Max’s flat. They’re instantly greeted by Max’s two cats chirping and meowing around their feet. It almost feels like coming home.
“I’m going to put you in the guest room, because I know your space is important, and I can’t even imagine what the run-up to Spa feels like for you, so you’re free to sleep here, or in my room, or I can sleep with you in here, whatever you want, Pierrot.” Pierre is overwhelmed by Max’s thoughtfulness, unable to express what it really means.
“I’m probably going to end up in your bed, knowing me.”
“And I’m perfectly okay with that.” Max kisses his forehead again, excusing himself so that he can take care of his increasingly needy cats and let Pierre settle in and catch his breath. His whole body feels tender and raw, so he appreciates the space for now. Pierre takes a moment to gather himself in Max's guest room, which is no less welcoming than the rest of the flat. The cozy atmosphere, the soft lighting, and the scent of familiarity that lingers in the air all contribute to a feeling of ease. He sets his bags down, changes into some worn, comfy old clothes (including one of Max’s old Red Bull tops that he finds in the wardrobe) and stretches out on the bed, feeling the softness of the sheets against his skin. It's a relief to finally be able to relax after the emotional rollercoaster of the morning.
After a while, there's a gentle knock on the door, and Max enters, a small, affectionate smile gracing his lips. He's traded his clothes for comfortable loungewear, and he looks entirely at ease.
"Feeling better?" Max asks as he approaches the bed, his eyes filled with warmth, his voice tinged in slight concern. Pierre nods, a sense of gratitude filling him once again.
"Much better, thanks to you." Max sits down beside him, their shoulders brushing as he reaches for Pierre's hand. He intertwines their fingers, his touch causes warmth to blossom throughout Pierre’s body.
"You're important to me, Pierre," he says softly. "This morning killed me inside, and I don’t know how I can make it up to you."
“You already did, and I’m okay. Just being here, with you, it’s everything I need for now.” Pierre leans in, resting his head on Max's shoulder, their entwined hands cradled between them. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the shenanigans of Max's cats were causing from another room breaking the silence. It was peaceful. It's a moment of solace and connection, one that Pierre appreciates greatly.
“We should probably start thinking about dinner.”
“We should, but this is too comfy,” Pierre mutters. Max chuckles, the vibrations reverberate into Pierre, and it's soothing.
“Come on, lazy bones, I’ve got some macro-friendly meals in the fridge, you just need to sit your pretty ass down and I’ll handle the rest.”
“Yeah, that would be the plan if you hadn’t spanked me silly last night.” Max winces, pulling Pierre up.
“I’ll take care of you, but you need to eat.” Pierre doesn’t have time to protest, before Max scoops him up, Pierre is caught very off guard and throws his arms around Max’s neck.
“You don’t need to carry me around, chéri, I can walk!”
“You just said that I ‘spanked you silly’, so I get to take care of you, and that means, I can carry you,” Max laughs, Pierre rolling his eyes fondly, but he doesn’t fight it. If Max wants to carry him around, he’ll let him.
Dinner is a simple affair. Just some reheated meals Max had in the fridge, things that both their trainers would approve of. Max sets Pierre down in his lap and feeds him from a shared plate, it’s absolutely ridiculous, but Pierre secretly loves how touchy and affectionate Max is with him behind closed doors. Afterwards, they cuddle up on the couch, watching the television, and Pierre can’t shake the buzzing under his skin, in his head, an itch that won’t disappear.
“Max, can I ask something?”
“Anything, baby.”
“Can I kneel? For you? I don't want to do anything, but I just need that comfort. I like the peace in kneeling for you, so can I?” Pierre almost instantly regrets asking, unable to decipher the look Max was giving him.
“You can kneel whenever you want, schat, anything to make you feel good, feel safe.” Pierre closes his eyes and releases the breath he wasn't aware he was holding. He sinks to the floor, guided by Max gently so that Pierre can rest himself on Max’s thighs. The tranquillity that follows is exactly what he needs, he feels so calm, so at peace, so in tune with himself and with Max. He loses track of time, just enraptured with every touch Max gives him. Max will never know how much satisfaction it is for Pierre to kneel for him.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Pierre sits up, a frown starting to paint his features. Max returned returns as fast as he’s gone.
“I actually had a gift for you, I’m not sure how appropriate it is now, but I still want to give it to you. I wanted to give it to you after the race, but that didn’t go to plan.” Pierre is perplexed but silently waits for Max to continue.
“This was on your maybe list, but I’ve been thinking about it before I knew about your list, so I went ahead and purchased one. We can sit down and look at other ones if you don’t like it. You can also refuse to wear it and you won’t hurt my feelings. I know it can be a highly emotional thing.” Max extends the navy blue collar out. It’s a relatively wide piece of leather, the centre adorned with a heavy, silver O-ring, one that Pierre knows would come to rest right over his collarbone. The leather is lined with black suede on the inside, and Pierre can’t help but notice the raised lettering on the inside of the collar but can’t quite read it.
“Can I-” The words fail on Pierre’s tongue, his tongue heavy and unresponsive, he’s swimming in so many thoughts. He didn’t expect this of all things after the mess of the morning. It’s exactly what he needs after last night and this morning, but at the same time, the collar intimidates him.
“Do you want to feel it first?” Max offers, sensing the struggle Pierre is having with words. Pierre nods, gingerly taking the collar from Max, who watches him with adoration, which Pierre misses as he’s busying himself with the collar. It was an incredible piece of craftsmanship. Surprisingly a little heavy, yet smooth to the touch despite the pebbled texture of the leather. The lettering he had spotted on the left side of the collar was just a simple raised ‘VM’, no bigger than the size of his fingerprint. Pierre frowned, about to tell Max that there was a mistake with the collar. Then it clicked. If the collar was snug enough, which he didn’t doubt because Max was the type to fuss over every detail known to man, the lettering would imprint a temporary brand into the side of his neck. A small ‘MV’ would be dented into his skin even after the collar was removed, even if it was just for a while. Max was putting a claim on him. Max was branding him. Pierre let out a sound that was the cross of a whimper and a moan, quickly yet gently handing the collar back to Max.
“Do you like it, schat?” Pierre nodded furiously. He didn’t bother with words, they were going to fail him. He catches the proud smile that paints Max’s face, and returns it with a shy one. He’s getting a little floaty, but Max is there to ground him. Max will always ground him.
“Do you want me to put it on you for a bit? Or do you want to wait for another scene? I’m going to need some words from you, Pierre, even if it’s in French.”
The amount of care in Max’s voice was enough to make Pierre melt, his brain was putty, and Pierre was feeling fuzzy.
“Please Max, put on me. Please.” He knows he’s begging. But all he wants is to be Max’s. Max circles around him and slowly and carefully fastens the collar. It’s nicely snug around his neck, the size perfect. It was incredibly comfortable, Pierre couldn’t feel the ‘MV’ digging in his neck, but he could feel the cool O-ring just resting between his collarbones, grazing his skin at every micro movement. He never wants to take it off. There’s a semblance of peace in belonging to Max, at least he feels that way now that he has the collar on.
“You look nothing short of incredible, schat. You need to wear more blue, it looks so good on you.” Pierre leans against Max’s thighs, looking up at the Dutchman, relishing at the praise.
“Can I keep it on?” Pierre asks, his eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and desire. Max's gaze softens, and he runs his fingers gently over the collar, tracing the skin above the collar.
"Of course, schat, as long as you like, but I’m going to ask you to take it off before you shower and while you sleep at night, of course. I don’t want anything to discomfort you" he says, his voice a low, intimate murmur. Max leans down to kiss Pierre on the mouth, in a long, intimate kiss. It feels like the kiss communicates their commitment and desire, a way to start a new chapter between them, and it feels like heaven.
“You’re mine, schat, as long as you want to be mine.” The possessive edge of Max’s voice sends shivers through Pierre’s body, who can’t help but tip his head back and exhale a sigh of pleasure.
“All yours, Max,” he breathes out, resting his cheek on Max’s thigh. He spends the rest of the night between Max’s legs, cherishing the peace, comfort, the safety Max guarantees him. He hates when he has to remove the collar to sleep at night, but the small ‘MV’ and Max’s teeth nipping at the initials make him feel loved. The thought wakes him up in the middle of the night, but he has to suppress the bubble of hope in his throat every time.
Max allows him to be collared every day they’re in Monaco, and it doesn’t slip his mind that the days following, allowed to be Max’s for a while, it’s the most at ease he’s felt in the run-up to Spa for the longest time in forever.