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By the time they returned to the apartment, it was already 10 PM. They just finished long dinner at a seaside restaurant in Monte Carlo; it had been a lovely date: early May breeze, sunset, Greek cuisine, and Burgundy wine. Charles was half-drunk; the moment they got home, he closed the door, wrapped his arms around Max’s shoulders, and kissed him.
Max cupped the back of his neck, returning the kiss unhurriedly, seemingly in no rush to let things escalate too quickly. The gentle, almost teasing pace didn't satisfy Charles; he whimpered in his throat, parting his lips to nip lightly at Max's lower lip, demanding more. Max's hand on the nape of his neck tightened slightly, and he chuckled against Charles' lips, murmuring in between kisses, "Charles, you are being naughty."
The words were nothing short of encouragement. A rush of hot desire shot through Charles, making him even more desperate to please, sparking an absurd courage he usually lacked. He moaned, reaching up to cover Max's hand on his neck, guiding it to press against his upturned throat.
"Choke me," he panted. "Make me suffocate."
Max didn't move immediately. He just studied Charles calmly with those calm blue eyes. Charles met his silent gaze and took a challenging step forward, pressing his neck further into Max's palm. The sudden pressure on his throat brought a mix of fear and excitement, his heart slamming against his ribs.
However, Max just looked him over for a moment, then withdrew his hand. "No."
Charles stood there panting for a moment, feeling a little dizzy. Was Max playing hard to get? He thought hazily, deciding to muster his courage again before the adrenaline faded. He adjusted his breathing, caught the hand Max had just pulled away, and pressed it back against his neck—this time adding a few of his usual tricks.
"Mon cœur," he called him in French, lowering his gaze slightly to look up through long lashes. "Choke me—please."
He watched Max’s pupils darken to a deep ocean blue, his breathing growing heavy. The hand on his neck applied a little pressure—not enough to choke him, but enough to make his already racing heart beat even harder, his chest heaving rapidly. He pushed blindly against Max's hand, thinking now, while the adrenaline was still there, while he still had the courage—
But then, the grip on his neck was withdrawn again. Max chuckled barely audibly by his ear, kissed his lips lightly, and said, "No, sweetheart."
With that, he just turned and walked away, leaving Charles standing weakly against the wall, listening to the thunder of his own heartbeat.
Generally speaking, Charles was quite confident in his charm. Not that he was narcissistic—but he was well aware that he had been blessed with good looks, and he didn't shy away from using that to his advantage sometimes. He knew the right angles for commercials to present his refined features to sponsors; he knew how to flash his dimples just right in interviews to appear humble and approachable; and he knew how to look into someone's eyes with his green ones during a conversation to make them feel valued. His charm worked on men and women, young and old; very few people who met him disliked him, and that included—at least he thought so—Max Verstappen.
He knew Max loved him, of course; that needed no proof. But sometimes, he still had to use a few tricks to make Max more amenable to his requests. No, these weren't underhanded tactics—Charles called it "making reasonable use of one's advantages." His go-to move was smiling while looking straight into the Max’s eyes, adding a cute nickname, preferably in French; or, if he needed to go further, lowering his head slightly to half-hide those green eyes with his lashes, flashing his dimples, and tacking on a "please" at the end. If he deliberately released pheromones, that would be a bit low, and Charles rarely went that far, but adding that move made him practically invincible. These tricks usually worked; Max would grant almost any request, reasonable or not.
"Max," he would say sometimes. "Can you get me an ice cream?"
"Didn't you just have one?" The Dutchman would frown. "And the fridge is literally five meters away. If you want it, get it yourself."
"That was four hours ago, mon amour," he would look at Max from under his lashes, flashing that unbeatable smile. "And I don't want to get off the sofa. Please? I want the pistachio one."
Max would sigh, get up, and go to the kitchen to fetch that sinful pistachio ice cream. "For fuck’s sake," he might grumble at most. "Go run two extra laps after this, Charles."
—Usually, that was how it went. Usually, Max couldn't resist his charm and would satisfy even his unreasonable demands, whether in daily life or in bed. Usually.
The strange thing was, lately, this trick had been hit-or-miss, mostly in bed. After experiencing Max's dominance a few times, Charles had developed a taste for it and pushed his luck with some kinkier requests. Max usually obliged, or agreed after some hesitation; but recently, there had been one or two occasions where, despite Charles pulling out all the stops, the answer was still "no".
However, he didn't think his charm was the problem. That night, after refusing the breath control scene, Max had still relentlessly taken him twice, fucking Charles until he nearly forgot his own name. Even if Charles didn't get his way in everything, the frequency and quality of their sex life remained highly satisfactory. He was certain Max still desired him.
So, he could only assume Max wasn't interested in certain kinks. But that didn't make sense either—the root cause of Charles' desire to be choked was Max's reaction during sex once.
"Charles, I really—" Max had said while fucking him, hand covering his exposed throat. "I really want to—"
He remembered Max's messy blond hair, his husky voice, and eyes burning with dark fire. He remembered his own heart pounding; even though Max hadn't actually applied force to strangle him, he had felt dizzy with fear and excitement, barely able to breathe. Max had eventually withdrawn his hand, but Charles remembered that thrilling moment and had secretly decided then to turn that fantasy into reality.
So when Max refused him, he inevitably felt surprised and frustrated. His seemingly invincible tactics couldn't guarantee a 100% win rate, and the reason was unclear; but luckily, Charles Leclerc was extremely competitive and never admitted defeat easily. Moreover, he had a plan for victory. He decided to put the breath control scene aside for now and push forward with another, grander plan.
"You said you'd promise me anything, mon chéri," he made the request for the third time in a week, deciding after a moment's hesitation to shamelessly release his pheromones. "Consider it an early Christmas present for me, please?"
"Charles, you know Christmas is six months away, right?" Max frowned, holding his wrist. "Are you sure?"
Charles answered a little too quickly, "I'm sure." He thought for a moment and added, "Unless... you really don't want to. I wouldn't force you, of course, Max."
"It's not that..." Max shook his head, then rubbed his forehead. "Oh fuck, you smell really good, Charles."
Charles lowered his head, trying not to smile too obviously. Victory was in sight. "So, will you do it, Max?"
Max sighed heavily, not letting go of his wrist. "Tell me again. What do you want?"
For the fourth time that week, Charles detailed his request, his face heating up and heart racing as he spoke. Max listened silently, and finally said, "If you're sure, Charles."
"I'm sure," Charles confirmed again, feeling a thrill of victory and a trace of imperceptible nervousness. He pressed on relentlessly, "When can we do it, Max?"
Max glanced at the calendar on his phone. "How about Sunday? This Sunday looks free."
"Okay, Sunday then." He couldn't help smiling, leaning in to kiss the corner of Max's mouth. "Baby—I love you so much."
"You know what, Charlie," Max looked straight at him. "You are such a fucking naughty, naughty brat."
Charles barely slept the night before Sunday. He had been practically counting the seconds these past few days, feeling more excited as the day approached—he thought it should be excitement, not anxiety. Although they had never played like this before, he had fantasized about it countless times in his head, getting aroused and dizzy just thinking about it. He was sure this was what he wanted; all the dizziness and thrill came from a dream about to come true.
Breakfast that Sunday passed as usual. Max brewed tea for himself and Charles, serving toast and scrambled eggs. They chatted about trivia from their respective teams, but Charles couldn't focus at all, realizing he had no appetite, only feeling his heart beat faster as time passed.
By ten o'clock, he announced he was full, then stood up abruptly and walked over to Max. He leaned in to kiss the Dutchman's lips, whispering his name. "Max, let's..."
Max held his waist with one hand, returning the kiss gently, then cupped his cheek. "Start now?"
"Yeah." Charles nodded, hoping he looked resolute enough.
Max smiled at him. "Okay." He took Charles' hand and led him to the bedroom.
Charles found himself following subconsciously, body trembling slightly with excitement. He could feel that his hole was already leaking; as soon as they entered the bedroom, he couldn't help letting out a soft moan, nearly dropping to his knees. Max caught him, sat him on the bed, and leaned down to kiss him. Charles kissed back, reaching to undo his shirt buttons, uncontrollably starting to pant softly.
"Things are... in the drawer," he gasped, heart pounding harder as he glanced at a chair by the bed.
"I know." Max held his neck, panting slightly too. After a moment, he looked into Charles' eyes and asked raspily, "I'll ask one more time—are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure," Charles replied quickly, flashing a smile.
Max looked at him for a while longer, then nodded and got up to open the drawer. Charles sat there, instinctively pressing a hand to his chest, trying to calm his intensifying heartbeat. He closed his eyes to regulate his breathing, then felt something touch his neck. Opening his eyes, he saw Max leaning in, fastening the buckle of a collar on him.
The collar was a recent gift from Max, made of soft lambskin, custom-sized to fit his neck perfectly—neither too tight nor too loose. It quickly became one of Charles’ favorite gifts; wearing it, the touch constantly reminded him that he was owned, loved—a joy born of worthiness, and a pride even himself hardly noticed.
After fastening the collar, Max held him with one arm, leaning close to the side of his neck. "You know we can stop anytime if it's too much."
Charles nodded, panting. "I know."
"Good boy," Max asked, "What's the safeword?"
"Caliper." Charles replied.
"Good." Max nodded, then pushed him down onto the bed.
Charles gasped for air, letting himself be manhandled. He lay on his stomach, hands caught and pressed above his head, then tied to the headboard with a silk tie. Max hugged him from behind, using a knee to spread his legs, exposing the weeping hole completely. He couldn't see Max's face behind him, but feeling the kisses on his neck and back and smelling the scent of juniper berries enveloping him gave him some reassurance. This was everything he wanted; his dream was coming true.
"No cumming," Max warned in his ear, fingers stretching his wet entrance. "You are not allowed to come. Do you hear me?"
"Yes," Charles answered, voice trembling. Max's fingers dug inside him for a while, hitting sensitive spots that made him shudder involuntarily.
Max stretched him for a bit longer, then sighed. "Relax, Charles. Breathe."
Only then did he realize his entire back was tense, and he was subconsciously holding his breath. Was he nervous? But he had been fucked by Max so many times; there was no reason to be nervous like a virgin now. He decided to attribute it to overexcitement and stopped thinking about it, following Max's instructions to adjust his breathing. Max stretched him with one hand while the other gently rubbed and kneaded his chest until he finally went limp under Max.
"Fuck me," he begged breathlessly, spreading his legs wider. "Please, Max."
Max kissed his neck, then entered him from behind. The feeling of being filled made Charles dizzy, and he cried out. Hands bound and unable to move, he instinctively lifted his hips to meet him. Once Max was fully inside, he began to thrust. The wet hole contracted physiologically, slick gushing out continuously.
"Oh fuck, Charlie, you're clamping down on me," Max panted heavily as he thrust. "You are such a fucking slut."
Charles whimpered, arching his back, trying even more eagerly to please. "Please... Max..."
Max pinned him to the bed, thrusting in and out mercilessly, no longer offering kisses or caresses, fucking him like using a tool for relief. Charles moaned continuously, pre-cum leaking from his erect penis.
"No cumming." Max warned again.
Charles couldn't speak, only nodding chaotically, eyes burning with physiological tears. Max thrust roughly for a while longer, then pulled out and came on his back. The suddenly empty hole gaped futilely, unable to hold anything anymore.
Max panted over him for a moment, then untied his hands and flipped him over.
"You okay?" The Dutchman touched his cheek gently, asking in a low voice.
Charles took a few breaths, then struggled to prop himself up, looking up. "Yeah…I'm okay."
Max nodded. "Good to continue?"
"Yes." Charles swallowed, feeling the collar against his skin move with him. Things were proceeding exactly as he imagined; this was what he wanted.
Max looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, pulling him up from the bed. Charles felt dizzy standing up, heart pounding uncontrollably again, breathing quickening. Max steadied him, led him to the chair by the bed, and sat him down.
"Don't move," Max said. He obeyed, watching Max take the props out of the drawer one by one. He had chosen these things himself, begging Max all week to use them on him. This was exactly what he wanted; his dream was coming true.
Max brought out the tie first. He tied Charles' hands to the armrests, checking the tightness by rotating his wrists gently. Next came a pair of nipple clamps; they had used them once or twice before, leaving Charles' sensitive nipples pitifully abused, but it had been fun overall. Max kneaded Charles' nipples until they stood erect, then clamped them. Charles let out a soft cry; Max frowned slightly. "Can you take it?"
"It's fine," Charles panted lightly, smiling at him.
"Okay," Max nodded, instructing, "Lift your legs."
Charles obeyed, lifting his legs to reveal the still-weeping hole. Max leaned down, spreading his legs wider, pressed around the reddened entrance, and inserted a vibrator. Charles whimpered almost immediately; his body was overly sensitive from the fucking, now trembled instantly as he began to gasp. Max leaned in at once, whispering, "Want to stop?"
"N-no need," Charles managed to say after panting for a moment. "Continue."
Max held his wrist, studying him with cool eyes for a moment, then nodded and picked up the last item. It was a blindfold Charles had specially chosen, blocking out light completely. Max put it on him; total darkness descended, and suddenly his thundering heartbeat seemed incredibly loud. Now all the props were in place. His dream was coming true.
"I'm going to leave you here like this," he heard Max's voice nearby. "Alone. Is that clear, Charles?"
"Clear," he answered quickly, not noticing the tremor in his voice.
"You're going to stay here alone for an hour, not allowed to come," Max continued. "I hope when I open the door in an hour, you'll still be in this position. Understood?"
"Understood." He started panting unconsciously, chest heaving faster.
"Good," Max's voice seemed to move toward the door. "If it’s too much for you, use the safeword. I have the live audio on."
Then he heard the door lock, followed by silence. Max was gone. Just as planned: no hugs, no kisses, no aftercare. He was alone now, bound to a chair after being used, plunged into total darkness. Without sight, his other senses seemed instantly amplified: his nipples pinched by steel clamps, chains dragging them down, sending pain with every slight movement; hands bound, the texture of the tie incredibly distinct, unable to touch his erect penis; the vibrator stretching him inside, his abused hole twitching and leaking even without movement. And then—
The vibrator started buzzing. Charles was caught off guard, crying out immediately. His abused hole was already sensitive as hell; blindfolded, the sensory overload made him tremble uncontrollably. His body twisted restlessly, the clamps tugging at his chest with another wave of stimulation, making him gasp for air. He spread his legs instinctively, slumping back in the chair, trying to focus on breathing, but the intense stimulation made it impossible to settle. He could only exhale in shudders, trying not to move to avoid triggering more sensation. But soon, his rear passage spasmed from the stimulation, sending tremors through his entire body, mournful whimpers escaping his lips uncontrollably.
"Max," he started calling his lover's name instinctively, as if it were the only word he remembered. "Max—"
But Max wasn't here, and this was exactly what he had asked for. He had asked for all of this, looked forward to it all week, and should be feeling pleasure, joy. He was doing well, wasn't he? He was following Max's instructions, obediently bound to the chair, not cumming. He imagined Max opening the door in an hour, seeing him docile and pretty, caressing him, kissing him, telling him "Good boy," "Proud of you," and "I love you." Just one hour, he thought. Not that long. It would pass quickly.
However, in the silence and darkness, he began to lose track of time. The vibrator tortured him inside, the clamps on his chest hurt more and more, and his bound hands only made him feel helpless. How long had it been? Forty minutes? Two hours? A hundred years? Why hadn't Max come yet?
He started missing the crisp scent of juniper berries on Max, the smell he clung to most, but now even that scent felt out of reach. Loneliness was the first feeling to rise in the darkness, a loneliness that felt almost physically cold.
This was the scenario he had set up, the moment his dream came true. He should be feeling supreme bliss. He should. But in this moment, he finally admitted that all he felt was unbearable anxiety and panic. In his dizziness and confusion, he remembered Max's words: "If it’s too much, use the safeword." He remembered the word; it was now like a piece of driftwood in the waves, the only thing he could grab onto.
But—it hadn't come to that, had it? In their previous sex lives, they had never used that word. That wouldn't be a good thing, right? Saying that word meant losing control, meant humiliating himself, meant he had failed Max's expectations. He had asked for all this; he should endure it to the end.
He bit his lip, trying to suppress the broken whimpers, but the pain in his chest and the foreign object inside became increasingly unbearable. His own pulse thundered in his eardrums, drowning out everything else. He started panting incessantly, body spasming and twisting uncontrollably, pulling at the vibrating toy inside. The painful stimulation wrung a cry from him like a wounded animal. Loneliness and panic drowned him completely in that moment. He felt suffocated, his heart crashing violently against his ribs, and then—
The door opened. The familiar scent of juniper berries filled his nose. Someone took him into embrace, untying his hands. He heard that familiar husky voice in his ear, "It's okay, you're okay, Charles..."
"Caliper." He forced the word out, then collapsed into Max's arms.
He vaguely felt the things being removed from his body one by one—clamps, vibrator, then the blindfold. Max carried him to the bed. Blinking, tears blurred his vision, preventing him from seeing Max's face clearly. But the embrace smelling of juniper berries was real, the kisses and nips on his wrist were real; he realized Max was scent-marking him. Feeling the panic that threatened to swallow him recede slightly, Charles let himself close his eyes and lean into the embrace until his breathing settled somewhat.
"Rest a bit, baby," he heard Max's sigh-like voice by his ear. "Want the collar off?"
Charles blinked, realizing he was still wearing the collar. He didn't want to take it off; it was one of the few things that made him feel safe right now, reminding him he was owned, worthy of love—
"Take it off," he turned his face away, gritting his teeth as tears fell uncontrollably. "I don't deserve it."
He felt the embrace stiffen for a second. After a moment, Max whispered in shock, "What did you say?"
"I don't deserve it," Charles tried futilely to cover his teary eyes with his hand. "I'm sorry."
Max picked him up, brushing back his sweaty bangs. Why did those blue eyes look so pained?
"Don't say that—okay?" Max said raspily, then hugged him tight. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I humiliated myself," Charles sighed in his arms, finally reaching back to hug him. "I asked for all this, and in the end, I used the safeword. I disappointed you, didn't I?"
Max was silent for a moment, then chuckled low. "So that's what this is about, Charles?"
"What's what about?" Now it was Charles' turn to be confused. He straightened up to look at him. "Why are you laughing? At me?"
"No, no," Max lowered his head, shaking it with a smile. "I'm laughing because you're upset about using the safeword, while I'm actually happy about it. Funny, isn't it?"
"Happy? Why?" Charles frowned. "Doesn't using the safeword mean I messed up?"
"No, I don't think so," Max shook his head. "You used the safeword, which means you know where your limits are and trust me to bring you back to safety. I think that's a good thing."
"Even so," Charles wasn't entirely convinced. "I asked for all this myself, and I was the one who crossed the line in the end. Isn't that ridiculous?"
"What's ridiculous about it? You don't know how you'll feel until it actually happens," Max shrugged. "Besides, wasn't 'caliper' invented to brake?"
Charles thought for a moment, finally nodding skeptically. "Okay," he said hesitantly. "So you... aren't disappointed in me, Max?"
Max laughed, leaning in to kiss his lips. "Of course not. Quite the opposite, I'm proud of you."
"Don't be ridiculous." Charles turned his face away, but couldn't help smiling softly. Max's praise always made him happy. He leaned back into the embrace, then asked as if remembering something, "But you came in before I said the word. How did you know?"
"I had the live audio on, remember?" Max said, then shook Charles's wrist. "And, you wore this. Mostly because of this, actually."
Only then did Charles notice the heart rate monitor on his left wrist, the one he used to track data during training. He remembered Max asking for the data interface, and he had asked back what he needed it for.
"To see how you manage to drive that tractor so fast," Max had said.
He knew Max was joking, probably bored out of his mind, but he had shared the interface anyway.
Charles held the wristband with his right hand, nodding. "So you saw my heart rate and knew I was..."
"Your heartbeat was getting chaotic, spiked to almost 170," Max sighed, leaning in to press against the side of his neck. "Sorry, Charles, I didn't mean to invade your privacy. I couldn't see you, was bit worried."
"It's okay." Charles shook his head gently, leaning in to press against him. "So you... do this normally too?"
Max looked up slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Do what?"
"You're always keen to my reactions. I feel like... you always know instantly if I'm comfortable or not," Charles swallowed, speaking hesitantly. "And you often... touch my wrist, and neck. Sometimes my chest. Were you checking my heartbeat?"
Max lowered his head, silent for a while. Finally, he sighed long and deep, leaning in to press his lips against the spot above Charles' collarbone—right where the artery pulsed. "Do you find that weird, Charles?" The Dutchman murmured between kisses. "If you don't like it, I'll stop."
"No, I don't dislike it," Charles smiled, closing his eyes and placing Max's palm over his left breast. "I think it's kinda sexy."
"Yeah?" Max laughed huskily. "Your heart is beating pretty fast right now, Charles."
Charles gasped, voice trembling. "How fast?"
"110, 120 bpm maybe. Give or take." Max pushed him down on the bed, leaning down to kiss his left breast.
"120," Charles glanced at the wristband. "How come you are so accurate, Max?"
"Maybe I'm talented."
"You should be a doctor," Charles laughed, then said thoughtfully, "Mm, or we could do some doctor-patient roleplay."
Max sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Baby, can't you just have some ordinary ideas?"
"I don't have ordinary ideas about you," Charles sighed. "Only special ideas."
"Guess I'll just have to accept that." Max covered him with a blanket, asking softly, "Want to nest?"
Charles struggled to open his heavy eyelids, whispering, "Yes, please."
"Sure." Max smiled, getting up to go to the closet.
"When did it start?"
Max was resting on Charles' chest when hearing the question, accompanied by the slight vibration of the chest cavity against his right ear.
"Not long ago. Five months or so," he answered huskily, eyes closed. The heart beat against ribs and flesh by his ear—thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four—he counted absently.
"That's amazing, getting so good in just five months," Charles laughed, asking tirelessly, "What's my heart rate now?"
He listened sleepily for a moment and answered. "Eighty."
Charles checked his wrist. "Eighty-three. Really accurate!"
"Go to sleep, Charles." He sighed. Charles mumbled something else, and after a while, the rise and fall of his chest evened out, the heartbeat slowing to a steady rhythm. One hundred sixty-three, one hundred sixty-four, one hundred sixty-five. He counted the beats silently, gradually falling into a deep, dark dream.
Even now, he still sometimes dreamt of that incident from over five months ago. That snowy night in December, Charles calling his name from the bathroom, voice broken and panicked like never before. He had burst in to find his lover slumped weakly on the floor, a pool of blood beneath him. He didn't quite remember what was going through his mind then, only that he scooped Charles up, feeling him tremble and gasp in his arms. He remembered Charles trying to force a calm expression, but when he touched that sweaty neck, the chaotic, violent pulse nearly burned his mind. Could a human heart beat like that? Charles' heart rate had skyrocketed from fear and panic, the rhythm chaotic as hell, like a rabbit thrashing inside that heaving chest. The heart pumped desperately, yet seemed unable to deliver blood to the body; Charles shivered in his arms, cold all over.
He remembered driving Charles to the Princess Grace Hospital in Monte Carlo. Charles lay on the hospital bed, face bloodless, then the doctor told them Charles had miscarried.
In hindsight, it wasn't fatal, and Charles had long since recovered, but that didn't make Max feel any lighter. He prided himself on knowing Charles' body, yet until Charles collapsed in his arms that winter night, he hadn't noticed the pregnancy. Race schedule had been packed at that time, they were apart often, but that was no excuse. How obvious was it? If he had paid even one percent more attention to Charles' heartbeat, breathing, and scent, he should have noticed, even if Charles himself hadn't. He had imagined other possibilities countless times, but none were true. The fact was, stupid, oblivious Max Verstappen only realized things were irreversible when he felt that chaotic heartbeat—a rhythm that would be branded in his mind forever.
Since then, he subconsciously started monitoring Charles' vital signs. Initially, it was to watch Charles' health, and it worked quickly; he found he could sense minor ailments or approaching heats even faster than Charles himself. He had a natural acuity for time and speed; a few seconds on a pulse, and he could estimate the heart rate closely. Charles' resting heart rate was around 70 bpm; will be slightly faster with a cold or fever; it’ll almost never below 100 during heat, accompanied by hot, rapid breathing.
But then he discovered that beyond physiology, a heartbeat conveyed more intimate, direct information. Holding hands, shifting fingers slightly to the wrist pulse, he could feel the rate rise with joy or excitement, the pulse dancing under his fingertips. Kissing, moving down from the left side of the neck to the carotid artery above the collarbone—that spot throbbed urgently when lust ran high. Above the left breast was where the beat was most distinct; brushing past the sensitive nipple, pressing gently between the fourth and fifth ribs, he could almost feel the hot heart beating faster and faster in his palm.
Charles' heartbeat was like the man himself—wearing emotions on its sleeve, vibrant, moving. Max realized he had developed a somewhat morbid obsession with it, to the point where it became an invisible crutch. He still dreamt of that night sometimes—the blood, Charles' pale, sweaty face, the chaotic, terrified heartbeat. Waking up, he sometimes couldn't distinguish dream from reality for a few seconds and instinctively reached for the person beside him. Luckily, Charles was a heavy sleeper, and wouldn’t be waken by him. He would hold Charles' wrist, feeling the steady, strong pulse, so different from his nightmare. Or more directly, he would press his right ear to the evenly rising chest, listening to the stabilizing throb. In the quiet night, the sound of Charles' steady heart was all he could hear, almost a moving music to him. He liked to imagine a two-beat rhythm: the first beat a strong accent like a drum, the second lifted gently, repeating in a loop. One, two, one, two, one, two—he could count forever like this.
After the safeword incident, he essentially confessed to this morbid obsession, and fortunately, Charles seemed to accept it well. Then again, Charles seemed to accept all his kinks well, agreeing to whatever he asked. They were rivals on track, but in bed, Charles was always submissive, sometimes overly eager to please.
"Why wouldn't you agree to choke me?" Charles asked that day. Max closed his eyes, recalling Charles grabbing his hand and placing it on his neck after a date days ago.
"The vibe was off, I guess," he answered truthfully after a thought.
"How was it off?" Charles frowned, straightening up. "Don't lie to me, Max. I know you've wanted to do it for a long time. Since we're both willing, how come the vibe is off?"
This was one of Charles' strengths—or difficulties?—he seemed to have a knack for catching Max's desires, even when Max tried to hide them. Max looked at the exposed neck, remembering the sex where sadism nearly won: hand around Charles' fragile throat, almost applying force, until he felt the panicked, rapid heartbeat under the thin skin.
"I do have that desire," Max admitted, reaching out to cover the neck gently again. "But do you really want me to do it, Charles?"
"Of course I do—" Charles answered too quickly, then closed his eyes, trembling. Max applied a tiny bit of pressure, and the carotid artery under his finger instantly sped up, the rhythm bordering on panic. He counted silently: 110, 120, 140.
"You don’t, Charles," he sighed, withdrawing the force. "You were scared."
Charles panted rapidly, taking a step back against the wall, eyes unable to hide the panic when he looked up. Max couldn't bear it, only walking over to pull him gently into his arms.
Charles was silent for a while, then spoke softly against his chest. "I humiliated myself again, didn't I? I'm so stupid."
Max tightened the hug, shaking his head. "Not at all."
"How do you know me better than I know myself?" Charles' voice was muffled against his shoulder.
Max laughed, kissing the spot above his left collarbone, then placing his finger there. "I cheated. Remember?"
Charles sighed in his arms. "Is that why you refused the sensory deprivation scene so many times?"
"Partly."
"You're getting like a psychic," Charles marveled, then asked, "Tell me, what's my heart rate now?"
Max felt the pulse on his neck for a moment. "About 100 bpm. Haven't you had enough of this game?"
"It's so fun, how can I get enough?" Charles laughed, lifting his wrist only to find it bare. "Ah, forgot to wear it today."
Max sometimes wondered if he spoiled Charles too much, agreeing to play out this current scene. To be fair, Charles' trick with the lashes and dimples was effective, but Max didn't think his willpower was that weak. He knew it was a tactic and preferred to think he walked into the trap out of kindness, not because those green eyes actually possessed him.
But when Charles walked into the study wearing only one of Max's shirts, looking at him with those eyes, Max still felt his heart skip a beat uncontrollably.
"Dr. Verstappen," his lover sat on the chair by the desk, looking straight at him. "Good afternoon."
"Good afternoon," Max sat on the other side, taking out paper and pen. "What is your name?"
Charles lowered his head, cheeks flushing slightly. "Charles. Charles Leclerc."
"Leclerc," Max wrote on the paper, then asked deliberately, "How do you spell that?"
Charles hadn't expected the question. His lips parted, eyes widening in surprise. "Huh?" Max was amused by the reaction, finding him incredibly cute in that instant, and couldn't help chuckling.
"What are you laughing at?" Charles turned bright red, finally laughing too. "Oh—I'm filing a complaint! You don't know how to spell your patient's name and you laugh at me! Who's your supervisor?"
"Uh, I can give you Christian's number?" Max grinned.
"Max!" Charles scolded. "Be serious, please."
"Okay, sorry." Max raised his hands in surrender, arching an eyebrow. "You're quite a naughty patient, Charles, complaining about your doctor first thing you opened the door. What should I do with you?"
Charles took a soft breath, looking up at him. "You decide, Doctor."
"Tell me," Max said calmly. "How do you spell your last name?"
Charles closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, then spelled it out slowly. "L-E-C-L-E-R-C."
"Very good, Charles Leclerc," Max played with the name on his lips. "Now tell me, what seems to be the problem?"
Charles opened his eyes, lashes fluttering, starting to pant slightly. "I—something's wrong with my heart," he touched his left chest, breathing noticeably faster. "Sometimes it beats really hard, really fast, uncontrollably."
"Mm," Max wrote half-heartedly. "And breathing? Shortness of breath?"
"Yes," Charles's voice trembled, panting harder. "Having a bit of... difficulty breathing right now."
"Sounds serious." Max stood up, walked behind Charles, placed his left hand gently on Charles' shoulder and his right on the carotid artery. "Oh yes, beating very fast. Dizzy?"
Charles moaned softly, leaning back against him. "Very dizzy. I feel... very weak, Doctor."
"Life-threatening stuff," Max sighed, rubbing his neck gently. "Let's do some checks, shall we?"
Charles nodded, slumping back in the chair, looking at him helplessly. Max bent slightly, one arm around his back, the other under his knees, picking him up and placing him gently on the desk.
"So sick you couldn't walk, yet you waited until now to see me, Charles?" Max cupped the back of his neck, leaning close to the scent gland. "Should have come sooner, no?"
Charles cried out, going limp on the desk, legs falling open weakly. The rich, humid scent of bergamot filled the room, mouth-wateringly sweet. Max didn't need to look to know his rear entrance was already soaking wet.
"Please, Doctor," Charles blinked wet green eyes at him. "Help me."
"Good boy, I'll help you." Max promised, lifting the loose shirt. Charles' chest heaved rapidly, skin flushed and sheen with sweat. Max sat on the edge of the desk, placing his hand on the left breast, deliberately avoiding the erect nipple. "Heart discomfort, yes?" He pressed the heel of his palm gently against the sternum. "Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes," Charles closed his eyes, covering Max's hand with his own, smiling unconsciously and tenderly. "When I think of someone—it aches and burns."
Max looked at him for a moment, unable to resist leaning down to kiss his lips lightly. "That is serious," he sighed, moving his hand to cover the erect nipple. "Does this help?"
The person beneath him cried out immediately, shivering all over. "Seems worse now, Doctor," Charles trembled helplessly, gasping. "What do I do?"
"Describe it to me," Max placed his thumb above the left nipple. "What are the symptoms?"
Charles closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, chest rising and falling. "I feel... something fluttering, jumping inside," he said shakily. "Like it's going to jump out of my ribs."
Max pressed his palm against the fifth intercostal space. The sincere heart, just as its owner described, beat with incredible fervor, crashing against the chest wall recklessly, seemingly trying to leap into his hand. He applied pressure, trying to hold it; Charles' heart seemed to jump and dance in his palm, burning hot, fragile yet full of strength. In that moment, Max felt his soul shake, realizing he was holding the most precious thing in the world.
He leaned down to embrace Charles, as if embracing his entire world. "Your heart... beats so beautifully," he realized his own heart was accelerating too. "You are in love with someone, aren't you, Charles?"
Charles whimpered, hugging him back tightly. "For you, Max," his lover gasped. "My heart... it beats for you."
"That is—" Max found his voice trembling. "That is the most incurable disease. You’re in big trouble, I guess."
"I'm not afraid," Charles laughed in his arms, voice wet. "You have the same disease, don't you?"
"I'm afraid so," Max held him, kissing his carotid artery. "We are both terminally ill."
Charles moaned in distress, head falling back, exposing his entire neck. "Need you, Max," he begged brokenly. "I'm so sick—without you, I'll die right now."
"Giving it to you right now, okay? Right now." Max kissed him, preparing to stretch him, but found the weeping hole already soft and open when he probed.
"I did some preparation before the appointment." Charles said, face flushed.
"You are truly—the naughtiest patient." Max panted, holding him and entering his body.
Filled instantly, Charles cried out loudly, body trembling. Max fucked him while kissing the side of his neck; the carotid artery pulsed violently under his lips. Max mouthed the skin there, like holding a heart in his mouth. Charles lifted his hips forcefully to meet him, crying out in a mix of English, French, and Italian, until his voice cracked with tears. Max kissed the tears away, whispering soothing words in his ear—"Love you," "Good boy," and "Well done."
In the intense rhythm, Charles soon couldn't hold on, cumming with a tremble, little hole spasming and squirting. He was fucked into orgasm by Max; the climax came fast and hard, the impact nearly making him faint. Max held the limp body tight, expertly using pheromones to calm his heartbeat, ensuring he didn't actually have a heart attack.
"Max..." Charles murmured his name. "Mon cœur..."
"I'm here." Max held him, coming inside him too.
In the afterglow, Charles reached for him drowsily, pulling Max's head to his chest.
"Feel it?" His lover panted, asking low. "My heart rate... what is it?"
Max pressed his right ear to the burning skin, hearing the roar of an entire world.
"Mm," his eyes burned, voice trembling. "120 bpm."
"120 bpm," Charles smiled. "That’s the rhythm of loving you."